by Glen Craney
“He keeps singing annoying songs to me.”
“Oh, well. I’m afraid you may have to suffer many a shrill note before finding the one sweet melody.”
“I don’t think this Ovid knew what he was talking about,” said Loupe.
“Let’s keep reading and find out.”
Loupe continued, “‘Love is a species of war. Night and winter and long roads and terrible sorrows and every hardship are native to this gentle camp.’”
“Being in love doesn’t sound like much fun,” said Chandelle.
Esclarmonde had not heard that last observation, lost as she was in her thoughts about Guilhelm. How strange. The two of them had indeed been like warriors. Why had their few moments together always been heightened by conflict? She had heard nothing from him since that night in L’Isle. Folques would have spared no effort in bringing him to trial for Jourdaine’s death. If Guilhelm had survived, he would have found a way to get a message to her by now. Still, she could not bring herself to accept that he—
Chandelle, ever intuitive, kissed Esclarmonde to chase her dark thoughts.
Phillipa seized the moment to interrupt their lesson. “Girls, go put on your best dresses. We have visitors.”
Esclarmonde interrogated Phillipa with a questioning look, but she was given not even a hint about the arrivals. Intrigued, she rushed down the steps into the great hall and gasped with delight. She was embraced by Lady Giraude and her brother, Aimery, her benefactors from Lavaur whom she had not seen since the dedication of the temple. The Marquessa and Castres hurried in from a side door and hugged their unexpected guests in a gushing reunion.
Giraude lavished Esclarmonde with kisses. “How I wish I’d been at Pamiers! You are all the people talk about now.”
“You are all my sister can talk about, that is for certes,” Aimery genuflected three times in courtesy. “She lords it over every man in Lavaur as evidence of the superiority of the female mind. I have become somewhat of a pariah.”
Esclarmonde blushed at the report of her fame. “It was Father Castres who carried the day.”
“False modesty is the wife of willful pride,” said Castres. “And let us not forget that we lost the decision.”
“I warned you about that Janus-faced Waldensian,” said Giraude. “His judgment has been the object of much mockery.” Turning solemn, she took Esclarmonde by the arm for insistence. “The Bishop has something to tell you.”
Esclarmonde’s expectant look drove Castres to a difficult admission. “It is time, child.”
Giraude gave the Bishop no chance to reconsider the decision that she had extracted only after much persuasion. “The Cistercians have launched another preaching campaign,” she said. “They harass our perfects in the villages. We have no universities. We need you there.”
Nothing terrified Esclarmonde more than the thought of leaving Foix again. Her escape from Gascony had been nothing less than a miraculous reprieve, one that had cost her Guilhelm. Yet she knew her Cathar vows required her to travel to those in need of ministry. “I’ve never preached.”
“You more than held your own against Folques and the Castilian,” reminded Giraude. “The people are clamoring to hear you. It will be a grand tour. Marseille, Nimes, Perpignan. But first, Beziers. In the county of our young friend Trencavel.”
“What would I say?”
“You’ll speak from your heart,” said Giraude.
“Allow Phillipa to go with me, at least.”
“She must tend to our houses in Carcassonne,” said Castres. “I will accompany you to Beziers. We will leave in the morning.”
Esclarmonde silently begged Phillipa for support in her attempt to avoid their call to service, but she saw that her friend was resolved to do her duty.
The girls came running into the chamber. Phillipa gathered Loupe into her arms. “I have wonderful news, love. Corba is going to take care of you for a few weeks. You’ll get to stay with Chandy even longer.”
“You’re going away?” asked Loupe.
“Aunt Essy and I must go help others.”
“I don’t want you to go!” screamed Loupe. “Aunt Essy, tell her not to go!”
Esclarmonde smothered Loupe with kisses, dousing the looming conflagration of the child’s explosive temper with the loving wetness of her lips. “You must be brave. When your mother and I return, we’ll throw a birthday fete for you. And you mustn’t marry Bernard until I get back.”
“I’ll never marry Bernard!”
Esclarmonde found Chandelle’s head dipped in sadness. She picked up the blind child and gave her a hug. “Love, say a prayer for me each night.”
