The de Montfort Histories - The Dove and the Devil (16 page)

Grace was said by the Spanish priest, Dominic de Guzman. De Guzman came
from a noble Spanish family and was travelling through that area of Occitania
at the request of the Pope. The cleric, who would later found the order of the
preaching brothers of the Dominicans, was already concerned by what he judged
to be a great falling away of the faithful from Holy Mother Church in this
heresy-ridden part of the country. He had come recently from Toulouse and
Carcassonne where he and other Catholics had attended a meeting with the
heretics in an effort to convince them of the error of their ways. What he had
discovered had alarmed him. He had had no idea of the extent of the growth of
the heresy. Full of compassion for those he perceived as lost sheep, he had
spent several weeks trying to win back to the fold of the Church those who had
strayed.

 
Seated at the high table in
the place of honour in Foix, he regaled the assembled company with the tales of
his disturbing findings. “They have made a deal with the devil,” he said. “They
spit upon the Host, the body of our Lord Jesus Christ, and they trample on the
cross. It has been reported to me that they dance naked at dawn.”
 
He lowered his voice. “I have even
heard they have sexual orgies.”

While most of those seated within hearing distance of de Guzman seemed
not to be worried by what the cleric deemed as portentous news, Simon and
Alicia listened in horror. They, too, had not realised the speed and strength
with which the heresy was spreading. They were even more surprised to find that
several of the southern nobility professed to be interested in the teachings of
the
perfecti
; not least amongst them
their host, Raymond-Roger de Foix.

 
While not a believer
himself, he valued his friends who were. And while he could not, as he had
said, subscribe to their views on Good and Evil, he could not help but admire
the kindly and austere way of life they led. Besides, he had continued, and
this appealed greatly to him, since they did not recognise the sacrament of
marriage, the ordinary believers could change their bed partners at will. There
was never any need for divorce!” There was a general laugh when he had said
this, for everyone present knew of their host’s sexual proclivities—even
his long-suffering wife. Simon, however, didn’t find it the least bit amusing.

“Are you saying they can just move from one woman’s hearth to another?”
he asked, “without even a divorce or annulment?”

Raymond-Roger nodded. He could see the value in this, even if Simon
couldn’t.

“But what about the children? Who takes care of them?” Alicia’s concern
for the children was apparent.

“Oh, they do well enough. They are always well taken care of. There is a
strong feeling of brotherhood amongst them and they know they can rely on each
other. I understand they give women an equal role in matters of their belief,
and that they even preach.” Domingo shook his head at the folly of all this.
“What could women truly know of religious matters?” he said. “Their role in
life is to be subservient to their husbands, produce children when and where necessary
for the continuation and enlargement of estates and take care of their
husbands’ property while the men are away fighting Holy Wars.”

At this neat definition of the female’s position in society, even the
very devout Alicia looked askance. She cast the misogynist Dominic a glance
that could only be construed as disrespectful.

The entertainment began after one of the nobler servants paraded around
the boar’s head. There were still many dishes to come—proof of the
kitchen staff’s artistry—but these would be enjoyed with an accompaniment
of music provided by several troubadours who had arrived at varying times over
the previous few weeks. Often the scions of noble families, they usually
travelled in pairs and sang in the local language, which most northerners found
difficult to understand.

Amaury was pleased to show off to his mother his newfound knowledge of
Occitan, which he had been at pains to practise while he and his father had
been en route to Foix. He was able to translate a few of the songs. Alicia
hadn’t the heart to tell him that the melodies and words were old friends to
her. She had heard them all before at her father’s court and, indeed, at
Thibaut’s. Marie, Thibaut’s mother, had been a well-known singer and composer
herself, having learned the art at her mother’s knee in Aquitaine, the birth
place of the troubadour movement.

Guy and Amaury were seated at some distance from the high table, so
most, if not all, of the conversation about the heretics went by them unheard.
Their senses were occupied, as were those of most of the young squires in the
hall, by the presence of Petronille, Bernard’s beautiful seventeen-year-old
daughter. They gazed at her in rapt admiration as she sat at the high table
with her father and new stepmother. How Amaury wished he was sitting beside
her. He watched as she daintily fed her husband the tastiest morsels she could
find from their shared trencher.
Surely
she couldn’t really be married to that fat old man, Gaston de Bearn
, Amaury
said to himself.
What elegance
, he
thought.
How divine she was.
What a waste!
He was sure that given the
chance, he could compose a poem that would impress her. Alas for poor Amaury
and all the other young squires similarly smitten, she did not even notice
them, her attention centred fully on the troubadour who was at her feet,
singing a plaintiff love song.

