Soon after her return Beatrice’s steward came to see me, set out his view of the position and asked for payment.
‘Arnaud never paid you. Why should I?’
He looked unhappy.
‘We don’t expect you to pay Arnaud’s arrears. You have the protection of the castle. And it isn’t a big sum, you needn’t pay in coin.’
‘And if I refuse?’
He looked even less happy.
‘Then, then…’ he thought for a moment, ‘… then we’ll take you before Bernard Clergue.’
That appealed to neither of us, and to his evident relief I agreed to pay. We agreed a price of one livre Tournois, a ewe and two cheeses.
I arrived at a castle in need of repair and of mine and others’ feudal dues. It consisted of a long courtyard with a substantial keep at one end. Along both sides of the courtyard were buildings, some in stone, some ramshackle. Everything was on a much smaller scale than Montségur or Roqueville, more the size of Beaufort.
There was a pigeonnier in the north corner, but no pigeons that I could see. Half a dozen elderly retainers were sitting in the courtyard, two women spinning or carding wool, four men dozing happily in the sun. A few chickens scratched a living from the courtyard grass, and there was a sow and some piglets in a pen just by the entrance.
‘The protection of the castle’ mentioned by the steward seemed not worth a sou, never mind a livre Tournois. I was directed to the steward’s quarters in one of the better stone buildings, where he took my money and my cheese gratefully.
‘Now that you’ve paid I’ll find it easier to persuade the rest.’
‘I hope I had an abatement for being the first. Taste the cheese.’
He cut off a generous slice which we shared. It was hard, but not rock-hard, didn’t crumble, and had a salty, creamy taste that made it stand out from all the other cheese in the valley. Arnaud had always used more milk than the other shepherds in the making of each cheese, let them ferment longer and never sold a cheese less than a year old.
‘It’s the best in the valley,’ I told the steward, and his mouth was too full to disagree. When he had finished (I was glad to see he picked the crumbs off his jerkin and ate those too) he said, ‘Lady Beatrice will wish to thank you.’
He escorted me across the courtyard – I noticed the dozing retainers didn’t stir – and we climbed a winding, worn stone staircase to the first floor. Walking down the passage we could hear the sound of a sweet, true voice singing one of the best-known troubadours’ songs, one I knew well, composed in honour of Blanche de Roqueville. As we entered the singing stopped, and I completed the last two lines:
‘In you lie all my happiness, all my desire,
I cannot find another one as fair.’
I have been told I have a decent voice. Beatrice looked surprised for a moment, then said as I bowed, ‘Of course. You were at Roqueville before Montségur.’
‘And Beaufort before that, my lady. I’ve been chased from castle to castle by the crusaders.’
‘I hope they won’t follow you to Montaillou.’
‘I’ve completed the pilgrimage to Compostela and I have a certificate to prove it. Absolves me from all my past sins. Pierre Bernard Clergue has it for safe keeping.’
‘Safe keeping? He probably regards it as surety for good behaviour. Or else he’ll change the name on the document to his own. My steward tells me you have agreed to pay your dues.’
‘He has, my lady. One livre Tournois, a carrying ewe and two cheeses.’
The steward had brought a generous slice of my cheese which he offered to Beatrice. She broke off a piece, tasted it with caution, then greedily and quickly ate the rest, licking her fingers when she had finished.
‘Good. Who made the cheese?’
‘I did, using Arnaud’s methods. It’s still the best in the valley.’
‘They make good cheese in Laroque.’
‘Mine is better. And I’ve brought you these in settlement of past dues.’
I unwrapped the bundle under my arm from its cloth covering and spread two wolf skins out on the floor. They were my finest skins, cured so well that they smelled only of herbs and oil. The fur, silver and grey and black, was thick and soft. I had even stitched up the holes made by my crossbow bolts.
Beatrice looked pleased, rose from her chair, picked up one of the skins and pressed it to her cheek.
