Cathar

by Christopher Bland

  ‘Let’s hope it’s a skill you’ll never have to use,’ I told him after one energetic session. ‘But if you do you’ll be glad we fenced together. I was only a few years older than you when I first had to use my sword in earnest.’

  The four of us rode out together every morning, the twins both strong, confident riders. Our annual summer adventure was a trip to the mountain pastures to visit the sheep. They were now looked after, with great confidence and the latest generation of fierce sheepdogs, by Andre Belot.

  Francois and Constance enjoyed everything about the trips, with the exception of the latrine. They were astonished by my pride in its ingenious construction, and by their mother’s agility in using it. I took the precaution of replacing the cross-pieces with thicker, sturdier branches at the beginning of every summer.

  We were visited each year by Beatrice’s stepson, who came to seek annual reassurance that his stepmother was happy with Montaillou and had no plans to assert her rights over the Planissoles estates. And we had a return visit from Etienne and Stephanie, together with their children and two mules laden with wine.

  We had ample warning of their visit, time enough to bring mature cheeses down from the mountain pastures. Beatrice organised a feast in our Great Hall, we killed several lambs, and found a troubadour who sang a long poem about the sixteen knights from Roqueville. I had heard a version years ago in the taverns of Carcassonne; the more seditious verses had been deleted.

  The next morning I saw Etienne’s son showing off his small crossbow to Francois. ‘Your father made it for me. I’ve killed seventeen rats with it. You must never point it at anyone, even if it is unloaded and uncocked.’

  Etienne and I listened to this conversation with pleasure.

  ‘I’ll put Francois in charge of our pigeons now he is old enough to handle a crossbow. I’m impressed by your boy’s rat-killing skills.’

  ‘I can teach him wine-making, but not marksmanship,’ said Etienne. ‘Stephanie tells me that most of your villagers are still wearing the double yellow cross.’

  ‘Beatrice and I both wear it, although I forfeited the obligation once I had completed the pilgrimage to Compostela. In Montaillou it’s a badge of pride, not of shame. And it demonstrates to the outside world that we have been punished for our beliefs, and have turned back into the path of the True Faith.’

  I didn’t tell Etienne, then or later, of our meeting with Guillaume Authie when he was on his way to give Blanche the Consolamentum. I would have trusted Etienne with our lives, but the less that was spoken about Guillaume the better.

  Guillaume did visit us two or three times a year, usually on his way to or from Catalonia. We were careful about these visits; he never went into the village, and held a ceremony in the stables attended only by our own people. He arrived late in the evening and left at dawn the following day. Nevertheless, the risks were considerable, although Guillaume no longer wore his green cloak and had long since abandoned his pedlar’s collection of pots and pans. Beatrice and I were always pleased to see Guillaume, and felt physically as well as mentally refreshed after his brief visits.

  We continued to wear our yellow crosses, went to church regularly, and confessed, although we had little of interest to tell our priest. There was no doctrinal objection to Confession as far as Catharism was concerned; our religion concentrated on telling us how to behave in this, false, world in preparation for the next.

  We joked about reincarnation, hoping that we might return together as a pair: ‘of swallows,’ suggested Beatrice, ‘anything but sheep.’

  Guillaume Authie had explained reincarnation to us on a number of occasions.

  ‘One life is not enough for the unawakened soul,’ he said. ‘I have had several previous incarnations and have often been reminded of them. Once I was out walking with my brother years ago when I suddenly realised I was in familiar country, familiar to me not as a man but in an earlier life as a horse. In that previous life I was being ridden by my master on the journey home and lost a shoe between two stones. I stopped, bent down and found a horseshoe where I had cast it off in that earlier incarnation. I have kept it ever since. Here it is.’

  He rummaged in his bag and produced an old, battered horseshoe of a type that had not been used in the Languedoc for many, many years.

  It was an extraordinary, almost comical story, but sustained by Authie’s obvious sincerity and faith, which Beatrice and I found it impossible not to share.

