The de Montfort Histories - The Dove and the Devil (17 page)

“We know the Pope uses military force whenever he thinks it necessary to
gain his ends. We are sure that in times to come, and perhaps in the
not-too-distant future, his fanaticism to rid this area of all of you believers
will get the better of him. We, your brethren in the eastern community who have
no love for the western Pope, have daily witnessed the power of this piece of
linen. Thus, when given the opportunity during the Crusaders’ attack on our
city, we removed it out of Pope Innocent’s clutches. As it was, we were just in
time. Most of the other relics were stolen immediately.”

“But what is it? Why is it so important, this piece of linen?” Benoit
asked the question to which the other
perfecti
wholeheartedly wished to know the answer.

In response, one of the Templars began to unwrap the piece of linen.
“See for yourselves.”

What the
perfecti
saw clearly
upset them. Imprinted on the cloth was the face of an eastern-looking man. As
the Templar continued to unfold the cloth, there lay revealed what appeared to
be a painting of a man’s body.

Bertrand touched the linen gently. “It looks like a painting, but it
isn’t,” he said. “The colour is part of the material. It is not painted on or
woven into the material.”

Benoit and the others, crowded round to see and touch the linen for
themselves.

“How can it be that this material is so powerful?” Bertrand asked.

“This is for your ears only,” one of the Templar Knights responded
sternly, “and those of the Lady Esclarmonde until she deems otherwise. We
believe this to be the burial cloth of our Lord, Jesus Christ.”

There were gasps of horror as he spoke. The
perfecti
drew back from where they had been leaning over the linen.

“We know this cannot be true,” Bertrand said emphatically. “Our belief
is that Jesus existed only as a spirit and was never a real man! Only a real
man could have left a trace like that.”

The Templars smiled. “No ordinary man left this imprint. It would not
have been possible. Your beliefs are sacred to you and I respect them, but no
one can say that this cloth does not have a power that is above our
understanding. It has saved too many lives and given victory to too many worthy
people fighting lost causes. It is for this reason and no other that you must
ensure the cloth reaches Esclarmonde and stays safe in her keeping.”

The fourth man in the group of horseman, who up until then had remained
silent, rose from the bench where he had been sitting. His demeanour, at once
humble but yet arresting, caused the company to grow silent. All debate ceased
as he began to speak.

“My name is Simon Choniates. You may have heard of my brother, Niketas,
a man of greater learning and importance than I.
 
But I was in Constantinople when the plunderers ravaged our
city in the name of the Roman Pope. They forced their way into churches and
palaces on horseback, looting sacred vessels and anything else of value. I saw
it all! Anything they did not want they tore down or smashed. Remember, these
are Crusaders I speak of - soldiers of God, soldiers who had taken vows before
God not to harm fellow Christians. Thousands of harmless citizens were struck
down. My brother saw with his own eyes nuns who had been violated in their own
convents.
 
The soldiers even set a
woman of the streets on the throne of our patriarchs. Imagine the insult. It
was as if a whore had been elevated to the Papacy! The infidels would have been
kinder to us than the so-called Christians were! My brother, Niketas, advised
me to escape while I could with whatever I could save.”
 

Simon stopped to draw breath. “I confess it was I who rescued the linen.
I could not bear to see it fall into the hands of those who pillaged at will.
Even if you do not believe it is the shroud of our Lord, you must believe in
its power to protect you as it has done for us for hundreds of years before
this. We fear it is only a matter of time before Innocent turns his attentions
fully on you. Imagine what he might do to you in the wake of what he has done
to us!”

“If this cloth has marvellous powers and it was in Constantinople, why
is it the city fell to the invaders?” Benoit asked, interrupting Simon’s
eloquent words.

“We do not think its power is simply that of a protector against evil,
although the Eastern Emperor always used it in such a manner,” the Templar
replied reverently. “We believe it is a true holy relic that must be preserved
for all time. That is why we have brought it here. Perhaps the city would not
have fallen had it not been removed. Who can tell? We believed it was much too
important and valuable to be left where it was.”