‘I’ve never seen or held a wolf skin. Much softer than I expected. Shepherding, cheese-making, skin-curing, you’re resourceful for a former knight. And you have a good voice. Visit me again and we’ll sing together.’
She held out her hand in dismissal. I took her hand, bowed over it and left the chamber with the steward. It was clear that I had made a good, if different, impression at our second meeting, and I found that exciting, although the dangers were obvious. Still, I thought, Pierre Clergue is in Carcassonne and may never return.
Less than a week later I sang my way into Beatrice’s bed. Her steward called on me again, inviting me to a feast the following day, a feast to celebrate St Someone or Other. He mumbled the name, and, anyway, Cathars don’t believe in saints. Martyrs we have in abundance.
The feast was in the Great Hall. The sentry was asleep and I had to kick chickens out of the way as I crossed the courtyard, but the Great Hall, decked out for the feast, was in marked contrast to the rest of the castle. It was early evening, but the room was well lit with rushlights, dozens of candles on the table, a blazing fire. There was a splendid tapestry on each of the long walls; I recognised Diana and Actaeon in one, and the other was a myth I didn’t know. Zeus in a shower of gold coming to Danae, Beatrice later explained. The colours were bright, and although the room was smaller than the hall at Roqueville the overall impression was far richer than you would have imagined from the courtyard, richer than our very occasional display at Beaufort. There was enough silver on the table to make a dazzling display.
‘If you bury a rich husband you are likely to have enough silver for one castle, although not for two. I didn’t leave much behind for my stepson,’ Beatrice said as we moved to the table. ‘You are looking at the de Planissoles silver and the silver I inherited from my mother, all in honour of St Eustacius.’
‘Who was he?’
‘Ask my steward. He knows about such things.’
I thought there was enough on display to deserve better guarding than a sleeping sentry. The silver would become common knowledge through the valley within days.
Beatrice sat in a throne-like chair at the head of the table, her steward on her left hand. To my surprise and Bernard Clergue’s annoyance I was placed on Beatrice’s right. She had decided that I was not only more than a shepherd, but deserving of promotion, calling me the Comte de Beaufort all evening, in spite of my explanation that I was only a knight, and a landless one at that.
The other guests were an assortment of Clergue cousins, Belots, three of Beatrice’s elderly retainers, a knight on his way to Carcassonne, and Guillaume Authie. Authie was silent throughout the meal and tried not to draw attention to the fact that he was served with fish. The rest of us feasted on pork, venison and mutton and drank our local red wine, of which there was a plentiful supply.
After dinner a troubadour entertained us. He had composed a flattering but disappointing song in honour of the Lady of Montaillou, which pleased Beatrice in spite of its trite words and uneven rhythm. Later we all sang the best-known songs, the knight recited a long poem about the Battle of Roncesvalles and then fell asleep, and we finished with local ballads, none of which I had heard before, but were funny and frequently bawdy. I noticed Authie had left the room at this stage; I learned later he had gone to administer the Consolamentum to Mengarde Maurs, who had been ill for many weeks.
Then Beatrice, ignoring the troubadour, asked me to sing, with her, the song to Blanche de Roqueville that I knew so well. I had been careful not to drink too much wine and so my voice was true, as was hers. Then she rose, her guests took thei
r leave and as I moved to follow them she put her hand on my arm.
‘Let me show you how well your wolf skins look in my chamber,’ she said, taking a candlestick from the table and leading me up to the room where I had visited her the week before. There was a wide bed in an alcove; a small fire lit the room, and the wolf skins were red and silver in the firelight. Beatrice slipped out of her clothes as I watched, then lay back on the bed as I undressed and joined her.
That was the first of many nights with Beatrice. She was unashamed about sex and proud of her body. She was intrigued by mine, by my scars, and took a strange pleasure in being touched by my all but vanished right arm.
