Cathar

by Christopher Bland

  I saw Baruch the following evening in his book room and presented him with a full wineskin from Barraigne. He was delighted. ‘It’s in short supply in the market, it sells out as soon as your friend sets up his stall. I’d cheerfully buy half a dozen hogsheads if I could. As it is, you and I drank my last drop a week ago. We should try this crop now.’

  We did, and Baruch pronounced it excellent. I knew better than to hurry him. He began by saying, ‘I understand they are going to press for a harsh sentence, make an example of her.’

  I felt sick. ‘She’ll be sent to the stake?’

  ‘No. Perhaps ten years in The Wall. But we know that is a living death for someone like Beatrice.’

  ‘What about the documents I brought you?’

  ‘I read them all. Very interesting, very interesting. They show how the de Planissoles estates were assembled through marriage, purchase, forfeiture and conquest over the last hundred years. Almost all useless for our purposes.’

  ‘Useless?’

  ‘There are two that are promising: one with a missing seal; one, the most recent deed, completely intact.’

  ‘What does it say that might be helpful?’

  ‘I’m not going to tell you. You’ll tell Beatrice. And I don’t want to raise false hopes in either of you. It is not absolutely clear that the court will hear me. The trial will be held in public, as I told you, and that will make it harder to refuse me. They are still trying to find Sicre, their only living witness, but he seems to have disappeared.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘You must tell Beatrice not to wear her own clothes on the day of the trial. She should look bedraggled, downcast, penitent.’

  I went straight from Baruch’s house to the jail. Beatrice flung herself into my arms and held me tight.

  ‘I expected you yesterday. I thought you had abandoned me.’

  I took a deep breath, then said, and for me it was an important declaration, ‘I will never abandon you.’

  Beatrice looked surprised at the intensity with which I spoke, thought for a moment, then replied, ‘I may abandon you if I’m convicted. What does Baruch say?’

  We sat down on her bed, my hand in hers, while I gave an account of what Baruch had told me, erring on the side of optimism.

  ‘Only one document out of that great pile is useful?’ she said.

  ‘It may be enough. You know Baruch. He likes to be cautious. I didn’t press him.’

  ‘Did he say I might burn?’

  ‘He said you won’t burn.’

  She had begun to shake as she asked the question, and it took a minute or two for my answer to reassure her.

  ‘I’ll kill myself rather than go through years of The Wall.’

  ‘You won’t kill yourself. If you are sentenced to solitary confinement I’ll come and get you out.’

  ‘You’ll get me out?’ she said in a disbelieving voice.

  I had nothing substantive to back up my brave words, but I continued nevertheless.

  ‘This jail is as porous as a sieve. The jailers are bribable, we know that already, elderly, sleepy. I’ll get a group of men-at-arms together from Montaillou and Carcassonne and organise your escape. It’s not impossible, it’s been done before.’

  I had no idea whether my last sentence was true, and while I knew the jailers were corrupt I was unsure whether that extended beyond allowing food and wine to be brought to prisoners awaiting trial.

  Beatrice managed a laugh as she said, ‘My retainers at Montaillou are just as old, just as sleepy. They would find the journey to Carcassonne exhausting, and as for a jailbreak…’

  ‘There are many men-at-arms in Carcassonne who would slit their grandmother’s throat for the right price. Look at me.’ I looked directly into her eyes for a long moment, and said with all the confidence I could summon up, ‘I will get you out of prison.’

  She held my gaze, smiled and we kissed for the third and sweetest time. I broke away, gave her Baruch’s message about wearing her prison smock and left the room, knowing that whatever happened we would not be together in that place again.

  23

  The Trial

  Francois

  I SPENT TWO ANXIOUS days and sleepless nights before the trial planning and replanning Beatrice’s rescue. There seemed to be only the faintest of chances that Baruch, brilliant though he undoubtedly was, would succeed in obtaining an acquittal. It was difficult to see title deeds, whatever their seal, having any impact on the judges. Two of the three judges were also priests, and although Beatrice’s confession might argue for leniency, Pierre Clergue’s deposition, in which by all accounts he named half the women in Montaillou, would have been enough on its own to obtain a conviction. Two of his former mistresses had already received severe sentences. I would have to rescue Beatrice.

