Cathar

by Christopher Bland

  ‘How did he finish up in Galicia?’

  ‘Through miracle after miracle. His body was placed in a stone boat that was later washed up, through the grace of God, on the Galician shore.’

  ‘A miraculous story,’ I said; I did not speak cynically. The friar believed every word, and there seemed little harm in such simple faith.

  ‘And then he reappeared at the Battle of Clavijo and helped to expel the Moors. So he is also known as Matamoros, the Moor-slayer.’

  ‘I didn’t think saints and martyrs went to war.’

  ‘Only when they have to, only when the True Faith is threatened.’

  Brother Simon detected a note of disapproval in my voice, as well he might. I had lost an eye, an arm and many friends at the hands of defenders of the Faith. We changed the subject to less controversial matters and, like all pilgrims, talked about the next meal and the state of our feet. Simon was suffering from terrible blisters and badly fitting boots that were rubbing his heels raw; two days later I gave him the money for a better pair of boots, which made him see me in a less censorious and more friendly light.

  Most of us rose early and walked before the sun was high, resting at midday and completing our journey in the late afternoon and evening. The refuges varied; sometimes in the bigger places there was supper to be had in the refectory. A lively business in relics, indulgences, food, wine and clothing had grown up along the route.

  There was almost always a service in the evening, and again in the morning before the majority of the walkers set out. I normally attended, partly because I did not want to draw attention to myself, partly because it was part of the pilgrimage routine to which I was now committed.

  I had been on my journey for two weeks, and the Pyrenees and the pass at Roncesvalles, where Charlemagne fought and Roland died, were in plain view, when my journey took on an entirely different complexion.

  I was joined by Blanche.

  She arrived on a grey mare, leading a sturdy gelding; she was matter-of-fact about her decision, ignoring my surprise and evident delight.

  ‘You were right about the need to break free. I had to walk for three days before it felt safe to buy a horse. I wanted Mathieu to think I had gone to Barraigne. I hope you like the horse I picked out for you.’

  ‘I do. He looks well up to my weight.’

  It seemed at once extraordinary and natural that she should arrive in this way. We rode together, not talking, for the rest of the afternoon. That evening we ate bread and smoked fish that Blanche had brought with her, and over that supper she made her position clear.

  ‘You said you wanted a companion, and that is what I will be. Not your mistress.’

  I protested that I had no such thoughts – I was deceiving myself, though not Blanche.

  ‘There seemed no point in replacing one set of bonds with another, even if you had wanted a woman as old as I am as your lover. I’m glad that’s not the case. And I wish to become a Perfect again.’

  Thereafter I had Blanche as a companion; and the dormitories that we slept in were not designed for sex. I had more than the occasional pang of desire for her, but the fatigue we both felt after a day in the saddle was a useful dampener on such feelings. She became an older sister, a friend, as opposed to the idealised object of Etienne’s and my courtly love at Roqueville. I had wanted her then, of course, and again in Carcassonne, but less and less as we rode together.

  Blanche was the best of companions. She had a keen eye for the flowers, birds and animals along our route, and would stop to point out a rare orchis in the grass or an abandoned hawk’s nest in the woods that from time to time flanked our route.

  She had a keen eye, too, for the foibles of our fellow pilgrims, including the friar, who produced his version of the St James legend for her.

  ‘I’ve never heard such nonsense. Stone boat indeed.’

  ‘So why are we going if we don’t believe in St James?’

  ‘You’re going because you have to, because you don’t want to burn. I’m escaping a life that was leading nowhere.’

  ‘Is that all?’ I asked. The disappointment in my voice was obvious.

  ‘Of course it’s not all. You are my old friend, a good companion, and I love sharing the journey with you. We both may find something we need along the way. I just don’t expect three hundred years’ remission from Purgatory and forgiveness for all my sins thanks to touching St James’s bones.’

  On our journey she asked me to tell her about Sybille, and I told her everything, including the passion we had felt for each other. I said I still found it impossible – I broke down at this point – to understand how she could suddenly run away from me and towards a certain and agonising death.