She had slept with her husband, with Clergue and perhaps with others; at any rate she was in charge when we made love. That suited me well. Apart from some mechanical couplings with whores as I crossed Spain, I had known only Sybille, who was as innocent as I was. So I was happy to follow her adventurous and exciting suggestions. I left the castle at dawn, passing a different sentry whom I had to wake to get the drawbridge lowered, went to my own house and slept till noon.
At the beginning I felt I was simply filling a vacancy caused by Pierre Clergue’s absence in Carcassonne. Beatrice would send for me once or twice a week and we would make love, or, rather, couple, in her chamber. Sometimes she would arrange our meetings so that we could eat afterwards. The meal was not much more elaborate than the bread and cheese I ate in the mountains.
It was then that we talked. She wanted to know about Beaufort, Roqueville and Montségur, and about my journey to Compostela. She was intrigued by my relationship with Blanche.
‘You lay beside her for six weeks and didn’t sleep with her?’
‘The rooms were crowded and we were all on pilgrimage.’
‘Was she still beautiful?’
‘She was.’
‘Yet she slept with the Inquisitor, not with you.’
‘That was a bargain she had made, not one that made me happy. Had it been you beside me…’ and I showed her how it would have been.
I asked her about Pierre Clergue.
‘The first time he forced himself on me, here in this room. I could have cried for help, but part of me wanted it to happen. Otherwise I wouldn’t have allowed him in my chamber.’
‘And afterwards?’
‘He’s not like you. He smells of the farmyard, he’s rough, he talks only when he has to. He’s used to getting his way with women. He takes as long as he needs to get his own pleasure, and I have to hurry to keep up. You’re slower, more gentle. You talk before and after we make love.’
‘Which is better?’
‘Both are better,’ and she laughed. ‘Why should I choose?’
‘He is a priest.’
‘That’s part of the attraction. Once we made love…’ and she put her hand over her mouth.
‘… behind the altar in the church,’ I said.
‘How do you know that?’
‘In time everyone knows everything in Montaillou. Whoever saw you there says Pierre was angry, shouted, “You bastard, you have interrupted an act of Holy Church.”’
Beatrice found it hard to stop laughing. ‘It’s true, it’s true, all of it. That’s why I like Pierre. He is without shame.’
She took a long drink of wine, drummed her fingers on the table, then continued, ‘He’s shameless, and also dangerous. He’s been several weeks in Carcassonne. He’d betray any of us to save his own skin. If the Inquisitors have got hold of him, and I was a member of the Maurs family, I would leave for Spain at once.’
‘Why does he hate them?’
‘Some insult long ago that everyone has forgotten. Except Pierre.’
‘Are you safe?’
Beatrice looked out of the window.
‘I’m safe. I still have friends in high places. You, on the other hand…’ She did not finish the sentence.
It was a mild autumn, and although my sheep had been down in the valley for several weeks it was still warm enough to ride up in the foothills. Beatrice owned the only horses in Montaillou, and lent me a big gelding so we could ride together from time to time.
‘The gelding’s too strong for me,’ she said.
‘I’m good with horses. I made my living buying and selling them as I crossed Spain.’
‘But you’ve only…’
‘… one arm. I know. But the legs matter more. And he’s been cut, he’s not a stallion.’ I told her the story of Octavian and his life-saving capriole.
‘What happened to Octavian?’
‘We ate all the horses.’
We rode up to my meadow, her meadow, and I showed her the sheepfold, the place where I and young Belot had buried Arnaud, and the little tree platforms where I waited for wolves. We tethered the horses outside my cabin, went inside.
‘It must be cold in the winter. But it’s warm enough now.’
‘Warm enough for what?’
‘For this,’ and she pulled me over to the bed of pine branches.
Afterwards she insisted on trying my latrine.
‘It’s a clever design,’ she said as she pulled up her undergarments and skirt. ‘Better than squatting.’
I was glad I had covered my summer leavings with a thick layer of earth.