The Templar began to fold the linen away, leaving only the imprint of
the man’s head showing in the top quarter of the material. “We have been
commanded by our Grand Prior and your brethren in the east to bring it to
Esclarmonde for safekeeping. However you may think of it—protector of
kings and emperors, true relic of our Lord Jesus Christ or just a piece of
linen—it is of great importance and must be guarded as such, with your
lives if necessary!”

The Templars and their companions rose. “Now, we should be away from
here at first light. No trace of us or where we stopped must be found lest
others seek to wrest the cloth from you. Make no mistake as to its value.” The
urgency in his voice was disturbing. “There are those who would pay a king’s
ransom to obtain it and stop at nothing to put it in the hands of the Holy
Father in Rome.”
 

The
perfecti
looked at each
other. “Your visit here to us will be made known only to the Lady Esclarmonde,”
Bertrand said finally. “We will do as you have bidden; you have clearly taken
great risks to be here. What the Lady Esclarmonde does with the linen is her
affair. It appears to have some power as you have suggested, and who knows what
use she may put it to.”

They quickly said their farewells. Hardly had the clatter of the four
departing horsemen subsided when Bertrand made his farewells to Benoit and set
out on his journey which had now been given an added impetus. He must do the
Templars’ bidding and take the fabled piece of cloth to Esclarmonde with all
haste!

Chapter Twelve

Occitania, South of France

1207 – 1208 AD

The Albigension Crusade

“Go to your spinning, Lady.” The tone was haughty, the voice icy. “It is
no business of yours to discuss matters such as these.”

There was a hush as Dominic de Guzman’s companion Stephen of Minia
delivered these words of dismissal to the Lady Esclarmonde, who was seated in
the hall of the Chateau de Castela, her brother’s home in Pamiers. It was here
that Catholics and Cathars had met once more in an effort to make each other
understand and respect their differing religious beliefs.

Catholic bishops and priests alike were surprised by the ill-mannered
remarks of this foreign brother, who clearly had no idea of the status of
Esclarmonde in this region of Occitania. Not only was she the sister of the
Count of Foix, one of the premier nobles of the area, she held vast tracts of
land and property in her own name. Becoming a
perfecta
in the previous year had only served to heighten the great
reverence in which she was held by all Cathars and, truth to tell, by many good
Catholics.

Esclarmonde had been debating with some enthusiasm the question of
religious tolerance and, particularly, the place of women in the Catholic
Church—an idea so foreign and, indeed, abhorrent to most of the clergy
there that the majority of them had never even paused to consider the matter
beyond what they had been taught regarding the place of women in society. What
they failed to see or perhaps did not wish to see was that many women in this
region of France held property in their own names, were often better educated
than their husbands and were well able to hold their own in any kind of debate.
Unfortunately, the clergy for the most part tended to ignore any contribution
made by a female, and it was a rare prioress or mother superior who made any
mark at all on the thinking or the teachings of the Church in Rome.

Getting to her feet, Lady Esclarmonde turned on Stephen, her stare
coolly unnerving to the minor churchman who now wished he had kept his mouth
shut. Looking to his companion Dominic for support, he saw that none was
forthcoming. Dominic was a man possessed of a religious zeal that would one day
become a mania that would tear the country apart, but even he could not help
but admire Esclarmonde for her intellect, her capacity for charitable works and
for the aura of sanctity that seemed to surround her.

“Brother Stephen, you are perhaps not acquainted much with this part of
our country and therefore perhaps you might be forgiven your remark which has
dismissed out of hand half of God’s creation. Aren’t we as women part of that
creation, part of His divine plan? Do you think we were created so that our
opinions could be ignored? Did He not give us the ability to understand? We are
not accustomed to being dismissed to tend to our spinning, and though you seek
to deny the reality of the equality of women with men with your anti-feminist
teachings, the fact remains that we are as able as you!”

Esclarmonde’s gentle smile served only to discomfort Stephen all the
more, the rebuke having been delivered in so mild a fashion. She turned her
attention once more to the body of the meeting.

“Now, let us proceed. I am given to understand that your church objects
to our manner of living together in pairs of the same sex, and that the Holy
Father accuses us of living in sin and practising unnatural and shameful
vices.” She turned to her friend Guilhebert de Castres, the Cathar bishop who
had given her the consolamentum the previous year in Fanjeaux.

