Etienne got better quickly, but was in despair over the fate of his wife, his unborn child and Blanche. I promised him that when we had both recovered we would go to Carcassonne and find them, and the thought gave him some comfort, although I had little idea how I could keep that promise.
I often thought of Blanche walking across the Roqueville courtyard past the pyre on which the crusaders had just burned the body of her son. She needed to be rescued from the Inquisition, but a single, damaged knight was unlikely to be up to the task.
Guillemette was helped by Raimond Roger’s daughter Sybille, a young woman of around seventeen with a slender figure and a direct gaze. Her long auburn hair was gathered in by a gold clasp at her nape, then widened to flow down to her waist. Her eyes were brown and she had gentle hands; Guillemette asked her to dress my wounds and look after the slash in my back, which was the last to heal.
Sybille questioned me about the siege and the journey; my replies were brief and almost discourteous. The pain of memory made it hard to revisit those terrible days and describe what had happened to us. As I recovered I told her that I wanted to be more than just another hungry mouth to feed. She encouraged me in this; I persuaded the blacksmith to make a metal sleeve that enabled me to hold a crossbow, and Sybille sewed a protective cover for my arm.
As the memories of Roqueville faded I found myself thinking of Blanche less and Sybille more. She seemed to like my company, although her mother was careful to make sure we were rarely alone together.
I confided in Etienne.
‘I thought Blanche was the woman you admired. Above all others, I remember you declaring.’
I laughed, remembering these were my exact words when he first told me about Stephanie.
‘Only as her knight, her faithful servant. Wasn’t that your answer?’ I said. ‘And I’m one-armed and one-eyed.’
‘You told me to be brave and I won Stephanie.’ And then he broke down and it was hard to comfort him. I renewed my promise that we would find them, hollow though that seemed.
Late in that winter I was able to show Raimond Roger that I could handle a crossbow almost as well as the best of his men. He asked me to move into the castle and take my place in the roster of sentries and scouts; he sent the latter out at regular intervals to collect intelligence. Raimond Roger allowed Etienne to come with me and thereafter he worked every day in the armoury, sharpening and straightening bolts and repairing crossbows. Inside the castle I saw more of Sybille, although I was uncertain how to further my cause.
‘Is she promised in marriage?’ I asked Guillemette.
She laughed.
‘There’s a shortage of Cathar noblemen, and the rest wouldn’t dare marry a heretic. Why do you ask?’
‘Curiosity.’
‘All I can tell you is that she insisted on nursing you, and doesn’t seem to mind that you are missing an arm and an eye. I assume they left your manhood intact? That’s the limb that matters.’
This exchange left me half angry, half amused and not much wiser. I pretended to be shocked by the coarseness of her reply, but in reality I was pleased that she seemed to be, if not on my side, at least not about to put obstacles in my way.
*
Sybille
IT WAS A long and difficult winter. We had two months of snow, and we came close to running out of logs, so the fires were rationed. I was no longer allowed a fire in my chamber, and any number of blankets couldn’t keep the cold from penetrating the castle walls.
When spring finally arrived it did so with a vigour that soon put the winter out of my mind. The brown valley turned green, and our little mountain was carpeted with wild flowers by early April, snowdrops, primroses, hellebores and later gentians. Guillemette taught me their names when I brought bunches of wild flowers back to her, and would ask me to seek out herbs as well as flowers that she dried and used for medicines. And, no doubt, spells. The butterflies didn’t interest her; yellow, red and blue was all she knew.
The glory of the spring made it difficult to accept one of our basic Cathar beliefs, that everything in this world is a snare and a delusion. Evil I understood, but why had all this beauty been created?
‘It’s a deception,’ my mother said. ‘It’s transient; the real, eternal world is not this, but the next.’ She continued with a long and careful explanation of why this was so, but my attention soon wandered and she caught me looking out of the window. She laughed.
‘I can see it will be some time before you become a theologian. Enjoy your ride.’