  It seemed to me that the best opportunity would be on the way back to the prison from the court, a distance of perhaps a mile. Prisoners were always taken there on foot, guarded by never more than half a dozen men-at-arms.

  I went back to my old haunts outside the walls, where the rough tavern still seemed to be doing good business, and where the drinkers were all former Cathars or disillusioned crusaders, no lovers of the authorities inside the city walls.

  Recruiting such men was not without risk, but they would have only two days in which to turn their coats after taking my money. And I was ready to offer them each 500 sous immediately, 500 sous if they appeared at the agreed rendezvous and a further 500 if the rescue succeeded.

  I spoke to the landlord of the tavern on my first night there, and asked him if he knew any men, preferably former soldiers, who were willing to risk their lives for good money.

  ‘Almost anyone who comes to drink here,’ he said. ‘Those men’, and he pointed to a group of five men drinking around a table in the farthest corner of the tavern, ‘are believed to be responsible for most of the robberies on the road between Carcassonne and Toulouse. They’ve never been caught, and their money is good here.’

  On the second night they were at the same table. I went over to them and stood patiently while they ignored my presence. Then one of them looked up, took in my missing arm and eye, and said in near-friendly tones, ‘I know you. You’re the man from Roqueville.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  I sat down and explained the plan.

  ‘Short swords and daggers. I’ll take the woman and leave you to deal with the guards.’

  ‘You’re going to a lot of trouble and expense over damaged goods,’ he said.

  ‘That’s my business. Do you want the money or not?’

  ‘What if she’s acquitted and there’s no one to rescue?’ said the man who appeared to be their leader.

  ‘I’ll be very happy to make the final payment,’ I replied. He seemed satisfied, looked at his four companions and they each nodded.

  ‘We’ll take the money. But it’s one livre Tournois if it comes to a fight. We won’t be safe in Carcassonne, even out here, for quite a long time.’

  I agreed, paid the deposit and left them.

  *

  IT WAS DRIZZLING on the day of the trial. I walked to the court from the inn, my heart beating faster as I went over the plan. I had four horses waiting in the stable yard for Beatrice and me; I had given the leader of the band of ruffians my sword and dagger when we met as planned at noon. He knew where the ambush was to take place. I told him I would join them the moment a guilty verdict was announced.

  ‘And if she’s not guilty?’

  ‘Meet me back at the inn for the final payment.’

  The courtroom was packed. The three judges dealt with a couple of petty thieves, and then Beatrice was brought in, looking beautiful and vulnerable in her prison shift. The crowd murmured, but I didn’t, perhaps fortunately, hear what they were saying.

  The presiding judge began by noting that the most serious charge, that of harbouring a Perfect, had been dropped owing to the absence of the key witness, on
e Arnaud Sicre. He added that this could be reinstated if Sicre was found. There was only one charge left against the Lady Beatrice de Planissoles, that of fornication with the priest, Pierre Clergue. He asked the clerk to read out Clergue’s evidence.

  It was this that the crowd had come to hear. It was a lengthy deposition, which had been translated into Occitan from the original Latin, describing in considerable detail the number and places of Pierre’s transgressions, not only with Beatrice but also with all his other mistresses in Montaillou. Fortunately for Beatrice he had not confessed to sex behind the Montaillou altar.

  The judges looked appropriately shocked; the crowd, on the other hand, were both unsurprised at this behaviour by a priest and, I suspect, impressed by his voracious sexual appetite. At the end of the recital Beatrice was asked if she had anything to say.

  ‘The first time he forced himself upon me. After that I was willing.’

  Then Baruch stood up. He was sitting at a table opposite the clerk, wearing a long black gown and with a wooden cross hanging from his neck.

  ‘I am Lady Beatrice’s lawyer, and I would like to plead on her behalf.’

  ‘Hear him, hear Baruch the Jew,’ the crowd muttered as the judges conferred.

