The Fire and the Light

by Glen Craney

  “Do you know what day it is?” asked Richard.

  “Did that Syrian desert fry your brain?”

  “Templars fast on Friday. Your man fights on water rations.”

  Count Raymond tried to retrieve his wager, but Richard’s hand was too quick. Grinning, he threw the pouch to an attendant to hold in escrow.

  In the lists, Jourdaine threw his shield across his body as a counterweight. He heaved his sword but narrowly missed his mark. Guilhelm remained behind his shield and waited for an opening. Jourdaine swung again but caught the edge of Guilhelm’s shield. He extracted his blade with a grunted curse. “You fight like a damned Turkish eunuch!”

  “You wouldn’t know a Turk if another one bedded your mother!”

  Guilhelm reproached himself for having breached the Temple’s first rule of engagement: Never return the taunts of an opponent. Such distractions only drained one’s concentration. Denied the warning of the Gascon’s eyes, he riveted his watch on Jourdaine’s friezed hauberk; the blade always followed the hand, and the hand the trunk. He swung low at the Gascon’s exposed legs but his blow was blunted. The Gascon hammered at his helmet and caused him to stumble with blurred vision. He tasted the salt of his streaming sweat.

  Esclarmonde clutched Corba’s arm. “The Gascon pushes him at will!”

  “Jourdaine outweighs him by four stone,” said Roger, confined to a pallet. “The Templar had best finish him soon, or he’ll be worn down.”

  Jourdaine grew annoyed with Guilhelm’s defensive tactics. He dove into the clutches and flailed again and again. Guilhelm maintained the disciplined tactics of the Temple, standing rooted to the soil. Drilled on slot work, he repulsed every lunge and pounded at the crease between Jourdaine’s collarbone and shield. The struggle deteriorated into a series of staggering assaults with both men panting like ravenous animals. Weak from the fasting, Guilhelm feared that he might soon black out. He had no choice but to resort to snaps. He lashed his hilt like the handle of a whip and sent the blade behind the Gascon’s head. The torque threatened to fracture his wrist. Jourdaine’s reach was too long—he wedged his tip inside Guilhelm’s shield.

  “He’s jamming you!” shouted Roger. “Wheel out of it!”

  Guilhelm was driven back with his right side exposed. He tried to pull the shield to his side, but Jourdaine locked it with a knee, then pivoted and whipped his sword around his torso. Guilhelm raised his right arm to block the smite, too late. Blearing fatigue slowed his reaction—the hot sting of metal sliced into his thigh. He fell and his nose smashed against the nasal guard. Wetness oozed from his mouth. Distant screams echoed in his head.

  “Blood!” shouted the herald.

  Esclarmonde’s cries brought Guilhelm back to consciousness. The physic applied a tourniquet to a nasty gash on his thigh. She pressed her palm to his sweltering forehead, at a loss how to ease his suffering.

  “Is that proper conduct for a betrothed lady?” Jourdaine hovered over her. “I expect your presence at L’Isle in six months.”

  “I ask only that the ceremony take place in Foix,” she said, eyes cast down.

  “You’ll live in Gascony,” said Jourdaine. “You’ll wed in Gascony.”

  Folques rushed to light the faggots, but Jourdaine intercepted him and commandeered the torch. He forced Phillipa to wait for death, then slashed her bindings. “The lass is a wedding gift. To my future bride.”

  Bells inside the Templar commanderie in Toulouse summoned the holy brothers for midday contemplation. Three hooded monks made their way along the cloister shadows and fell in with those already ambulating in prayer. After their third circumnavigation of the garth, the monks slipped unnoticed through the door of a cell near the infirmary.

  Inside, Guilhelm lay half-delirious. “I told you! Let me die!”

  “I have brought you good medicine.” Raymond de Perella lowered his cowl and led Esclarmonde and Phillipa to the cot. The women knelt and retracted the Templar’s linen braies to inspect his wound. The crude stitching had turned black with abscess during the three days since the combat.

  Phillipa regarded Esclarmonde with a doubtful look. “If he is to survive, the flesh must be cut away, but ...”