“We do not have to explain to you our method of preaching,” Guilhebert
continued. “You already know about it. Many Catholic clergymen travel about the
country in pairs as we do. You know why it is done. It is not merely for
companionship, although that in itself is a good thing. We do it for teaching
purposes and sometimes for safety. The mountains that divide our country from
yours are full of brigands and robbers, and although we never fight to defend
ourselves, there is a certain safety in numbers, be it only two.

“Also, if one of us should fall ill, there is always another to bring
the message to our people. You accuse us of immorality because we do not
believe in the sacrament of marriage. You say our believers live with
concubines, that they sire ‘bastards.’ We say they seek only God’s blessing on
their union. They do not need a priest for this. God will judge us all.”

“He will, indeed,” replied Dominic, rising
to his feet. He looked weary from his unceasing travels around the countryside
visiting towns and villages. Dominic was a man whom even the
perfecti
could admire in some way. His
austere life, in contrast to that of many of the Catholic priests around him,
rivalled the lives of the
perfecti
themselves. He lived on bread and water and slept on the bare earth. His feet
in his sandals were bloody and torn, a condition to which the
perfecti
could relate, having suffered
the same in their own travels. His attitude of humility here in this great
hall, amongst a group of his own Catholic brothers who looked somewhat
disdainfully at his gaunt appearance, was given the lie by the words he spoke
next.

“I have already said this before. I have spoken only words of peace to
you until now. For several years I have begged you with tears, pleaded with you
to see the error of your way, but you have not responded. We have a common
saying in Spain: ‘where a blessing fails, a good thick stick will prevail’. We
shall rouse princes and prelates against you, who will, in turn, arouse whole
nations. Many of your number will perish by the sword. Towers will tumble and
walls will topple. You will be reduced to slavery, and force will prevail where
gentle persuasion has failed.”

A frisson of excitement ran through the Catholic contingent as they
acknowledged Dominic’s fiery energy in his preaching as well as his formidable
faith, a faith in which so many of them were lacking.
 
The Cathar contingent was silent. They knew well enough that
these threats were not empty.

“I do not believe a ‘big stick,’ as you call it, is a worthy weapon of
Christ,” Guilhebert replied. “Your church has become little more than a
despised body. Your clergy do not believe what they preach; nor, indeed, do
they practise it. Their personal ambitions count for more than their pastoral
duties. They abuse power for their own gain. Until these things are changed,
you will lose your people. They flock to us daily, for they seek some honesty,
love and dedication in their beliefs!

These ordinary people do not require great cathedrals or statues to
worship. Nor do they wish for altars, shrines or miraculous images. They want
to be as close to God Himself as possible.
 
They need no priests to intervene between them and God.
These good people wish no one any ill; they desire only to be left to worship
as they think right. They want the freedom to make their own choice in these
matters.”

“Why can we not live in peace with one another?” Arnaud blurted out.
“Why is it we cannot worship in our own way as our Jewish and Muslim brethren
do? What harm do we do?”

There were mutters of approval from the Cathar side of the hall. The
Catholics shifted uneasily in their seats, but there was no answer forthcoming
to Arnaud’s question,—at least, not one to which they would admit. Couldn’t
these wretched people see how they were beginning to destabilise the whole of
the region of Occitania? If some of the Catholic clergy had been unaware of it
before, they now knew for a certainty that any attempt to stop this heresy from
spreading would be an uphill struggle. The very serenity of the Cathars and
their unshakeable belief in the righteousness of what they were doing drew the
great mass of people to them. The Catholics could not deny this fact. What was
more galling to them was that it wasn’t only the poor illiterate masses who
were being converted; many of the nobility of the region who ought to have
known better were also following suit.

The meeting at Pamiers drew to a dismal end. Catholic prelates and
Cathar bishops alike left the Chateau de Castela with their own views more
entrenched than ever. They all knew that sometime in the not-too-distant
future, the matters of freedom of belief would need to be resolved for good or
ill. The gathering broke up with a great deal of discontent, especially amongst
the Catholic clergy, who had hoped to win to their own cause many of the souls
who had been present. Alas, they were disappointed and rode away, shaking their
heads at what they considered to be the canker that was spreading before their
eyes like a cancer gone mad.