Chandelle’s drained face held a look of terror. In a voice repressed of emotion, she said, “You shouldn’t go. But I will pray for you.”
Esclarmonde was unnerved by the child’s strange warning.
Phillipa squeezed Esclarmonde’s hand in reassurance. “We’ll be back before the leaves fall. Have I ever failed to keep a promise?”
The citizens of Beziers came rushing down from their terraced houses above the Orb, a trout-teeming river that slithered through checkered squares of vineyards and sloping fields awash in sunflowers and lavender. The local Cathars lined the Pont Vieux to ask for Esclarmonde’s transmission of the Light. Their Catholic neighbors had also turned out to see the heretic woman who was emptying their churches.
Esclarmonde crossed the stone span and was inspired by the breathtaking view of St. Nazaire. The cathedral’s famous towers, built with pale limestone that had been scavenged from Roman ruins, sat atop an acropolis that once had served as a Gallic fortress. The cobbled road that she and Castres had walked from Foix ran only three leagues inland from the Mediterranean, and the trade winds from the nearby chain of lagoons and dunes mixed their sea salt with the kitchen aromas of mushroom fricassees and crayfish stews to form a wondrous olfactory welcome. She could well understand why the twenty thousand inhabitants here claimed that the Greek gods had fashioned their city as a winter retreat when Mount Olympus became too cold.
She climbed the cathedral’s steps and stood under the dazzling rays that streamed from its rose window, a marvel of lead and alchemy excelled in magnificence only by the stained glass of Chartres. The local Cathar perfects carried up their sick and crippled family members to gain her blessing. Among the infirm lay a man marred by leprosy, too ashamed of his sinful condition to meet her eyes. She placed her palm against his festered forehead and prayed, “The God of Light has not forgotten you.”
In the crowd stood the stooped, white-haired priest who had taken care of the cathedral for thirty years. He raised his folded hands to her in hospitality. The magnanimous gesture instilled her with the courage to walk among the petitioners and listen to their heartbreaking stories of suffering. “Your pain is not a judgment cast down by the God of Light,” she assured them. “He seeks to cleanse you of your sickness, as did the Master Jesus. The radiance that flows through me is from the same spiritual Sun that Our Lord drew upon to offer His healing powers. All of you, man or woman, may transmit this touch of Light to your brothers and sisters. The work of God does not require the sanction of the Church or the Pope.”
An old woman with desiccated legs struggled to her elbows. “The priests tell us to accept our suffering as punishment for our sins.”
“Your priests mean well, but they are misguided,” said Esclarmonde. “They preach only what their bishops mandate. Did Our Lord abandon the lame when the Pharisees declared them unclean?”
“No!” shouted several voices.
“He called the sick to Him and drove out the impurities from their bodies. The Church of Rome forfeited the gift of healing because it has rejected the Master’s true teachings. The Pope orders you to accept your plight and give thanks to God for the opportunity to share in Christ’s agony on the Cross. I tell you that Jesus wished no one to endure torment. Suffering was not the Father’s plan for his Son. Nor is it the Father’s plan for us.”
; The elderly priest shuffled to the fore of his parishioners. “How then would you have us overcome our failings of the flesh?”
“Disease is a deception perpetrated by the Demiurge,” she said. “The world of matter is an illusion. We must refuse its seductions. Only then can the Light transform the flesh and permit the spirit to escape the cycles of imprisonment.”
The old priest pondered her explanation. “That is not unlike what I preach of God’s grace.”
“My faith does not teach that salvation can be purchased with indulgences and extortions,” she said.
“The Lord interceded for others,” reminded the priest.
“Not in exchange for tithes or compensation. He sought to show us how to fish the spiritual waters for our own sustenance. We wish to teach people to live in His example, to meditate and fast, to do no violence even if attacked. And we allow all to follow their own conscience.”
The elderly priest climbed the steps with difficulty and offered his faltering hand to Esclarmonde in goodwill. “I have little learning. I know not if what you say about the Scriptures is true, but I believe you to be a good woman. You are welcome in my— ” A low rumbling shook the hillside.