  “But what?”

  “He’s so weak ... he may die from the loss of blood.”

  Esclarmonde placed a wooden spoon between Guilhelm’s teeth. “I’ll not let him rot to death.”

  “There will be pain,” Phillipa told Guilhelm. “I will try to be swift.”

  Guilhelm restrained her hand. “I don’t deserve your help. In the cave ...”

  “You were only abiding the dictates of your faith.”

  Phillipa commenced the surgical procedure taught to her by Bishop Castres. She smothered Guilhelm’s nose with a sponge soaked in mandrake. When his eyes fluttered, she took the knife that Raymond had heated over the fire and carved a chevron around the wound. She dug out the diseased flesh, careful not to slice the artery. Esclarmonde flinched with each cut and gripped Guilhelm’s forearm as if the suffering were her own. After cauterizing the incision, Phillipa sutured it with a thread of spiderwebs and applied a poultice of wort. As she placed her hands over her work in prayer, Guilhelm eased the clench in his fists as the pain subsided. He was unable to fathom how she had finished so quickly.

  “You must hurry!” Raymond stood watch at the door. “If they discover us, he’ll have worse problems than a split thigh.”

  Esclarmonde held back, desperate for a moment more. Raymond reluctantly agreed to her request and slipped out the door with Phillipa.

  Esclarmonde tried to squeeze the good humors back into Guilhelm’s hand. “I feared I would never see you again.”

  “Was that not what you wished?”

  “You have little understanding of women!”

  “On that I can attest. Your friend sent for me. You are the worse for it.”

  “How can you say that? You saved a precious life.”

  His voice trailed off. “And lost a love.”

  Esclarmonde was not certain if she had heard correctly. “You speak of love, Guilhelm?”

  He stared up into her hopeful eyes. “I will burn in Hell for it but ... I have loved you since the day we first met.”

  “Then take me with you when you leave here!”

  He enlivened at the thought, then sank defeated into the cot. “We are both constrained by vows. The Temple would hunt me down and the Gascon would bring a legal writ against your brother. The dowry lands and the girl’s life would be forfeited.”

  “But we would be together!”

  “In broken faith.”

  Esclarmonde did not want to believe him, but she knew he was right. She held him in her arms and pressed her cheek to his. Finally, she forced herself to pull away. At the door, she turned back, unable to depart without asking, “Guilhelm, have you ever had ... visions?”

  He struggled to his elbow, studying her with a look of grave apprehension. “I have seen things untold in our religion, but—”

  “What things?”

  “You must shun such inquiries.”

  “I have been cast into a world I do not understand!”

  He regarded the door. “Tell no one of this.”

  “I feel as if I am going mad!”

  “Heed me!” he insisted. “To speak of these things is too dangerous.”

  Raymond cracked the door. “We must go.”

  She clung to Guilhelm. “Promise you will return to me.”

  “I will die in Palestine.”

  Tears coursed down her cheeks. “Promise me! Or I’ll not find the strength to face what awaits me!”

  Shaken by her desperation, Guilhelm sealed one oath with a kiss and broke another.

  ... Hidden things of the mysteries of Light and the ways of Darkness.

  - The Book of Secrets, Dead Sea Scrolls

  X

  Foix

  September 1198

  With the dreaded hour of their departure for Gascony fast approa
ching, Esclarmonde emptied her closets while the Marquessa packed the trunks, cursing and sighing at every folded bundle. It would be the first year in memory that the matriarch did not preside over her court. The calamity in Toulouse had thrown her into such a gloom that she could find no reason to celebrate the ideals of Courtesy that were passing away with the century. They hurried to finish their tasks before an autumn snowstorm blocked the passes, for they knew that Roger would be in no mood to tarry at dawn.

  “Please don’t attempt this journey,” said Esclarmonde.

  The Marquessa stripped the ornaments from the walls with a surging vehemence. “Perhaps I can yet reverse this misfortune!”

  “The Lord L’Isle is not a man to be swayed by threats or entreaties.”