 
Amaury tossed and turned in
bed that night, but peaceful sleep would not come. Petronille wafted in and out
of his dreams until finally he woke with a start to find himself in a wet bedgown.
Scrambling out of bed, he looked down at himself in disgust. Was this what all
the other boys had joked about? He had heard them talking but until recently
hadn’t bothered to join in the bawdy stories they told each other. His father
had spoken to him about the dangers of whores, and he had seen enough rutting
animals in his time to know what was happening to him. His only shame was that
this…it could only be described as a mess…had anything to do with the glorious
Petronille.

Fumbling around in the dark, he found another bedgown and climbed back
into bed, relieved that Guy was sleeping with the other younger pages. At least
he wouldn’t be able, however innocently, to tell anyone about his big brother’s
disgrace.

Bright and early the next morning, Guy appeared in Amaury’s bedchamber.
Amaury, who had spent a restless night, was not happy to see him.

“Come on, Amaury. I’ll take you to the mews to see my hawk. I’ve been
training her since I’ve been here and she shows a lot of promise. The falconer
says I have a good way with the birds,” he said proudly.

“Go away!” Amaury shouted. “I don’t want to see your blasted hawk. I
just want to sleep.”

“Well, I’m going anyway! Petronille has her hawks there and she flies
them nearly every day. Did you see her last night in the hall? Don’t you think
she’s beautiful? I’m going to marry her when I’m old enough!” Not waiting for a
reply to his questions, Guy took himself off at a trot for the castle mews.

Stupid child
, Amaury said to himself.
She’s already married
. It was then that the import of what his
little brother had just said hit him. Petronille and her hawks! That meant she
might be down in the mews at this very instant. Leaping out of bed, scarcely
taking the time to wash or even dress properly, Amaury dashed after Guy, who
was gratified to see that his brother was interested in his hawk after all!

Sadly for both boys, the lovely Petronille had left the care of her
hawks to the falconer that day. She had gone to bed late and would spend most
of the day recovering her strength and making ready for the continuation of the
wedding celebrations for her father and stepmother. The boys would not be able
to see her until that evening. Amaury felt he would burst if he did not see her
sooner!
    

Chapter Eleven

Occitania, South of France

1206 AD

The Templars and the Linen

The first thing Arnaud, Bertrand and the other two
perfecti
accompanying them glimpsed as they approached the castrum
of Montsegur perched on top of the mountain, was a golden eagle lazily circling
the fortress that was now virtually in ruins. The sun’s glint on the bird’s
feathers was in stark contrast to the forbidding black silhouette of the pile
of rocks which made up the fort while the mewling cry of the huge bird echoed
eerily down the mountain. A track led to the fortress, three thousand feet up
the mountain, set amongst the huge peaks of the Pyrenees. Twisting and turning
upwards, the rutted narrow path, almost impassable in places, had made the
fortress very nearly impregnable, set as it was on a huge rocky outcrop that
could only be accessed from its westerly side. It stood, glowering above the
little village which had sprung up below.

When the group of four perfecti arrived in the settlement, they could
see that a monumental task lay ahead, for even from the bottom of the mountain
it was obvious that the fortress above was little more than a pile of stones.
Although it had never been large by the standards of other fortifications in
the area, its great value lay in its unassailability, a fact that had been
discovered in Roman or even earlier times when the first settlers had found a
place of refuge there.

The four men were foot- sore as they had been walking the mountains for
several days. The Lady Esclarmonde had asked that two other
perfecti
, Raymond Blasco and Raymond
Mercier, Deacon of Mirepoix, accompany her friend Bertrand, and Arnaud to
survey the project for the rebuilding that would need to be accomplished over
several months. There would be no shortage of labour and certainly no shortage
of willing hands to bend to the task, for several believers had chosen to stay
in this most inhospitable of places. They had come to this spot for the peace
it offered as a retreat for prayer and study. The village that lay below the
fortress was therefore home to several dozen bodies, some permanent and some
more transient. They would be only too glad to lend a hand to reconstruct a
permanent fortress, for who could tell what misfortune might befall the
believers in years to come.

The little houses and huts seem to cling to the inhospitable
mountainside by sheer willpower, in some cases with half their foundations
dangling precariously into the emptiness of the valley below. The fence of
strong wooden stakes that surrounded the village was sturdy enough at that time
to repel most invaders, but it would not stand for long against any of the
immense war machines currently being developed in other parts of the world.
With news of new persecutions arriving almost daily that told of the suffering
of believers in other parts of France, the choice of Montsegur as a place of
refuge was an obvious one.