  It was easy to feel a good Cathar in Authie’s company. Less easy when he was gone, less easy in view of the apparent success of the Inquisition in stamping out our faith through torture and the stake.

  ‘How can our faith survive?’ I asked Guillaume.

  ‘God will ensure that it does,’ he answered with serene confidence.

  And yet the Devil seemed to be winning the battle for supremacy in this impermanent and imperfect world. The monstrous apparatus of the Inquisition, their scribes, constables, bailiffs, warders, torturers and executioners, led by Dominican monks who provided a cloak of holiness, seemed to me at times overwhelming. Deceit appeared more than a match for the Cathar response of always telling the truth.

  The concept of live and let live, which allowed Cathars to exist in the Languedoc under the protection of half a dozen feudal overlords, had long gone. The zeal of the Catholic Church for torture, burning, condign prison sentences and yellow crosses was unabated; indeed, it seemed to be fuelled by its successes.

  We continued to hear the stories about the Inquisition’s activities, but in towns and villages far away from Montaillou. We believed that the death of Arnaud Sicre and the inactivity of our magistrate meant that, provided we continued to pay our tithes, we were safe.

  We were mistaken. Early one morning a messenger arrived, in great haste, from Baruch.

  ‘I was sent to tell you that they had captured Guillaume Authie. That was all.’

  ‘No letter?’

  ‘No letter.’

  ‘I suppose it was bound to happen,’ said Beatrice. ‘He is one of the last Perfects. There is no one to rescue him or to bribe his way out of jail. We are safe enough here.’

  ‘We’re not safe,’ I said, almost angrily. ‘He is bound to tell the truth. He knows they will burn him, and he won’t be able to die a Perfect if he lies to save his own skin, or ours. The best we can hope for is that he doesn’t tell them about his visits to Montaillou immediately. We need to leave for Catalonia as soon as possible.’

  ‘I’m staying here,’ said Beatrice.

  ‘They’ll burn you too,’ I said. ‘And Constance and Francois.’

  There was a long silence. Then I continued, ‘I’ll send Hugues with a message to Andre Belot to take the sheep to Puigcerdà. The four of us will leave tomorrow at dawn. Pack what you can, anything small and valuable, money, jewels. We will need food for five days. Two horses, two ponies for the children, no mules – they’ll only slow us down. We’ll tell the children it is an adventure, a trip to meet their Spanish cousins.’

  I wasted precious time convincing Beatrice, but there was no avoiding the awkward truth. We knew Guillaume too well for that. I told Hugues that Authie had been taken by the Inquisition, and that we were going to Catalonia in the morning.

  ‘Let me come with you. They’ll know I’m Cathar.’

  ‘We don’t have enough horses. Take a couple of mules, and as many cheeses as you can manage, and head for Lombardy. Here’s money for your journey. It’s not you they are interested in. They tried and failed to convict Beatrice and me several times already – now they will believe they have us.’

  I gave Hugues the money, embraced him and wished him good fortune. There were tears in our eyes as we parted. He left the same evening.

  I went to the Montaillou tavern, which was no more than the front room of the Maurs family, selling wine we nicknamed The Red Infuriator. You needed the digestion of a horse to keep it down. There I let it be known that I was moving my sheep to Catalonia via the southern p
asses.

  ‘We haven’t enough feed for the winter here, and I know I can buy fodder from Beatrice’s cousins.’ I knew this piece of gossip, unfiltered, would be with the magistrate the next day; the Maurs family love to be the source of information.

  It was cold when we left the next morning, barely light enough to see our way, the children still half asleep and complaining. We had saddled the horses the night before. Beatrice organised the food for the journey. She saw me pack two crossbows and forty bolts, and buckle on my short sword and dagger. Young Francois insisted on wearing his sword.

  ‘We won’t need them, but it is best to be ready. I think we have two days before they arrive in Montaillou.’

  I was wrong. We went past the washing pool, up the track that led to our mountain pastures and stopped on the little col they call Bellevue, which gave us a view over the whole valley and the village. Beatrice and I looked back for the last time, then she put her hand on my arm. Her eyes are better than mine.