Riding through the valley was a constant source of delight. There were clear, grassy paths through the woods and along the streams, and wide meadows that were good for galloping. I loved the birch trees in the winter for their slender, vein-like branches and the papery silver of their bark, which looked as though someone had begun to peel them and then abandoned the task. In the spring they turned green early, their smaller leaves a sharper, shinier green that contrasted with the deeper green of the oaks and poplars.
I always saw roe-deer, and once in the distance a bear, although my father scoffed and said they never came this far down. I didn’t argue, but I and my horse, who wanted to turn for home at once, knew what we had seen.
My father insisted that I rode with an escort in spite of my protests.
‘There are marauding bands of vagabonds, former soldiers, throughout the Languedoc. If you want to ride in the valley you must have an armed escort with you. Don’t try to persuade me otherwise. If you don’t like it, stay in the castle and help your mother.’
I argued for ten minutes, sulked for two days and then accepted my father’s decision. It was never easy to get him to change his mind. And I thought that sooner or later Francois would be given the task of escorting me.
When this didn’t happen I sought Francois out in the archery butts.
‘How well does the new sleeve fit?’
He looked pleased to see me.
‘Even better than the last. You’ve made the padding thicker.’
That’s not all I’ve done, I thought, remembering my spell.
‘Tell me when you need a new sleeve. And why are you never my escort in the valley? Can you not ride?’
‘I’ve ridden since I was six. You have to be able to ride in tournaments. I was never unhorsed in a joust.’
‘How many tournaments?’
Francois looked a little embarrassed.
‘Only two. But five opponents. And four finished up on the ground.’
‘I’ll tell that to my father. There’s no reason for you to be excused escort duties.’
He smiled, took my hand and said, ‘It will be a great pleasure. To be on a horse again, I mean.’
I spoke to my father a day later, introducing the subject casually when he was talking about the other blind Cathar knights. He was not easily deceived.
‘Have you taken a liking to Francois? There’s little enough of him left. And it’s hard to ride a horse one-handed.’
I blushed.
‘It’s not that. He’s the only one of them who is any use to you, he’s good with the crossbow and he wants to do his share of the work here. He says he can ride.’
‘Very well. He can ride Octavian.’
I was about to protest, then thought the better of it. Octavian was my father’s warhorse, a black, headstrong stallion with an iron mouth. Most of our knights refused to ride him, and they had two arms. My father was testing Francois, it seemed to me, and there was no sensible way to stop it.
Three days later Francois met me at the main gate.
‘Raimond Roger’s given me escort duties today, put me on the roster. He says I can ride his horse.’
He looked pleased at the double privilege. I didn’t tell him that only my father dared to ride Octavian, who was fresh, strong and hadn’t been properly exercised for a month.
Our stables are down in the valley, next to the village. Mules and goats are the only animals that can make the climb up to the cas
tle. We talked as we descended the path; he told me about Avignonet and the long siege of Roqueville.
‘They cut off our water. And then we were betrayed. They will try to do the same to Montségur this summer.’
‘We are all loyal Cathars here. And our cisterns are full, they go deep down into the mountain. My father says we have water for eighteen months, even if it never rains.’
We’d reached the bottom of the mountain. I took his hand and turned him to look up at the mountain. The slope was so steep that only the zigzag of the path made it possible to climb up to our walls.
Francois looked at the mountain for a long time, still holding my hand.
‘You’re right. They’ll need crusader goats.’
We reached the stables, and the stable boy brought out Marie, my grey mare.
‘She’s very pretty,’ said Francois. ‘A good match for you.’
This was the first compliment he had ever paid me; I thought Guillemette’s spell was beginning to work. Then Octavian was led out from his stable, snorting, pawing the ground, turning his head to try and bite the stable boy. I felt suddenly afraid for Francois, and in need of another spell.
‘He’s a handful,’ said the boy, looking doubtfully at Francois’s single arm. ‘I can’t stay on him. There’s a mounting block in the corner.’