The four men were welcomed by the incumbent
perfectus
Benoit, who led them into a small hut carved out of rock.
Although it was nearly summer and it had been unseasonably hot even in this
part of Languedoc, the hut was cold and damp and the walls ran with moisture. A
shiver ran down Bertrand’s back as he wrapped his black cloak snugly around
him.

“Please, sit down. Here, close to the fire.” Bertrand’s shiver had not gone
unnoticed by Benoit. “It’s not the most comfortable of lodgings, but it suits
our purposes for now. I have received word from Raymond of Perella and
understand he has granted permission for the rebuilding.” He smiled. “Not that
I expected it to be withheld. The Lady Esclarmonde was most insistent, and we
all know how very persuasive she can be!”

The other men nodded. She was indeed a wonder. When she made up her mind
to do something, nothing seemed to get in her way.

“I understand she is to receive the consolamentum soon. She is studying
with Guilhebert de Castres. Now there’s a man for you! He roams the countryside
tirelessly, putting many a youngster to shame. I must say,” he added ruefully,
rubbing his back. “The pains in my joints and back are beginning to prevent my
doing much of that now. The Lady Esclarmonde is fortunate indeed to have
succeeded in getting Guilhebert
 
to
stay in one place for more than a day or two. I expect there will be a great
celebration when she becomes a
perfecta.
She certainly is a single-minded woman!” The older man sat down beside
Bertrand.

“We have come to finalize the plans for the rebuilding so that it can
start as soon as possible,” Bertrand began, “but we shall leave everything in
your hands, Brother Benoit. Raymond will stay to help as long as his other
duties in Mirepoix permit, but the rest of us will go directly to Fanjeaux. We
promised to make every effort to attend the consolamentum.”
 
Although his eyes shone with delight he
could not stop another shiver from racking his body. His face glowed red in the
reflection of the fire. “I think I will retire to bed. My head is pounding and
I believe I may have caught a chill—”

His words were cut off by the hacking cough that seized his body. At
once, Arnaud turned to him, anxiety clearly registering on his face. This was
unusual. Bertrand had never had so much as a sniffle in all the time he had
known him. The man’s strapping good health was legendary.

“Do not concern yourself overmuch, my friend. ’Tis nothing but a summer chill.
They are most prevalent in these mountains, as you know. The
 
fog can descend in minutes, shutting
out the sun!”

Bertrand got to his feet and for the first time Arnaud noticed the
weariness in the older man. Even his long black cloak could not conceal the
rigors that shook his body.

Leading him along a small passage cut out of rock into a cavern where
several palliasses were laid on top of bracken, Benoit said “I’m afraid this is
the best we can offer, but at least it is dry. There are some hot stones under
the palliasse, so you should not suffer overmuch from the cold.”

“Thank you, my friend. I’m sure a good night’s rest will put me right
for tomorrow. We must get back to Fanjeaux as soon as possible.”

While Bertrand slept, fortified with a potion of Coltsfoot to allay his
cough and Valerian to quieten and soothe his troubled sleep, the others drew up
the plans that would be acted upon with as much haste as possible. The outside
fortifications would be attended to first, followed by the rebuilding of the
fortress itself. Although Arnaud understood the need for this place of
pilgrimage to be rebuilt as more and more believers flocked to it each week, he
was at a loss to understand the sudden haste. Surely the Catholic Church was
not such an immense threat!

“You do not understand the whole picture,” Benoit said. “Although we
have many convents where our
perfectae
dwell, these unprotected women must have a place to go if anything should
befall them. As it is, we have heard that Dominic de Guzman has built a convent
right in Prouille where he is attempting to seduce our women believers back
into the arms of the Church. He’s not making too bad a job of it, either. In
fact, one of our sisters, Covinens, has abandoned us and now lives with a man
and is pregnant. He made several other converts from amongst others of our
sisters after delivering a sermon in Fanjeaux. I heard that some of the girls
threw themselves at his feet, declaring they had been made heretics by our
perfectae
. They begged to be taken in by
Dominic. As you can imagine, this has disturbed our entire congregation,
particularly Guilhebert, who has made Fanjeaux a preaching centre of his own.”

“What can he be thinking of?” Arnaud asked. “Is he expecting us to
battle in the streets for the souls of our believers? He must know very well we
would never entertain that!”