  ‘Look at the track from Ax, from Carcassonne.’ I could just make out a blurred group coming into our village.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Three. No, four horsemen. Wearing chain mail.’ The sun had glinted on the leading man, enough for Beatrice to see his armour.

  ‘As well we stopped. We’ve got two or three hours, not two days. And we can only move as fast as the ponies. Still, we know the path better than they do. They may pick up a guide in the village.’

  Francois and Constance could hear the tension in our voices.

  ‘Who are they, Mama?’

  ‘Bad men from Carcassonne. But we won’t let them catch us.’ Francois looked excited; Constance began to cry and was comforted by her mother. We trotted up the track, knowing that our pursuers would have less to carry, although it was not possible to canter on most of the track. Our horses and the children’s ponies were tough, surefooted, used to the mountains.

  We made steady progress that morning, eating and drinking as we rode. We stopped briefly at the next vantage point where we could see our pursuers, now close enough for my eyes to pick them out.

  ‘We’ve a two-hour lead. But the gap is closing. We will need to be well into Catalonia before they turn back. The price on our heads will be big enough to override several miles of boundary dispute.’

  ‘What will happen if they catch us, Papa?’ asked Francois.

  ‘What did Etienne tell you about me and my crossbow?’

  ‘Five in three minutes, he said.’

  ‘How many did Mama say were following us?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘There you are. One to spare. But’ – seeing the look on Beatrice’s face – ‘it won’t be necessary. They’ll not catch us. Your ponies are doing well.’

  And indeed they were. Beatrice and I took it in turns to lead, and on the first part of the journey the track was wide and grassy. Later on it narrowed, falling away quite sharply below us, slippery after the early morning rain. And on that track, but for no specific reason, no stumble, no fall, my horse went lame. Properly lame, three-legged lame, not something we could ride off. I dismounted at once, ran my hand down his foreleg, felt the heat, and I could see the bowed tendon that was causing the trouble.

  I looked up at Beatrice. ‘The tendon’s gone. He won’t make another hundred yards.’ I swore silently to myself.

  ‘My mare will carry us both.’

  ‘She could – but not for long, and not fast enough. You three go on ahead. I’ll go back half a mile to where the path is ideal for an ambush. We’ll tie my gelding out of sight here.’

  Beatrice knew me well enough not to argue. And there was no alternative other than surrender. I took my short sword, the two crossbows and the quiver of bolts, the children silent and wide-eyed. Then Francois said, ‘I’ll stay with you, Papa. I can hand you the bolts.’

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  ‘You need to look after Mama and your sister.’

  I hugged them both and kissed Beatrice.

  ‘We’ll meet again in Catalonia. I’ll have the pick of their horses. Now off you go.’

  I walked back down the track to the point where a large, overhanging rockfall made it impossible to travel other than in single file. Small trees and shrubs gave good cover. I scrambled to the top of the rockfall, laid out my bolts, selecting the ten best, strapped the extension onto my stump, then cocked and loaded the two crossbows. I was well hidden by the bushes; I planned to take my shots from a kneeling position at a range of not more than thirty feet. I would wait until the first two men were round the corner, kill them both and hope that I could reload in the confusion.

  I was about to find out whether I could live up to my legend – in hot blood, in anger, with the lives of my wife and two children dependent on my speed and accuracy, untested in anger since the fall of Montségur. I was many years older; and the wolves I had killed in the mountain meadows had not been armed.

  Five in three minutes.

  *

  Beatrice

  I DIDN’T WASTE TIME arguing with Francois. His quiet confidence that he could handle four armed men calmed me and the children, although young Francois was adamant he should stay and help.

  ‘Your sister and I need you with us,’ I told him, and we set off at a brisk trot. I stopped and waved to Francois as he walked down to the narrowest part of the track, but he didn’t look back.

  We had ridden on for no more than ten minutes when Francois, already some distance behind Constance and me, turned his pony and without a word cantered back down towards his father.