  ‘There seems little more to be said, but you may say it.’

  ‘With the greatest respect,’ said Baruch, ‘I would like to present this title deed to the court.’

  ‘What bearing can a title deed have on these charges?’

  ‘My client has confessed to the error of her ways and is truly penitent. But this deed confirms that Beatrice de Planissoles not only holds her lands from the King of Aragon, and owes him allegiance, she is his subject, not the subject of the Count of Toulouse or the King of France. This court, with the greatest respect,’ and here Baruch bowed, ‘has no jurisdiction over her. You will note the royal seal of Aragon, Or, Four Pallets Gules. I will, if I may, read the relevant passage.’

  Baruch read slowly and carefully from the deed. It was in Latin, and that was enough to impress the crowd, although they couldn’t understand a word. Baruch later told me that only the presiding judge had Latin good enough to understand the implications of the deed.

  He also understood the importance of maintaining good relations with Aragon. There was a lengthy consultation between the three judges, who then called Baruch to their table, whispered in his ear, and received a nod in return.

  ‘Lady Beatrice is free to go. She must wear the double yellow cross as a sign of her penitence. We will record your agreement on her behalf.’

  The crowd was amused and delighted. The discomfiture of the judges was obvious, and although the crowd would have preferred a burning, they had the prurient pleasure of listening at length and in detail to the misdeeds of Pierre Clergue and a member of the nobility.

  Beatrice looked stunned. I left the courtroom without speaking to her and hurried to the corner where my ruffians were standing, the citizens of Carcassonne giving them a wide berth.

  ‘She’s been acquitted,’ I said, and the look of disappointment on their faces made it clear I had chosen my men well. ‘Here is a livre Tournois for each of you. Celebrate in the tavern tonight; no need to leave Carcassonne.’

  That evening Beatrice and I and Baruch dined happily together, Beatrice still barely able to believe she was free.

  ‘The court was, of course, quite wrong to sentence you to wearing the yellow cross,’ said Baruch. ‘But it seemed a price worth paying, and it saved the judges’ faces.’

  ‘I thought tonight,’ said Beatrice, taking a deep draught of wine, ‘I would be on bread and water. Instead, we are free to return to Montaillou.’

  ‘We leave tomorrow. We don’t want to risk any second thoughts.’ I decided not to describe my rescue plan; the glory rightly belonged to Baruch.

  ‘You must come and visit us in Montaillou,’ said Beatrice. ‘We will have a proper feast in your honour.’

  Baruch looked uncertain. ‘It would take me a week to get there on my mule. I’m happy to celebrate in my own home on the evening of your acquittal.’

  He rose and held up his glass.

  ‘I’d like to propose a toast. To the King of Aragon.’

  ‘To the King of Aragon.’

  24

  The Calm

  Francois

  WE RODE BACK together to Montaillou, taking our time, stopping in small inns twice to break our journey. We rode side by side where the road permitted, singing from time to time and holding hands – my horse was amenable enough to walk on with a loose rein. Beatrice knew the words of all the great troubadour songs and taught me some of them; I hummed, usually in tune, during the rest. In exchange I taught her the words of the least bawdy of the tavern songs, although there was little new to Beatrice in either the language or their sentiments.

  I called it a road, but it was paved for perhaps a mile outside Carcassonne, and then became a track, well used by farmers coming into the Carcassonne market on every second Thursday. Otherwise we saw no one.

  The two inns we stayed in reflected this lack of trade. The beds were lumpy, the blankets coarse, and on the second night we were well bitten by fleas and bedbugs. Both innkeepers needed a little persuading to take us, as they were deterred by the yellow crosses and my missing arm and eye. My careful explanation of the court’s verdict and an inflated sum in advance eventually succeeded. There were no other guests; we ate with the innkeeper and his wife on the first night and alone on the second. The meals were identical, potatoes and gravy and hard black bread. We had our own cheese and a skin of Etienne’s wine, which kept us happy during the day as well as in the evening.

