The Fire and the Light

by Glen Craney

  “Then we must see to it that they condemn themselves,” said Folques.

  “How do you propose to accomplish that?”

  Folques led his superior out of earshot of the two heretics. “You are to officiate the baptism of the infant Raymond?”

  “A week hence. In Toulouse.”

  Folques turned sloe-eyed with the hatching of a scheme. “I once saw a monger drop a filleted mackerel into a vat of fish. The other mackerel flopped in a frenzy, but the carp and monkfish remained unperturbed.”

  “So?”

  “The mackerel sensed that one of their own had been gutted.”

  Taking his meaning, Almaric affectionately slapped Folques’s cheek in pride. He pulled a handful of coins from his pouch and threw them at the gaoler lurking just beyond the gate. “Deliver these two to Toulouse.”

  There is no tyranny on earth like the tyranny of priests.

  - Averroes

  VIII

  Toulouse

  March 1198

  The interrogatories that resounded through St. Sernin’s ancient basilica were chanted by a voice that rang distantly familiar. Standing three rows from the baptismal font, Esclarmonde was denied a closer look at the hooded deacon who declared the ordo at the Abbot’s side. Yet she could not shake the presentiment that his exorcisms were being directed at her.

  “Do you renounce Satan?” the deacon bellowed.

  Count Raymond de Toulouse answered for his infant son. “I renounce.”

  Esclarmonde monitored the tempestuous baron as one might a volcano about to explode. Draped in a robe of maroon and gold, Count Raymond maintained a telling distance from his rival, Richard the Lionhearted, whose green eyes still held a hint of his infamous temper despite the ravages of hard crusading. With bulgy face grooved like a walnut, the Count was no less dissipated than his English brother-in-law, if for less gallant reasons; few ladies or goblets had ever passed his debauching reach. It was commonly said that the Languedoc vineyards would grow purple oranges before these two old enemies met in peace. But Richard had grown weary of war against Toulouse and, in a stroke of diplomatic cunning, had bonded a treaty by marrying his widowed sister to Raymond. The two leaders had thus outfoxed their mutual nemesis, King Philip of France, who in a pout had reneged on his commitment to attend the ceremony.

  Esclarmonde repulsed Corba’s attempt to take the temperature of her forehead. “Stop treating me as if I’m deathly ill.”

  “Tell me if you feel the least bit faint again,” whispered Corba.

  Esclarmonde regretted her choice of attire, a cerulean gown creweled in pearls. Surrounded by the somberly-garbed Northerners, she stood out like a blue-white flame in a cluster of smoldering coals. Above her hung the basilica’s famous frieze of Herod’s soldiers murdering the Innocents, a fitting tableau for this humiliation the Toulousians were forced to endure. A few feet away stood the bronze plate that marked the spot where Saturnius, the city’s patron saint, had challenged Druid priests in a test of Christ’s power. He had paid for his faith by being dragged to his death tied to a raging bull. She wondered if, looking down now from Heaven, Saturnius rued his martyrdom on finding that these arrogant Cistercians had merely exchanged robes with those pagan necromancers.

  The deacon’s chant rose in ferocity in its demand for renunciation of Satan’s pomps. Almaric kept the babe submerged in the piscina. When the Count delayed the concession, the deacon’s voice shook the nave anew. “Do you renounce Satan’s armies and the dualist heretics who infest this land?”

  Count Raymond reached his fill of such insolence. He retracted the deacon’s cowl and was stunned to find himself face to face with the old troubadour friend he had not seen in four years. Esclarmonde held fast to Corba. Folques, beardless and tonsured, stood unflinching in his exposure. His vengeful eyes were trained on her as if he had practiced this moment a thousand times.

  “Twittering quisling!” shouted Count Raymond at Folques. “You of all people dare alter the liturgy in my church?”

  Almaric came to Folques’s defense. “This basilica, and your good standing in it, belong to the Holy Father.”

  The Count repulsed his wife’s attempt to calm him. “I allowed the baptism to take place here rather than in St. Gilles, where my forefathers received the sacrament. But I’ll not stand by to hear my family slandered by this fluted cad!”