Roger Trencavel and the city’s Catholic bishop, Reynaud de Montpeyroux, led an entourage of knights across the bridge. Both Catholics and Cathars shouted huzzahs at the sight of their youthful viscount who had been away for months. Trencavel had taken a wife, but his boyish charm still drew the unabashed admiration of the ladies. Favoring the shoulder wound suffered from de Montfort’s lance in Toulouse, he dismounted and genuflected to Esclarmonde, a courtesy that drew a scowl from the Catholic bishop. Trencavel ignored the cleric’s disapproval and pressed a kiss to her hand. “My lady, accept my apologies for not having been present at your arrival.”
Esclarmonde broke a glowing smile as she lifted her former champion to his feet. “You’ve become a man.”
Trencavel stood taller to merit the observation. “Not soon enough, I fear, to have prevented a gross injustice.” They shared a moment of silence while recalling that tragic day when she had been forced to betroth Jourdaine. “Lady Phillipa is well, I trust?”
“She travels to Carcassonne.” Esclarmonde saw that Trencavel’s eyes had gloomed over with the mention of his capital city. “And you, my lord? Do I detect a chink in that armor of high spirits?”
Trencavel surveyed the city’s ramparts with a sullen look of gravity. “I’ve just come from an acrimonious parlay with the Abbot of Citeaux. He and the Bishop of Toulouse lead an army of twenty thousand against us from Nimes. My uncle has deserted to their ranks.” Met with cries of alarm, Trencavel put up a brave front. “These walls are strong! You shall be defended!”
The Catholic bishop produced a document to contradict that hope. “I come bearing a generous offer from the Abbot. Deliver up the heretics in your midst and you will be spared.” He glared menacingly at Esclarmonde. “Your name, woman, is on this roll.”
The citizens of Beziers argued over whether they should accept the offer. One of the burghers called for silence and asked Trencavel, “My lord, would you have us betray our own neighbors?”
“I’d not condemn some of my subjects to save the others,” said Trencavel. “Whatever name you give to the god of your faith, remember that you are all Occitans, lovers of freedom!”
“We’ll follow you into the bowels of Hell!” cried another man.
“Hell will be the preferred venue if you reject this condition,” warned the Catholic bishop. “Be advised that routiers accompany this army.”
A collective gasp sucked the air. Routiers were roving bands of prison rejects, thieves, and beggars who lusted for rape and plunder. The Northern barons found the wretches useful as human fodder, sousing them with cheap wine and whipping them into a frenzy before throwing them against the walls of a besieged city to waste the defenders’ missiles. That these depraved creatures laughed in death’s face was no surprise; eternal damnation could be no worse than their squalid existence. They were so loathed that Rome had forbidden Christian monarchs from recruiting their services. Now Innocent III and his henchmen found their employment to be advantageous.
Trencavel maintained a steadied front. “Stand fast! I implore you! Don’t allow these monks from foreign soil to destroy our tolerance of creed!”
The frightened populace looked to their pastor for guidance.
The local priest bowed his head in deference to his superior. “I disagree with those who profess the existence of two gods. But this woman and her flock have never harmed us. I believe Christ’s mercy begs their protection.”
The Bishop glowered at the priest with a promise of retribution. “Have you forgotten what happened to Constantinople?”
Trencavel stole the condemnation list from the Bishop’s grasp and threw the parchment to his subjects, who shredded it in a frenzy of patriotism. The Viscount ordered up the Bishop’s horse to indicate that his presence was no longer welcome. “You have your answer.”
“May God have mercy on your souls!” snarled de Montpeyroux.
When the cleric had been hounded off across the bridge, Trencavel turned to Esclarmonde and advised, “Gather your perfects. I will provide as many mounts as I can spare for those who cannot walk.”
Esclarmonde was riven by indecision. Had she not just preached the need to refuse the seductions and illusions of the material world? If she fled to safety while others stayed in harm’s way, she would be exposed as a hypocrite. “I can’t abandon these people.”
Trencavel drew her aside. “You are here because I asked you to come and preach. I won’t allow you to remain in danger.”