  On the second night we both fell asleep immediately, and the next day I realised that this was the first time Beatrice and I had shared a bed without making love. Neither of us commented on this, and it seemed, to me at least, that our relationship had settled into a less ardent, but arguably more affectionate mode.

  ‘You would think we were eighteen,’ said Beatrice the next morning as I gave her a little bunch of wild flowers.

  ‘I wish we were. I’d have my eye and arm back again.’

  ‘I like you as you are. I loved you from the moment I saw you at the washing pool. And now I can settle for one man in my life, something I never thought possible.’

  ‘As long as I’m that man,’ I said, astonished that she had used the word love for the first time in our relationship. I leaned across and kissed her. I didn’t want to risk asking her to confirm that it wasn’t a slip of her tongue. ‘I’m happy with the way things are between us.’

  Three hours later, when we could see Montaillou and Beatrice’s castle in the valley below us, she asked, ‘What would you have done if I had been sentenced to The Wall?’ shivering as she spoke the last two words.

  ‘I would have set you free,’ and I explained my plan with the band of ruffians I had recruited outside the walls of the city. Beatrice leaned across, took my hand, pressed it and let it go. I could see there were tears in her eyes.

  ‘Would it have worked?’

  ‘You should have seen my ruffians. They were disappointed at your acquittal only because they didn’t have a chance to kill a few dozy prison guards, most of whom they knew well. But we would be heading for Spain by now if it had turned out like that. The courts and the Inquisition would have followed us a long way.’

  As we entered the village the sun came out and turned the walls of the little castle to gold. Beatrice’s flag was flying over the gate, and Andre Belot came out to meet us, smiling broadly as he helped Beatrice to dismount.

  ‘We heard the good news yesterday evening,’ he said. ‘I’ve organised a feast in the Great Hall for tomorrow night. I thought you needed a day to recover from the journey.’

  I was impressed at Andre’s initiative. He had come a long way from the young man who used to deliver provisions to Arnaud and me in the mountains. Then I remembered.

  ‘Arnaud Sicre?’

  Andre’s smile di
sappeared, and he unconsciously put his hand on his sword.

  ‘He tried to escape, and nearly succeeded. He’d almost reached Ax when I caught up with him. I left him dead in a ditch. He’ll not be missed. And no one in the village knew he was a prisoner.’

  Beatrice had gone into the castle when this conversation took place. I patted Andre on the shoulder.

  ‘His testimony would have convicted Beatrice in front of the Inquisition, that’s certain. You did well. I won’t miss him. He was a deceitful, traitorous bastard.’

  ‘He and the Clergues betrayed the whole village, and then he betrayed the Clergues, who thought he was their man, their informer. I lost a mother and sister thanks to him. He had a quick and easy death compared with the stake or The Wall.’

  The feast the following evening was a joyful affair. Andre had arranged it all, butchered two hogs, even found a troubadour to entertain us. All of Montaillou was invited, with the exception of the new magistrate, his henchmen and the priest. Everyone there was wearing the double yellow cross, which served as a badge of admission, and we drank and sang late into the night, finishing with a toast to the King of Aragon.

  I had a headache the following morning – we had not been drinking Etienne’s good wine the night before – and when I recovered and went out into the courtyard I found Beatrice and Andre, who had both clearly drunk far less than I, talking about the evening.

  ‘We should celebrate like that more often,’ said Beatrice.

  ‘I don’t think my head could take it more than once or twice a year. And no doubt a version of the event will soon be on its way to Carcassonne.’

  ‘As long as we go to church and pay our tithes promptly they have nothing to grumble about.’

  ‘The Inquisition will think that you and I have escaped proper punishment. There are not fools. They will know Sicre’s disappearance wasn’t accidental.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ asked Beatrice, saw the look on our faces and didn’t press for an answer.

  After the excitement of the feast Montaillou settled into a calm routine. The petty feuds between various families flared up and died down, but never reached the point of denunciation to the magistrate or the priest. We all went to Mass on Sundays, confessed often enough to keep the priest happy, and we all wore our double yellow crosses proudly.