  ‘Can you explain that? You are, you were, a Perfect.’

  ‘She loved you. You have no need to doubt that. She also loved her mother, loved God.’ Blanche reached across and held my hand in hers for a moment, and we rode on in silence.

  The next day I asked her about the Inquisitor, about how he had forced himself upon her.

  ‘It was the only way I could be sure of seeing Stephanie again,’ she said. ‘And women’s bodies aren’t as important as men think.’

  ‘He raped you.’

  ‘Not really. It was as though I had become a prostitute at that moment, not for money but for my daughter. Gradually it changed. Mathieu needed me, not just my body; he’d never known a woman in any sense before, apart from the women of the street when he was a student in Paris a long time ago. I was entirely dependent on him. There seemed no point in not making the best of it. So I did.’

  ‘Even…?’

  ‘Even that. I had been celibate for a long time. You think of him as the Inquisitor, cruel, a torturer by proxy, and he is all of these things. He felt he should do anything to preserve the Catholic Church, and those terrible acts were sanctioned by the Pope. He believed in the cause, however mistakenly. There is more to him than the side the Cathars have seen. At heart he’s a scholar. He would have been a happier man if they’d left him in his abbey at Flaran with his books.’

  And so would I, I thought, but kept the words to myself.

  Blanche worried that the Inquisitor – I never felt able to think of him as Mathieu – would pursue her and force her to return.

  ‘He’ll believe I have gone to Barraigne and do nothing for a week, then send a messenger there and discover… discover where I haven’t gone. He’ll work it out for himself in the end. We’ve passed enough returning pilgrims, and one or two will have noticed us. There aren’t that many of us on horseback, and you are…’ she smiled and patted my stump as she spoke, ‘… particularly distinctive.’

  She was always on the alert for trouble, for strangers arriving after us in the refuges or catching us up during the day. She was a light sleeper; we were usually on adjacent beds and I would hear her tossing and turning during the night, sometimes crying out.

  Once through the pass of Roncesvalles and into the Basque country Blanche relaxed. She continued to take pleasure in our journey, once spotting a hare lolloping away from us across a meadow and seeing the form it had just left, in which there was a single leveret.

  ‘He can’t be more than a day old. Look, his fur still seems damp.’

  I asked her how she could reconcile this joy with the Cathar view, something I never fully accepted, that all this world is the work of the Devil.

  She laughed. ‘I find that hard too. Authie used to explain it to me. I would grasp the argument for half an hour, then forget. I’m happy to think that not everything we see and experience is the Devil’s work, although there is enough, as you know, to blame him for. But that’s not good Cathar dogma.’

  It had been cold as we climbed up the pass, and there were many traces of snow on the peaks. On the other side it was warmer and we made good progress. Our horses were able to travel twenty to thirty miles a day, twice as far as I had managed on my own. There was always forage for the horses at the refuges, and they remain
ed sound, although we had to pause for three days to allow my gelding to recover from a badly bruised foot.

  As it turned out, that was a fatal delay, and Blanche was wrong to believe we were safe in the Basque country. Her Inquisitor had a long and determined arm.

  We were eating in the refectory at Jaca when four burly monks in Dominican habits came through the door. They didn’t sit down but stood scanning the room. Blanche pulled her hood closer around her face and looked down; I stared at them for a moment too long.

  ‘That’s him, the one-eyed man,’ said their leader. ‘The woman’s beside him.’ I recognised him; he was the man who had put out my eye at Roqueville.

  They came over to us, pulled us to our feet and began to march us out of the room. I struggled, but eight arms against one was an uneven contest, and a knee in the groin silenced me for a few minutes.

  ‘These men are robbers, not men of God,’ said Blanche. ‘They are kidnapping us.’ One of the monks put a hand over her mouth, which she bit hard, and was slapped twice for her bravery. None of the other pilgrims raised a finger to help us, save Brother Simon, who had caught up with us that day.