  “The ceremony will be suspended.” Almaric spoke loud enough for the thousands gathered outside to hear. “I shall report your decision to Rome. Should your heir succumb, he will languish in Limbo.”

  Grumbles of indignation and alarm rippled through the congregation. All present understood the gravity of that threat. The Cathars who resided in Toulousia did not believe in infant baptism, but taught that Jesus had never transmitted the Light before a person could understand the import of the decision. For them, the birth sacrament was a fabrication designed to herd people into the Church before the Pope’s sovereignty could be questioned. Though Esclarmonde would never admit it openly, she sympathized with their objections. Yet if Count Raymond refused to allow the baptism to proceed, such defiance would be seen in Rome as a public espousal of the heresy. Nothing was more feared than a papal interdiction and its resultant horrors of unburied corpses, bastards born out of wedlock, and loss of lucrative pilgrimage trade.

  Seeing his tenuous alliance on the brink of collapse, Richard of England drew Count Raymond aside. “They are only words. Be done with it.”

  “That conniving Italian sends legates to usurp my authority!” seethed the Toulouse baron. “Arrest this one! Execute that one!”

  Johanna captured her husband’s arm. “Raymond, please.”

  “Leave this to me, woman!” shouted Count Raymond.

  Richard bristled. “Speak harshly to my sister again and—”

  “Gentlemen!” interjected King Peter of Aragon. “Whoever holds temporal care of this church, it remains God’s sanctuary. You both have performed great service to Christ. Do not stain that memory.” He admonished Almaric, “Abbot, the call for renunciation would best be offered by you, not your deacon.”

  Almaric knew the Aragon monarch to be on close terms with the Holy Father. Eager to avoid a damning report, he reluctantly agreed to amend the ordo. “Do you renounce Satan and his armies, be they spiritual or mortal?”

  Count Raymond swallowed the bitter compromise. “I do renounce.”

  Almaric immersed the infant for the final time. “I christen thee Raymond VII of Toulouse, servant of the Holy Roman Church.” The pronouncement was met by a low pattering of unenthusiastic amens. Before Raymond could retrieve his wailing heir, the Abbot carried the infant to the portico and held it aloft so the multitudes outside could witness their liege’s capitulation.

  Count Raymond rescued the child and delivered it to a nursemaid. “Your duty here is finished. You may return to your abbey.”

  “I would be remiss if I did not attend the afternoon’s celebration,” said Almaric. “I have brought a gift from the Holy Father.”

  The Count was in no position to banish these snout-poking monks whose influence was growing more troublesome by the month. He angrily waved off the confrontation and descended the steps to greet his adoring subjects.

  When the Foix contingent passed under the narthex, Almaric stepped in front of Roger. “I plan to visit your county soon, baron.”

  “You needn’t waste a journey to our humble domain,” said Roger.

  “The Church follows God’s example by taking interest in all its children, be they great or small.” Almaric turned with an expectant smile upon Esclarmonde. “I believe, madam, you know my deacon.”

  She refused to meet eyes with her former courtier. “I am heartened, sir, to see that you have found your true calling.”

  “I was admonished once to make better use of my talents,” said Folques.

  The Abbot monitored their reunion like an alchemist combining volatile vapors. “I am told you have an unusual familiarity with Sc
riptures.”

  Esclarmonde’s stomach tightened. He is testing me. She forced a pale smile, having become more adept at crafting facial expressions to erect barricades to her thoughts. “I am certain the spiritual protector of the Languedoc has more pressing concerns than the trivial reading habits of ladies. Now, I must apologize for monopolizing your excellency’s good graces.”

  Almaric blinked hard at the backhanded escape. “I trust we will enjoy your company at the banquet?”

  “I shall be in attendance,” she said, flatly.

  Almaric shared a knowing glance with Folques. “We look forward to it.”

  That afternoon, the guests mingled and dined around the two rows of linen-covered trestles that had been set in the verdant valley below the sangria-hued walls of the Chateau Narbonnais. A flourish of trumpets from the tower’s kitchen unleashed yet another cadre of scullions carrying platters laden with the fourth course of the sumptuous feast: Muscalades of minnows, porpoise, and peas; baked herring; roasted eel; and cockatrice with heads of chickens sewn atop the bodies of suckling pigs.