‘No need. Just hold his head.’
Francois walked up to Octavian, patted him twice, put his only hand on the reins and vaulted into the saddle. This surprised the horse, the stable boy and me. Octavian bucked twice as he felt his rider’s weight, but Francois barely moved in the saddle. My father seemed at one with a horse the moment he was mounted, made it clear he was in charge and wasn’t frightened, gave the horse his own confidence. And Francois was the same.
We trotted out of the yard, Francois unaware of my secret pleasure and, I had to admit, relief. I looked back at the stable boy. He hadn’t moved, his mouth still open.
We began the morning with a good gallop, Octavian outstripping my mare Marie very quickly. When we reached the end of the meadow I said, ‘I hadn’t realised it was a race. I thought you were my escort.’
Francois laughed.
‘I was never far away. I’ll always stay within range,’ and he patted the crossbow slung over his shoulder. ‘Octavian needs a good gallop. If you stay here I’ll take him across the meadow again.’ He set off without waiting for a reply.
He shared my pleasure in the valley and the spring as we rode that first morning. We stopped in a little clearing for our lunch of bread and cheese and wine. A roebuck appeared; Francois immediately unslung his crossbow and began to cock it. When I said, ‘Please,’ and put a hand on his arm, he stopped at once, and we watched together as the buck trotted away, paused to look back at us on the edge of the wood, then disappeared.
If my father was surprised that someone else was able to handle Octavian he gave no sign. So every five days Francois and I rode out together, which gave him every opportunity to – I didn’t quite know what – pursue his suit, I suppose. But nothing happened, other than the riding and friendly conversation.
I asked Guillemette what I should expect.
‘He’s still only a boy,’ she said. ‘Probably never known a woman. You’ll have to show him what to do.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ll tell you.’ And she did, in great, and at first embarrassing, detail. I listened carefully, asked a lot of questions, and didn’t sleep that night, thinking about Francois and me doing together what Guillemette had described.
‘You’ll have to pick your moment,’ Guillemette had said at the end of our conversation. The next time we went riding together it drizzled all morning, we and our horses were wet and uncomfortable, and nothing happened. I had to wait another five days.
The next time we rode out together was a perfect spring morning. There had been a slight frost the night before, and we waited until the sun burned off the mist that hung over the valley. As usual Francois was on Octavian, who no longer thought it worthwhile to buck. Francois had been riding him regularly even when he wasn’t my escort.
‘He’s been well schooled by your father,’ he said. ‘Capriole, courbette, levade, all the battlefield movements.’
‘Show me,’ I said, and when we were out in the field he put Octavian through his paces. I’d never seen these movements before, and thought them beautiful but useless; in the capriole Francois had Octavian leap in the air and strike out with his hind legs. I kept well clear.
We rode for two hours, then stopped at the end of a long meadow covered in butterwort and the occasional purple orchis. There were white irises by the river. We dismounted and sat side by side, our backs against a mossy bank, the perfect opportunity, I thought, to put into practice Guillemette’s advice. I put my hand on his knee, and he covered it with his own, turned towards me, then suddenly jumped to his feet.
‘Get on your horse. Quickly,’ he said, and as I, angry and disappointed, stayed where I was, continued in a stronger voice, ‘Look down the meadow.’
I mounted Marie quickly; I could see what had alarmed Francois: three horsemen trotting towards us. They broke into a canter.
‘We’ve been seen, and we’ll not outrun them.’
By now Francois was on his horse, crossbow cocked; he had half a dozen bolts in the quiver strapped to his saddle. ‘Stay beside me until they are close, then gallop back to the stables as fast as you can when I give the word.’
When the little group were twenty yards away they stopped and drew their swords. They were all three in chain mail, bearded, dirty. I heard one of them laugh, say something in French about Francois’s single arm.
‘They’ve stolen two of the horses from our stables,’ I said. ‘That’s Destiny, and Magic.’