  ‘What are you doing? We are all pilgrims here; this is a peaceful place,’ he said, until a blow from one of the monks brought silence. He was a brave man; I had underestimated him.

  Outside they had their horses. ‘We are to take you back to Carcassonne for sentencing,’ the leader said to Blanche.

  She looked distressed but calm, turned to me and said, ‘I’ll go; I was afraid he wouldn’t let me escape.’

  The two men holding me started to lead me away from Blanche towards the stables; one of them drew his sword. It was clear they planned to kill me, until Blanche broke free, ran to me and held me in a tight embrace.

  ‘Haven’t you done enough to him? Look at your handiwork. If you want to kill him you’ll have to kill me first.’

  By now the refectory had emptied and the other pilgrims were watching from the door. The friar had recovered from his blow and a little group began to form at his urging. They were armed only with their staves, but outnumbered the monks three to one. The leader of the monks looked at them for a moment, then said, ‘He was only to die if he resisted. We’ll take his horse and let him go.’

  I looked hard at him as he spoke, noting for the second time every line and wrinkle in his face. He was plumper than I remembered. ‘You’ve grown fat since Roqueville,’ I said. ‘Fat on what you stole. One day we’ll meet on equal terms. And then I’ll kill you.’

  He looked angry for a moment. He didn’t like my words. Then he laughed. ‘We’ll never be on equal terms; you’re missing an eye and an arm. Lucky for you I haven’t the time to finish the job.’

  Blanche held on to me for a moment, then was prised loose, taken to her mare and they were gone.

  Once more I was on foot and alone. I had no means of following them, and even if I had caught up with the kidnappers it is difficult to see what I could have done. I stood there listening to the hoofbeats growing fainter, then went into the dormitory; the friar put his arm around my shoulder for a moment when I thanked him, but the other pilgrims, perhaps alarmed at the possible consequences of their momentary bravery, gave me a wide berth.

  I tried to sleep and failed; I persuaded myself that Blanche would not be condemned. The Inquisitor’s affection for her would outweigh his rage at her attempt to escape. He would try to get her to resume their old relationship. Unless he thought that Blanche and I had become lovers, but she had truth on her side to buttress her natural persuasiveness. He would no longer bother with me.

  I thought about abandoning my pilgrimage and of returning to Carcassonne, but I would certainly have been rearrested and given a harsher sentence, probably the fire. There was no sensible way of rescuing Blanche; she would be more likely to deal with the Inquisitor without any assistance from me, whatever feeble form that might take. And for what would I be rescuing her? Not a life with me, that was clear, and her daughter and Etienne had disowned her. I felt sorrow and anger at what had happened to both of us, coupled with a realistic recognition that there was nothing sensible I could do.

  We had moved on to a little village called Villa de Lobo when the monks found us. But it was unlikely that a one-armed, one-eyed knight without a horse (the monks had made off with my gelding) and with a strong taint of heresy would be welcomed there for very long. So I decided to continue to Compostela.

  The next morning I again thanked the friar, who had done his best to protect the two of us, and indeed had saved me from a severe beating and perhaps death. I told him the story of Blanche and the Inquisitor and of Montségur and Sybille as we walked along. We were the same height, and although he was perhaps ten years older than me he was lean and energetic, so we were well matched.

  ‘That’s typical of the Dominicans,’ he said. ‘They believe they can do what they like, where they like.’

  ‘I thought you were all the same.’

  This was ignorant and tactless. Brother Simon explained that he was a Franciscan, sworn to poverty, chastity and obedience to the Rule of St Francis.

  ‘You could be a Perfect, Cathar, if that’s what you believe.’

  ‘I could not. I also believe in the supremacy of the Pope, in the doctrine of the Catholic Church, the True Faith as expounded by our founder Francis of Assisi, may he rest in peace. And we don’t believe in the equal and opposite powers of good and evil, or that this world and all that is in it was created by the Devil. And nor should you.’