Back in Montaillou I discovered that Bernard Clergue had been looking for me. The messenger who brought me the summons was one of Pierre Clergue’s enforcers, a man I had worked alongside for two years.
‘What does he want?’
He rolled his eyes and didn’t answer. It was never likely to be good if either Pierre or Bernard sent for you, and my first reaction was that he was about to punish me for usurping his brother’s place in Beatrice’s bed.
I went to see him as soon as we had dried, fed and watered the horses. Beatrice was also uneasy.
‘You’ve done nothing wrong, nothing to challenge their authority,’ she said, then added, ‘as far as I know. You’re in the mountains half the year.’
‘Becoming your lover in Pierre’s absence might count as a challenge. But it would be difficult to frame a charge around that.’
‘I’m sure Bernard could think of something.’
Bernard’s office was separate from his house. I met him in a large room that also served as the court where he dispensed his summary justice. The village jail and the armoury were on the ground floor. I noticed he had framed his authority from the Comte de Foix and hung it on the wall behind his chair.
He asked me to sit and there was no one else in the room, both encouraging signs. And as it was early evening he offered me some bread and cheese. The Clergue cheese was famously bad, but I complimented him on it anyway.
‘It’s my brother, it’s Pierre,’ said Bernard. ‘They’ve imprisoned him in Carcassonne for holding back some of the tithes.’
‘And did he?’
Bernard looked indignant. ‘Only the twenty per cent due to him as priest and collector.’
‘I thought…’ but I was sensible enough not to continue. Twelve per cent was the most that could be deducted.
‘They’ve fined him twenty thousand sous.’
‘Can you pay?’
‘We can,’ Bernard said, trying to suppress a look of satisfaction. ‘We can. I want you to take the money to Carcassonne and make sure he is released.’
‘Why don’t you go?’
‘I’ve never been to Carcassonne. Neither has anyone else in Montaillou except Lady Beatrice. And I trust you.’
That came as a surprise, but was only a measure of how far he distrusted everyone else in the village. I had been careful not to cross either brother, at least until I slept with Beatrice, and that piece of recent gossip may not have reached Bernard’s ears. Or perhaps he knew and didn’t care.
‘I’ll think about it and come back in the morning. I’ll need my Compostela certificate, which you have for safe keeping.’
‘I’m not sure I know exactly where it is,’ said Bernard, lying out of instinct.
‘I don’t go without it. I’d wind up alongside Pierre if I had no proof I’d done my penance.’
I went straight from Bernard to Beatrice.
‘Will you go?’ she asked. ‘Perhaps Montaillou is better off without him.’
That surprised me, but she didn’t mean it.
‘I don’t like Pierre Clergue,’ I said, ‘but I don’t like the idea of him in a Carcassonne jail. If the Inquisition take an interest in Pierre’s conduct of his priestly duties he’ll betray any of us, you included, to save his own skin.’
‘You can borrow the gelding.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You can thank me now,’ and Beatrice, never one to miss an opportunity, led me over to the alcove and the wolf skins.
I told Bernard the next morning I would carry out his errand, and set out my conditions.
‘Two livres Tournois for my trouble and expenses. One of Pierre’s men as escort; there’s a lot of money involved. And my certificate, which I don’t plan to return.’
Bernard accepted at once, gave me my certificate, which had, mysteriously, turned up overnight, and suggested Pons as my escort.
‘Pons can have our strongest mule. He should be able to keep up with your gelding. Come back this evening and I’ll have the money ready.’
‘Don’t tell Pons about the money. He’d cut my throat and make off with the cash if he knew how much I was carrying. Tell him I need an escort because… you come up with a good reason that isn’t twenty thousand sous.’
The journey was uneventful. Pons was a man of few words, and I slept in my cloak, my hand on my dagger, in the two little inns where we broke our journey. When we reached Carcassonne I found a decent inn with good stabling and sent Pons back to Montaillou, keeping the mule.
‘I need it for Pierre’s return journey.’
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