Francois said nothing and kept Octavian between me and the three men, who were by now riding slowly towards us, the spring sun glinting on their swords. Francois said, ‘Ride now, as fast as you can,’ and I did as he said, kicking Marie straight into a gallop that took them by surprise. As I passed them, crouched low over Marie’s neck, one of the men turned and galloped after me.
I didn’t look back, heard the twang of the crossbow being fired, and though I had twenty yards’ start could hear the hoofbeats behind me getting closer, closer and then alongside me. I turned my head and saw the rider was slumped forward, a crossbow bolt buried in his back. Horse and rider together went on past to the end of the meadow, then the horse pulled up and the rider toppled slowly out of the saddle onto the ground where he lay still.
I was very frightened for myself and for Francois. I looked back and saw Octavian cantering towards us with Francois on his back, a riderless horse on each side. As he reached me I saw he was bleeding from a sword cut to his bad shoulder and I burst into tears.
We both dismounted and I hugged him with joy.
‘I was sure they would kill you.’
‘One of them did his best. Octavian is a real warhorse. He did a perfect capriole when I asked him. That knocked one of them over, horse and rider both. The other man slashed my shoulder, but I killed him before he could get in another cut. They’re all dead now.’
He smiled as he spoke, then sat down suddenly. I bandaged him with a strip torn from my underskirt and we rode back to the stables.
We expected to find the stable boy dead, but he had managed to run up to the castle, and there were half a dozen men, including my father, in the yard when we arrived.
‘Sybille,’ he said, holding me as I dismounted. ‘I was afraid they had taken you.’
I hugged him, said, ‘Francois killed all three of them,’ then turned and saw Francois had fainted.
We carried him up to the castle and dressed his wound properly. It was a deep cut, but clean, and hadn’t reached the bone. We made up a bed in my mother’s sewing room and there he stayed. On the third night I went into the room and into his bed and put into practice what I had learned from Guillemette. ‘It will hurt a little at
the beginning,’ she had said, ‘and then it will be what it will be. That depends on the two of you.’
It did hurt, but not for long; I was careful with Francois’s shoulder, and he was careful with me. As Guillemette had said, what happened afterwards depended on the two of us. We both wanted it to be good, which it was, and then even better on the nights that followed. And days, when my mother was elsewhere in the castle. My mother knew what had happened just by looking at me after our first night together, but said nothing, and allowed Francois to stay in her sewing room until he was fully mended. During the day I sat by his bed sewing; we talked, we laughed, and we made love when we were sure we would not be disturbed.
I knew the top half of Francois’s body well from my first days of nursing him, and discovered the rest of him as we lay in the makeshift bed. ‘They left me alone below the waist,’ he said, and pulled me down on top of him, covering my face with little kisses. He was at first uneasy about his missing eye and arm, but I convinced him that I loved him as he was. That was not difficult: his body was white and smooth and it gave me pleasure stroking and touching him everywhere.
‘I was married to two strong men for fifteen years each,’ Guillemette said. ‘I can tell you what they like.’ She was a good guide.
*
Francois
OUR RIDE COULD easily have ended in disaster. We were dismounted when we saw the marauders, and by the time Sybille, who was angry when I took her hand off my knee, had realised why, it was too late to disappear into the woods. Her grey, Marie, was pretty but slow.
They had swords only, no crossbows or longbows. When they came close I told Sybille to go and she galloped past them down the meadow. One turned to follow and I shot him in the back. I had several nightmares afterwards thinking about what would have happened if I’d missed.
I didn’t miss, but the other two parted and came at me one from each side. I made the mistake of trying to reload my crossbow and control Octavian at the same time. The horse was snorting and pawing the ground; he seemed to sense what was going on. I failed to reload and was slow to draw my sword. It was Octavian’s capriole that saved me; he did a massive leap, struck out with his hind legs and bowled over one of the marauders, horse and rider both. The other struck me in my right shoulder, but I was on the stronger, bigger horse and a simple parry and thrust did for him. I reloaded and killed the third man as he tried to remount.
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