“Your Catholic subjects have agreed to risk their lives to save my followers.” Pressing his hand for reassurance, she turned and walked among her Cathars. “If any of you wish to go to Carcassonne, no judgment will be held against you.” When none of the Cathars stepped forward to accept Trencavel’s offer of escort, she brought the tottering Castres to the Viscount’s side. “Father, I have followed your guidance for many years. Now you must follow mine. Go to Phillipa. She must be warned to turn back for Foix.”
Castres hung his head in surrender to her order.
Trencavel climbed to the highest step and shouted, “I leave to prepare the defenses of Carcassonne! You will be in the trusted hands of my seneschal! Provisions are stockpiled and the moats will be strengthened!”
Esclarmonde saw a blind rabbi huddled with his terrified congregation beyond the border of the cathedral grounds. The Jews had retrieved their precious scrolls from the city’s synagogue and were clutching them to their chests. She feared they would fall victim to a pogrom, as had their grandfathers when the crusader armies passed through the Languedoc in past times to embark from Marseille. She pleaded with Trencavel, “Take the Jews away from here.”
A younger rabbi translated her intercession into Hebrew for his blind elder. The aged rabbi bowed to her in heartfelt gratitude.
Abiding her request, Trencavel detached a small contingent to escort the Jews on their exodus west. Assured that his orders for the preparations had been understood, he mounted and took a last look at his adoring subjects. “Citizens of Beziers! You are my Thermopylae! God be with you!”
Thousands ran after the Viscount and dampened his dust with their tears.
For two days and nights, the Occitans deepened the ditches around Beziers with picks and shovels. The seneschal of the garrison, Bernard de Servian, led raiding parties into the countryside to burn the crops and salt the wells while Esclarmonde helped organize a hospital in St. Nazaire to ease the suffering of the refugees who were straggling in by the hundreds from neighboring towns.
On the morning before the feast of St. Magdalene’s Day, a piercing cry came from the ramparts: “They are on us!”
So many citizens rushed to the allures that Esclarmonde feared the scaffolding would collapse. When she reached the crenelations, her heart sank. The far banks of the Orb were filled with
a horde more vast than the Roman legions that she had read about in the Annals of Tacitus. The Northern army paraded across the valley with banners from Auvergne, Burgundy, Limousin, even Germany. A golden rampant lion on a red field—Simon de Montfort’s herald—led up the Cistercians and their towering crucifixes. Behind the main army came the routiers, roistering down the hills like savages and diving naked into the water with no regard for modesty. She pleaded with Servian to avoid a violent confrontation. “Perhaps if I speak to the Abbot.”
“That would be taken as a sign of weakness,” warned Servian. “Let them batter their heads against these stones. They’ll soon tire of their folly.”
During the night, the Occitan garrison monitored the crusader campfires for suspicious movements. Informed by his scouts that the French sappers were testing the foundations, Servian ordered vats of boiling pitch be poured over the ramparts, a tactic that drew screams from the darkness below.
By dawn, the besieged Occitans had worked themselves into such a frenetic expectation of attack that their nerves could no longer hold. A mob of three thousand— mostly barefoot peasants armed with clubs and pitchforks— converged on the gate and demanded to be let out to fight the invaders.
Esclarmonde tried to stop them. “Heed the orders! I beg you!”
“Our knights cower behind these walls like Saracens!” cried one manic-eyed farmer. “Those filthy Northerners laid waste to my village at Bedarius!”
The mob unleashed an inhuman bray as it pushed past her. The Occitans hemorrhaged through the gate and hurdled down the embankment toward the bridge. Halfway across the river, they halted to shout goading curses at the Franks who were sleeping on the far banks.
The routiers roused and regarded the Occitan rabble with hectoring amusement. A giant Northerner with a face like pounded dough strode onto the bridge and shook his beefy fist. “Who wants it first?”
The Occitans swarmed the foolhardy Goliath and lifted him aloft like ants stealing a crust of bread. With a collective heave, they threw him to the treacherous rapids. Enraged, his fellow mercenaries erupted from their bed sacks and attacked the bridge en masse with cudgels and tree limbs. The first light of dawn was greeted by an unworldly screech as the two hordes collided. Those wretches in the van of both gangs were propelled into the river by the crush.