  “Had I accompanied you to the baptism, I might have shamed Count Raymond into standing up to those Cistercian thieves! Puivert and Perpignan have also cancelled their courts rather than risk accusations of heresy.”

  “Folques is much behind it, I fear.” Esclarmonde immediately regretted that indictment. She had been careful not to mention the former troubadour’s name for fear of sending her godmother into another fit of apoplexy.

  “If I meet that crowing rooster again, he’ll prefer the presence of Satan!” The Marquessa watched Esclarmonde halfheartedly pick through the array of bright dresses she had worn in the courts. None seemed appropriate. Observing her dilemma, the Marquessa went to her chamber and returned with an emerald satin dress embroidered with a fleur-de-lis brocade and gold meshwork. “Your mother’s wedding gown. Your father imported it from Cyprus for her.”

  Esclarmonde held the dress to her shoulders and tried to imagine her mother walking down St. Volusien’s in its sweeping lines. She fought back emotion as she returned the gown and chose an austere black dress in its stead.

  The Marquessa smothered her with a tearful embrace. “I’ve instilled you with hopes much too lofty. All of this talk of chivalry and romance was a blind path to disappointment.”

  “Corba has found happiness.”

  “She is a simple girl. You have always longed for the unreachable. Your mother had the same dangerous yearning.”

  Esclarmonde retreated to the window and watched the snow drifting high against the walls. The last ships en route to the Holy Land had launched from Marseille a month ago. Guilhelm was likely on one if he had not already succumbed to the gangrene. Still, she was grateful for the six months she had been granted to prepare for the marriage. All she had once taken for granted was now burned into her memory: The sunset walks along the rustling Ariege, the riding excursions to Montsegur, the smell of baked bread in the market ovens. What she missed most was Corba’s companionship. They had planned their weddings together in this room, but perverse Fate had denied them both their dreams. Corba and Raymond married soon after returning from Toulouse, foregoing a fete for a modest ceremony. Corba had visited Foix only once since. Radiant and joyously in love, she had transformed Raymond’s austere chateau in Mirepoix into a home of felicitous warmth.

  The Marquessa broached a subject too long delayed. “Child, on your wedding night—”

  “Do not speak of this now!”

  “The man will expect the marital duties to be consummated.”

  “I cannot!”

  “It will go worse for you if you do not submit. Men become savage when denied. You will learn to distance yourself from the act.”

  “I will endure it only until Guilhelm comes for me.”

  “You must give up that fantasy. It will only prolong your sorrow.”

  “He promised to return.”

  “Return to what? You have foolishly sworn him to a doomed errand.”

  “You cannot take this hope from me!”

  The Marquessa captured her shoulders to enforce the admonition. “Never mention that Templar’s name again. We must take up our crosses. Look forward to children. They will be a comfort.”

  Esclarmonde pulled away. “You talk to me of children? By that man?”

  The Marquessa grasped the bedpost for support. “Corba is gone. Now you. How will I manage to—”

  At the door, Phillipa appeared with a steaming pot of jasmine tea. Embarrassed at having intruded on their conversation, she hastened away.

  Esclarmonde rushed to stop her. “Please! Don’t leave!”

  The Almighty, it seemed, never took with one hand without giving from the other. This wispy spirit was the only glimmer of light in the chateau now. After the tournament, Roger had insisted that the Cathar girl come to Foix and live as part of their family. Phillipa at first declined his offer, fearful that the Cistercians would learn of her whereabouts. Hospitality to a heretic, even one legally released, would only bring more trouble. But Roger would not take no for an answer. The Marquessa had found it difficult to accept the girl whose faith had brought such sorrow to her family, but Phillipa’s selfless ways soon won her over. Under her tutelage, the docile creature who once spoke hardly a word had miraculously bloomed into a winsome lady.

  Phillipa poured two servings. “I can finish the preparations in here. I’ve already packed what little I need.”

  Esclarmonde nearly dropped her cup. “Go with us? I’ll not hear of it!”

  Phillipa tightened the trunk straps. “The Gascon lord would not jeopardize his bargain by arresting me. Besides, you must have a maid of honor.”