  ‘I’m now a Catholic,’ I said. ‘Although the threat of fire had something to do with my conversion. I’m on my way to Compostela to atone for my heretical past. Why are you on this journey? Not as a punishment, surely?’

  Brother Simon laughed. ‘For me this is a pilgrimage of joy. I’ve always loved the story of St James, and received special permission to make this journey, provided I preached along the way.’

  ‘How do you pay for food and lodgings if you’re sworn to absolute poverty?’

  ‘Through the generosity of those I meet and preach to along the way, and from fellow pilgrims. Your friend Lady Blanche gave me some money, enough to get me to Compostela, you gave me new boots, and the Lord will provide for my return.’

  I told him I would be able to help again, and he seemed pleased. We walked along together, mainly in silence, although he extracted my life story from me. He understood my continuing anguish over the loss of Sybille, and accepted that there was no consolation he could offer.

  ‘I’ve never known what it is to love and be loved by a woman,’ he said. ‘But I can see how glorious it must be, and how terrible to have it destroyed.’

  ‘Do you believe in the fire?’

  There was a pause, and then he replied, ‘I believe in the Rule of St Francis. There is no mention of torture or hanging or fire in the Rule.’

  I was happy with that reply, and we walked on in silence for the next two hours. Our days continued in the same way, although by the time we were fifty miles away from Compostela Brother Simon had attracted a small following through his preaching, which usually took place after supper in the pilgrims’ lodgings.

  He was a good and convincing preacher, even though his French wasn’t very strong, as he was born in Italy, near Urbino, and spoke with the heavy accent of northern France. He had spent the last ten years in a Franciscan house in Lyon. Like me he had little Spanish. In spite of this eight or nine fellow pilgrims attached themselves to Brother Simon, who told the story of St James so vividly that even I wanted to believe in its essential truth.

  There was, of course, the added security of being in a small group. The hilly countryside in Navarre and Castile was poor, and there were stories of pilgrims being attacked and robbed, although our little band was left alone. Simon had learned by rote most of a Pilgrim’s Guide called the Codex Calixtinus, and was able to warn us which villages to avoid and which rivers, a surprising number, were unfit to drink from. The Navarrese, he sa
id, reciting the words he had learned so well, are ‘malignant, ugly of face, debauched, perverse, faithless, corrupt, lustful, drunken, skilled in all forms of violence…’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘All of them. And they hate the French.’

  ‘I’m from the Languedoc. I’ll look after you.’

  Nevertheless, we passed safely if speedily through Navarre, although Simon continued to make little detours to the shrines of saints on our way. At Sahagùn it was the blessed martyrs Facundus and Primitivus. On the banks of the river some of the lances of the Frankish knights miraculously took root and put out leaves before one of Charlemagne’s battles, the knights receiving in advance the palms of martyrdom. I did not point out that those leafy lances would have been useless the following day, content to admire the fine poplars along the river bank that Simon believed were proof of his story. And in León we had to visit and venerate the remains of the Blessed Isidore, who Simon said had ‘adorned the Holy Church with his fruitful writings’. I had never heard of Isidore, nor have I since.

  Not all the members of our group were as devout as Simon. One, a merchant from Paris, made sure he ate as well as the little villages and towns we passed through could provide. When we were in Rabanal he discovered a house of ill repute, and urged me to join him. I was annoyed he had picked me out as a fellow sinner, and said so.

  ‘I thought this was a holy journey. Going with a prostitute isn’t right.’

  He laughed. ‘You’ve missed the point. When we reach Compostela we receive absolution for all our sins, and I’ve plenty of those, I can tell you. One last night of pleasure down the road will be wiped out along with the rest of my transgressions when I kiss the foot of St James. Come along; they won’t mind that you’ve only one arm and one eye so long as you can pay.’

  I declined. Even when Blanche was my close companion I had felt only the occasional flash of desire, and once she had been taken away I found it easy to be as celibate as Brother Simon.