“He knows that perfectly well but is attempting to win converts back to
the Church by using our own methods of persuasion and preaching. He travels
everywhere on foot and has given up all the fine living of his fellow clergymen
and adopted our rule of living in poverty, chastity and obedience. I, myself,
have heard him preach. He is a master with words and therefore someone we need
to watch carefully. I’m sure he will be a threat to us in the future; he’s
powerful and well-connected. Even the Pope himself defers to him sometimes.
Mark my words!”

“I hope you are mistaken, my friend. I should not like our brethren or
our sisters to be harmed in any way, but it seems as though this man is intent
on stirring things up.”

Arnaud sighed, wondering inwardly why man could not live at peace with
his fellow man. Where was the need for wars? Why must people fight over
differences in belief? Jews and Arabs had lived in perfect harmony with
Catholics and Cathars in this part of the country for generations—there
was no need for anything to change! Clearly, however, times were changing.
Arnaud could tell by the tension in the air. Why else would they be here to
arrange the rebuilding of this small fortification? True, he could discern
nothing tangible, but worry still lay heavily over him.

“What say you to finding our palliasses and getting some sleep?” The
voice of Raymond of Mirepoix broke into Arnaud’s thoughts. “You must be away in
good time tomorrow lest the consolamentum takes place without your presence.”
As he spoke, a hacking cough from the inner chamber where Bertrand slept
interrupted his words. “However, I fear your trip may be without Bertrand.”

His words were prophetic. It was obvious that Bertrand was going
nowhere, at least for the next few days. He clearly had more than a summer
chill, and although he argued that he was strong enough to travel, he was
finally persuaded that it would do no one—least of all him—any good
were he to persist in his demands to accompany them back to Fanjeaux. It was
decided that Raymond of Mirepoix would accompany the two others in Bertrand’s
place and so the sick man wearily bade them farewell and settled back to ride
out the illness that had come at such an inconvenient time. (Years later,
Bertrand would marvel at the timing of this sickness and wonder in his humble
way whether God had sent it so he would remain on the mountain after the others
had left Montsegur!)

A week after the departure of the other
perfecti
, Bertrand was well on the road to recovery. Twilight was
just beginning to creep over the mountain when a small group of horsemen came
to a halt at the bottom of the hill below the palisades that protected the
small village. Two of the knights wore the familiar white mantle emblazoned
with the red cross of the Knights Templar, the Crusading warrior monks, who,
along with their vows of chivalry, had taken the religious vows of poverty,
chastity and obedience. Their two companions, although mounted on horses of
equal breeding to those of the Templar Knights, were clearly not fighting men.
Their whole demeanour was one of humility that bespoke a more religious nature.

The story they had to tell was recounted over a sparse evening meal.
They had come from Constantinople—or what was left of it—where they
had been instructed by Andre de Joinville, a Templar Grand Prior, to carry a
piece of folded linen taken from a church in Constantinople and deliver it into
the hands of Esclarmonde de Foix, who, they had been told, would be found at
Montsegur. It seemed a prosaic enough task, and at first the
perfecti
did not understand the men’s
unwillingness to talk about the linen. Bertrand’s gentle questioning eventually
drew from them the complete story.

“As you are aware, we Templar Knights would never attack a Christian
city. As you well know, Constantinople is a Christian city. Although the Pope,
for all intents and purposes, forbade the attack on the city, in reality he
closed his eyes to what would take place because he knew of the fine collection
of Christian relics that was kept there. It is no secret that he employed
several priests and brothers to collect what they could of the relics in order
to preserve them from marauding Crusaders. Their orders were to bring back what
they could to Rome for safekeeping.” The Templar’s voice became heavy with
sarcasm. “As it was, the ships carrying many of the relics were attacked by the
Genoese, and most of the relics of the saints and bits of the true cross ended
up in Genoa. Had we not acted when we did, who knows where this would be.” As
he spoke, he withdrew a piece of linen from the silk in which it was wrapped
and laid it reverently on the bench in front of him.

 
          
“Our
instructions are to guard this linen with our lives. It is said to have
inordinate powers and has been used many times to protect the Emperor and his
armies from defeat. We have seen with our own eyes its power to rekindle the
failing courage of an army and especially to revive the hopes of those about to
be defeated. We know it was stolen from a church in Constantinople by someone
who was sympathetic to the cause of the believers. There are many in the east
who believe as you do, that your teachings are the true messages of God and
that it is the Pope and his followers who are the heretics.”
 

The man who spoke these words wore an eastern cross on his breast.
Bertrand guessed that he was one of the sympathizers himself, perhaps the very
man who had stolen the cloth. “But why us?” His question hung in the air for several
seconds before and answer was forthcoming.