At Esclarmonde’s request, some of the
perfecti
and their female counterparts stayed behind in the Chateau
after the others had left for a discussion and a revelation that would have
far-reaching and valuable consequences for the whole of the Cathar community.
The few who had been invited to remain were shown into her solarium and sworn
to secrecy. On the long bench in front of the fire lay the mysterious package
wrapped in silk which Bertrand had delivered into her hands following his
promise to the Templar Knights. As the piece of silk was unfolded and its
contents spread out so the whole group could view it, most of those present had
no idea of the significance of what lay before their eyes. It was only after
noticing the reverence with which the linen was handled by Esclarmonde and
Bertrand that they realised they were in the presence of something precious.

Esclarmonde bade Bertrand tell the story of the visit of the Knights
Templar and the other two travellers to Montsegur at the time of his illness.
Leaving out none of the details, he told the story of the mystery of the cloth
and of its fabled powers. There was a great indrawing of breath as he recounted
the passion with which their eastern brethren had spoken. A hush fell over the
room as Bertrand went on to say that these men believed that the outline on the
linen, which could clearly be seen, was in fact the outline of the body of the
crucified Christ. There was enormous consternation when Bertrand announced this
last fact, for they all believed as they had been taught, that Jesus had never
existed as a man but had only taken on the appearance of a man.

How could a spirit have left an imprint? The question was on everyone’s
tongue.

“Whatever we may think and believe, whether or not we will have to
investigate this further,” Bertrand said firmly, “the fact remains that this
linen has for centuries been regarded as a protector of good against evil and,
as such, it is our duty to guard it well.”

“Besides which,” Esclarmonde added, “we know this to be one of the most
important relics that Innocent wanted to get his hands on. He sent people from
Rome to Constantinople for that very purpose. We must never let it be known
beyond these four walls that we have it in our care, for it would be a fine
excuse to start a revolt. Imagine the Pope’s call to arms to rescue the
purported shroud of Christ. How the soldiers would flock to that holy cause!”

She looked about her at the nine serious faces of the men and women
present. “I will carry it back to Montsegur as soon as it is safe to do so. It
has been arranged that in the rebuilding of the fortress a niche will be
constructed within the walls so as to conceal it from prying eyes.

The location will be known only to us present here. In more peaceful
times, it would not be deemed necessary for so many to be burdened with this
knowledge, but you all know as I do that times are getting more difficult for
us by the day, and sadly not all of us may survive.”

Esclarmonde’s words were to prove prophetic, although the shroud was not
the immediate cause of the events that followed. Strangely enough, it was the
unpopular Peter of Castelnau, the haughty and despised Papal Legate, the Pope’s
own ambassador, who set the fires of revolt in motion. Having spent the past
months organising a league of all the barons who held land in the south whose
sole purpose was to hunt down and bring the heretics to justice, he was
incensed when the premier baron in the whole of the south, Raymond of Toulouse,
refused to join the group.

Raymond had been heard to say that if he did join he would be hunting
many of the people with whom he had grown up and whom he admired and trusted.
They lived peaceable lives, causing no trouble by their beliefs, and therefore
he politely declined Peter of Castelnau’s invitation to join his league of
‘hunters’.

The Legate was furious and excommunicated Raymond immediately, in public
and with a great deal of fanfare. He also put the whole of Raymond’s domain
under Papal interdict. No person living in the domain of Toulouse could take
part in any religious observance of the Catholic Church, especially communion.
Furthermore, anyone seeking to aid the Count would be excommunicated.

To say that Raymond’s men were loyal was an understatement. Hearing of
his excommunication, some of them enthusiastically set off to rid the world of
the unfortunate Legate. They caught up with him and his party near St. Gilles
on the banks of the River Rhone where he had been waiting to cross en route to
Rome. The deed was done within a few minutes and he was despatched to meet his
maker before anyone knew what was happening. Later, tales were told of the
Legate’s dying prayer that his assassin should be spared. People laughed out
loud when they heard this. No one believed the proud and haughty Legate would
have spared a thought for anyone but himself. As it was, wrapped in his
enormous travelling cloak and shivering—in fear, some unkindly said; in
shock, others more Christian said—he received his last communion and departed
this world for a better one.