  Deeply moved, Esclarmonde tried to think of a way to repay the kindness. With a glint of mischief, she sized up Phillipa’s lithe figure and brought forth a gown of burnt rose from the wardrobe. “Do you like it?”

  Phillipa admired its luxurious sheen. “It’s beautiful.”

  “It no longer fits me. We’ll wrap you in disguise.”

  Phillipa removed her tunic and stepped into the gown. While she shuffled across the floor for Esclarmonde’s inspection, the Marquessa slipped out of the room unnoticed to give the two of them a few moments alone.

  Esclarmonde so wished that Bishop Castres could see his little priestess in training now. Her thoughts often turned to the enigmatic Cathar leader and his unsettling prophecies in Lombrives. She did not want to leave Foix until she had gained some understanding of the man who had shaken her life to its core. “Have you heard any news of your bishop?”

  Phillipa’s smile vanished. She hurriedly removed the gown, thrust back into the world of denial. The expensive dress was a temptation dangled by the Lords of Darkness so despised by her faith. While she was lodged and well-fed, the Bishop and her fellow Cathars endured harsh deprivations in the caves and forests, constrained even from enjoying the warmth of a fire for fear of being captured. She placed the gown on the bed and stepped away as if its very touch was fraught with sin. “I was wondering when you would ask about him.”

  “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “No, it’s good you wish to know more about him.”

  Esclarmonde helped Phillipa into her bare tunic and retrieved the sewing basket to repair a tear in its sleeve. “How did you find him?”

  “He found me,” said Phillipa. “I was ten years old. Turned out into the streets of Albi after my mother died. He took me to one of his safe houses.”

  “He spoke with a strange accent.”

  “His people were called Bogomils,” said Phillipa. “They migrated to Bulgaria from Jerusalem.”

  “That’s halfway across the world. What brought him here?”

  “He came to spread the true teachings of the Master.”

  “Why didn’t he come to your aid in Toulouse? He must have heard that your burning was to take place.”

  “He did come.”

  Esclarmonde was so astonished that she nearly pricked Phillipa with the needle. She could remember no one that day who remotely resembled the bishop.

  “When one of our people is led to the stake, the Father is always in the crowd offering prayers and comfort. He takes on disguises to avoid the Cistercians.”

  “If he was hidden, how did you know he was there?”
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  “We have a sign,” said Phillipa tersely.

  Esclarmonde recalled the nimbus she had seen around Castres’s head in the cave. She wondered if the Cathars identified their fellow believers by second sight. Phillipa was doing her best to put up a stoic front, but Esclarmonde sensed that her new friend was deeply distressed by the Bishop’s absence. “He was in tears that day at Lombrives when he thought you had perished.”

  Phillipa smiled sadly. “He was the kindest man I’ve ever known.”

  “Why does he not come to us now?”

  “He always chooses the right moment to appear.”

  “I don’t understand. How could he just stand by and watch you die?”

  “Our faith is difficult for many to accept. We do not seek death, but neither do we fear it. We won’t cling to life if it means compromising our beliefs.”

  “Why must you give up all that is pleasurable?”

  “The Master said His Kingdom was not of this world. Your Church insists that our way is perverse, but we only follow the Master’s example.”

  Esclarmonde marveled at how two faiths could interpret the teachings of Jesus so differently. The more she learned about these Cathars, the more she questioned what she had been taught by the priests. She looked down at the trunk that held the linen nightgown she would wear on her wedding night. Her stomach knotted with revulsion. There were so many questions that she could not ask the Marquessa. “Have you known a man ... intimately?”

  Phillipa’s face darkened. “You’ve heard the slanders.”

  “I was told your people do not believe in such relations.”

  Phillipa flashed with uncharacteristic anger. “If that were true, the Pope would not need to burn us! He could just wait until we all died out!”

  Esclarmonde suddenly recognized the absurdity of the claim. How could there be Cathar families if they did not procreate? They both enjoyed a rueful laugh, chasing the momentary tension.

  “The Romans twists our beliefs,” said Phillipa. “We’re no different than your monks. If a woman or man wishes to become a perfecta—”