  I didn’t know what to do; I wouldn’t be able to catch him before he reached his father, and then what? Four of us couldn’t hide, and Constance and I would only be an encumbrance. Francois at least had his own sword, and might be of some help to his father if he arrived in time. So I calmed Constance and told her with as much confidence as I could muster that they would be all right, and that we needed to press on.

  *

  Francois

  The ambush went almost as planned, but I had counted on the four of them riding close together, while in the event the second pair were fifty yards behind the first. I was able to kill the first two; at a range of no more than twenty feet the crossbow bolts penetrated chain mail easily enough. The first rider fell, and his horse bolted back down the track. It took the second rider several seconds to realise where I was hidden, and he made the fatal mistake of trying to turn his horse and join his two companions. This left me enough time to pick up my second crossbow, and fire, and kill him.

  ‘Two in less than a minute,’ I said to myself – but that left two horsemen unaccounted for. I hoped that they would have the sense to retreat, but they were determined men; they galloped up the track and arrived before I could reload. I dropped my bolt and wasted precious seconds scrabbling for it in the long grass.

  By now they had dismounted, and walked slowly towards me with drawn swords. I came down on the track below them on the Montaillou side, a lucky decision as it turned out. Singly I was a match for them, but they separated as they approached. I couldn’t parry two swords simultaneously, and the pair of them were not interested in single combat. One of them I recognised as my old enemy, the torturer from Roqueville who had led the group that captured Blanche and returned her to the Inquisitor.

  ‘Can’t you deal with a one-armed man on your own?’ I shouted. He was too sensible to reply. Half of his party were already dead, and he had no intention of joining them. I backed away down the track, making it as hard as possible for them to come at me together; they were not in a hurry, careful to avoid a mistake through moving too quickly, confident that two against one would have only one outcome. I parried the first attack from the right and jumped back just in time as the man on my left slashed at my sword arm. There was no escape for me down the rough and rocky hillside.

  And then my son arrived. The two didn’t see or hear him until the last moment, and by then he had spurred his pony into
a gallop. The pony was brave, almost as brave as his rider, and the path so narrow that they had nowhere else to go, crashing into the man attacking me on my right and knocking him to the ground.

  On my left I was able to step forward into my old enemy’s attack, beat his sword to the ground and cut him in the neck. He fell with the force of the blow, dropping his weapon, tried to sit up and failed.

  Our other opponent had lost his sword in falling, and yielded as I stood over him, my sword already bloody. Francois and his pony had stopped fifty yards down the track; they turned and trotted back, Francois smiling and crying with relief. As was I. He fell off his pony into my arms and we stood there for several minutes, lucky to be alive.

  ‘I knew you would need me,’ said Francois, half angry, half proud.

  ‘I did indeed. You saved the day,’ I said. ‘Thank the Lord it’s over.’

  It was over. Or so I thought. I turned back down the track to collect one of the loose horses, when some instinct made me look round. I saw the detested torturer, whom I had left for dead, struggle to his feet and lurch towards Francois, raising his sword to cut my son down.

  ‘Look out,’ I shouted, and Francois turned, raising his sword in a parry that deflected the blow and caught his opponent’s sword in the vee between guard and blade. It was the torturer’s last effort; he fell to his knees and then onto his face, dying without the need for a final coup.

  ‘I should have made sure he was dead,’ I said, knowing what Beatrice would have thought of my carelessness. And I found myself being comforted by a hug from my son.

  ‘What will we do with this one?’ I prodded the only survivor to stand up.

  ‘Don’t kill him,’ said Francois.

  ‘No. There’s been enough killing already. We’ll send him back to his masters in Carcassonne. On foot.’

  He made a dejected figure as he stumbled down the mountain towards Montaillou.

  ‘Even if he catches one of the horses, he’ll not come after us. He’ll be busy concocting a story about how they were overcome by a twenty-strong band of vicious Cathars. Now we’ll rejoin your mother and Constance. You’ve given the troubadours something to sing about; we can sing what we like once we’re safely in Catalonia. But it won’t be “five in three minutes.”’