  Corba moaned with gustatory rapture as she garnished another slice of Alexandrine gingerbread with kirsch-flavored blancmange. She forced the delicacy on Esclarmonde. “Heaven in a spread! You must try this!”

  Esclarmonde declined the offer and continued searching the crowd, fearful that any moment she might again encounter Folques. “I have no appetite.”

  “What can he do to you? He’s a monk now.”

  “He has never forgiven me.”

  “You worry needlessly. The churchmen would not allow a novitiate into their ministry if he had not repented of his sins.”

  Raymond de Perella returned from his glad-handing rounds and presented his flask to a mounted wine steward for refilling. “Esclarmonde, you would quite enjoy your brother’s predicament. He has been held prisoner to the Aragon delegation for the past hour while King Peter drones on about his plans to drive the Moors from Seville.”

  Corba studied the culinary choices before settling on a leg of duck for her fiancé. “Eat well, darling. Soon you will be forced to endure my cooking.”

  “You’re fattening me for the kill!” Raymond laid siege on the drumstick. “I fear our wedding feast shall pale in comparison to this.”

  “Nonsense,” teased Corba. “Esclarmonde will be in charge of the festivities. She’ll refuse to be outdone.”

  Esclarmonde put up a façade of interest, listening with half an ear to their banter while nervously scanning each passing face. “Yes, with your purse, Raymond, I’ll have no trouble eclipsing this slight repast.”

  Raymond nearly choked on her threat. Before he could recover, a blond lad styled in a lavish turquoise shirt bounded up and bowed to their group. With chest puffed out and twinkling eyes as cobalt blue as the hills of Lorraine, the boy applied a rather mature kiss to the back of Esclarmonde’s hand. “So, it is true,” said the young newcomer. “I’ve oft heard about the unmatched beauty of the demoiselles from Foix.”

  Esclarmonde stifled a chuckle. “Who might you be, sir?”

  “Roger Trencavel. One day to be the Viscount of Carcassonne and Beziers. They call me the Gallant Trencavel.”

  Esclarmonde magnanimously accepted his effusive offer of courtesy. “You’re so young to have received such a lofty sobriquet.”

  “I’m eighteen.” Detecting her incredulity, he amended, “Fifteen.”

  “Shall we settle on twelve?” Esclarmonde had not felt such lightness of heart in years. The Trencavels were a renowned family related to Raymond de Toulouse that held Occitan domains small but influential in diplomacy. The House of Trencavel also held a distant lineage to her mother, Cecille. The boy reminded her of Guilhelm, not in his speech, which was much more effusive, but in his confident air. “You must have many lady admirers.”

  “I’ve waited for the one who would do me high honor.”

  “Have you not yet found her?” she asked.

  “Only today.” Trencavel lowered to one knee. “Will you, Lady Esclarmonde, accept my offer of marriage?”

  Corba and Raymond could no longer suppress their good-natured laughter.

  Deeply touched by the gesture, Esclarmonde untied a scarf from her wrist and handed it to the boy. “If I were younger, I would deem it an honor. But I fear you would soon tire of me. When I’m old and shriveled, you’ll still be fluttering the hearts of maidens and I would be consumed by jealousy. But, please, accept this as a token of my heartfelt gratitude.”

  The treasured gift was rudely snatched from the boy’s grasp.

  “Seems the Trencavels lust for wenches as well as fiefs.” Hovering over the boy stood a barrel-chested man with uneven eyes the color of dirty ice and skin pitted like Portuguese cork. He was accompanied by two knights accoutred in the blacks and grays of the North.

  “Be gone with you, whelp!” growled another of the intruders. Shorter than his comrade, he was cursed with a bull neck that leaned to the left, suffusing his frame with a sinister tendency that personified his malformed soul. He clamped on the boy’s chin. “Come back when you have whiskers.”

  Trencavel fought to reclaim the scarf. “If my father were here—”

  “Your father is a dolt-witted coward.” The taller Northerner spoke loudly in the crude Anglo-Norman patois of langue d’oeil, bleating hard consonants and whistling heavy breaths through his mucous-clogged nose.

  The struggling boy turned crimson. “He is bedridden, else he’d clap your ears!” He wrangled loose but was sent sprawling by a straight-arm.

  Esclarmonde intervened before Raymond could call out the interlopers. “Who are you, sir, to treat this young man so basely?”

  The tallest Northerner plunged his hand into a bowl of pudding and licked his fingers like a common beggar. “Jourdaine L’Isle. This is Simon de Montfort and his brother, Guy, from the Ile de France. No doubt you’ve heard of us.”

  Esclarmonde brought Trencavel to her side for protection. “We rarely receive dispatches from the backwaters.”

  With chest hair crawling from his neckline, Simon de Montfort resembled a squinting bear as he blinked with a rapid tic from nearsightedness in an effort to assay her features. “Where we come from, women aren’t allowed to speak with such impudence. But then we’re not cuckolded like you Ocs.”

  Raymond took a threatening step. “I warn you, sir!”

  Jourdaine leered at Esclarmonde’s bosom. “You’re not yet married?”

  “What concern is that of yours?” asked Esclarmonde.

  “Your brother would be well-advised to find you a husband before your ripeness turns to rot. One who can teach you proper Christian humility.”

  Trencavel filched the dagger from Raymond’s belt and charged at the miscreant. Jourdaine shifted sideways and drove a hip into the boy, causing him to fall somersaulting from his own wild momentum. “You Ocs are all alike.” He kicked the dazed Trencavel in the kidneys and departed with his malicious confederates. “All crow and no cock.”

  Esclarmonde helped Trencavel to his feet. “Are you injured?”

  Trencavel retrieved the prized scarf and tucked it away for safekeeping.

  “Why do they harass you?” she asked.

  Trencavel glared a promise of reprisal at the gauche Northerners as they disappeared into the throngs. “They covet my father’s lands. Jourdaine is a second-born from Gascony. He has no demesnes of any worth. The two de Montforts are Norman scum who hold claims to lands in England. The crosseyed one is twice-spawned from Satan’s seed. They make their way on tournament winnings and stolen estates. You must warn your brother. I’ve heard it said they have designs on Foix.”

  Before Esclarmonde could make sense of this unsettling news, a fanfare called the guests to the dais.

  On the rostrum, Almaric stood to address the assembly. “The Holy Father cannot rest knowing that Christians still languish in Saracen prisons. On this day, he calls on all warriors to return Jerusalem to its rightful protectors.”


  The petition was met with a stony silence. Most Toulousians could name at least one kinsman who had failed to return from the Holy Land. The zeal once held for such enterprises had long since dissipated, replaced by disgust at the onerous Saladin tithes levied to finance them.

  Almaric nodded, having expected the contumacious reaction. “To honor this display of steadfast faith, I have arranged a gift.”

  “You’ve spouted that promise repeatedly,” said Count Raymond. “On with it, so we may return to more important matters.”

  The gates of the Narbonnais tower were thrown open. Constables in the employ of the Cistercians dragged out two barefoot prisoners whose heads were hooded. Brandishing a staffed crucifix, Folques led the wretches toward a clearing where men-at-arms dug postholes and piled faggots around two stakes.

  “What is the meaning of this?” demanded Count Raymond.

  “What better way to affirm your son’s entry into the Army of Christ than to rectify two fallen souls this day?” asked Almaric.

  “You push me too far, Cistercian!”

  “You wish me to release them?”

  Count Raymond realized that he had been drawn into a trap. Refusing to enforce the judgment in such a public forum could bring harsh consequences from Rome. He had no choice but to wave the soldiers to the task.

  Folques removed the hood from the head of the first heretic.

  Esclarmonde was too far removed from the clearing to gain a clear view of the delirious man. She edged closer and caught her breath in a flash of terror. “Is that not—” Corba’s hand covered her mouth, stifling the question.

  The soldiers lit the faggots. Folques stepped back from the lurid flames as Sacchioni’s skin blistered in a blackened mass of snapping veins. Finally, too slow in coming, it was over. Green from his first burning, Folques staggered to the second stake and lifted the hood from the remaining prisoner. Phillipa saw Sacchioni’s charred body and dropped her eyes in despair.