The de Montfort Histories - The Dove and the Devil (9 page)

It was not long before Fulques’ powerful preaching met with results.
After the mass had been said, he began his sermon. Listening to his sermon,
there was not one knight or soldier in the crowd who did not hear the call of
their fellow Christians’ suffering in Jerusalem. It was full of stories of
atrocities committed by the infidels upon Christians and the Holy City. His
call to rise up and follow the cross met with a success beyond Fulques’ dreams.
He had hardly any need to recount the stories of the horrors that would befall
those who did not heed his call or who prevented others from heeding it. All
men in the crowd—and indeed every woman—were completely at his
mercy. Before the daylight faded, a great number of nobles, together with their
knights, squires, men at arms and other retainers, had taken the vow to defend
to the death the Holy City of Jerusalem. It was a solemn vow, taken before God
and sworn over a relic of the true cross, a vow which a Crusader would never
break.

It was important for one nobleman to come forward to spur others into
action. Thibaut, Count of Champagne, was the first to take his vows. He was
followed in quick succession by most of the others who were young enough and
for whom the adventure had some appeal. Geoffrey de Joinville went, as did
Gauthier, yesterday’s fallen hero in the joust. Simon de Montfort was not far
behind, much to the chagrin of Alicia, who knew she dare not say anything. It
was not her place to interfere in the proposed great adventure. Her job would
be to stay at home and run the de Montfort estates until her husband’s return.

Before the day was out, Thibaut and his brother-in-law, Baudouin, had
set themselves the task of organizing the great expedition. A delegation would
be sent to Venice to negotiate transport to the Holy Land for the expected
thirty thousand men who, the leaders thought, would now answer the Pope’s call.
In the meantime, every man would return to his own estates to do what was
deemed necessary to prepare for the expedition.

One thing was certain:
 
a
small boy was doomed to disappointment because his father would no longer have
the time to accompany him to Leicester. It was several days later, back in the
Ile de France at Montfort, that Alicia broke the news to Amaury of his father’s
imminent departure for Venice. As she had expected, the small boy was very
disappointed but had guessed that something had changed because of the charged
atmosphere about the chateau.

The men had no idea how long they would be away. The preparations, which
involved not only provisioning the army but also preparing the chateau for the
absence of its lord, took a great deal of organisational skills. It was what
Alicia had trained for all her life and she accepted her responsibility calmly.
Simon knew his lands and the peasants who lived and worked on it would be in
safe hands. One of the things he most admired about Alicia was her cool head
and her ability to see right to the heart of a question. He was more worried
about Amaury, who for days had been dogging his every footstep, begging to be
allowed to go along with his father’s pages as far as Venice. The knights and
squires and other men at arms would continue onwards to the Holy Land with de
Montfort, but the younger pages would stay behind to await their masters.
Amaury begged to be one of them.

It was a point of heated discussion in the private chamber of the de
Montfort couple that evening. Simon was inclined to let Amaury have his wish
and follow in the baggage train of the army. Horrified at the thought, Alicia
was adamant that her son not go. It was madness, she had said, but Simon had
countered this with the argument that it would be the same training Amaury
would have received in Leicester. Only the venue was different.

“Only the venue is different!” Alicia voice was raised in anger. “How
can you say that? This is Venice we are talking about, and Amaury is not yet
nine! There are all manner of diseases he could catch as well as being exposed
to cut-throats. And what about the camp followers? Are you seriously suggesting
my son be exposed to them? Those women are no better than they should be, even
though they pretend to be there as cooks!”

She was red in the face by now, a most unusual occurrence for this
otherwise calm woman. Simon knew he must tread carefully. He was depriving this
lioness, who stood before him, of her cub. It had been difficult enough to
obtain her consent to let Amaury go to Leicester. She had agreed only because
she knew of the kindness of the Countess of Leicester, a cousin. She had known
that her son would be safe with her in England. Venice was another matter
altogether. It was an unknown to Alicia and, therefore, she greatly feared what
might happen.

“I think it will be good for Amaury. He will be with the other young
pages and have plenty of things to do to occupy his time. If you like, we could
send Guy’s nurse to look after him,” Simon added, knowing full well that Alicia
would never allow her son to be so shamed in front of all the other boys.

Alicia bit her lip. She was slowing coming to realise that this
discussion had been academic. Simon had intended all along, since the day of
Fulques’ sermon, that Amaury should go with him. Nothing she could say or do
would change his mind. She knew him well enough to know that once he had made a
decision, for good or ill, he stuck to it. “I suppose you had better tell him
the news then,” she said. She had the grace to know when she was beaten. “You
know I do not like it, and be it on your head should anything untoward befall
him.”

Simon caught her to him. How he loved and admired this woman! He knew
what her capitulation in this matter meant to her. He wiped the tears from the
corners of her eyes. “I vow to you, my lady, that I will protect his life with
my own and that I will bring him back safe and sound when this business is
over. Now, let us go and break the news to him together.”

To say that Amaury was delighted by the news would be an understatement.
He flung his arms about first one parent and then the other and almost dancing
with joy, ran to tell the pages with whom he would be travelling. Everyone
crowded round him, patting him on the back and punching him in the chest.

No one noticed the small boy who stood alone in the corner. Guy was
losing his big brother and no one seemed to care.
 

Chapter Six

Occitania, South of France

1200 - 1201 AD

The Occitanians

It was summer before Arnaud could bring himself to return to the cottage
in Ambres where his wife had died. He ambled slowly along the dusty road
leading to the village, kicking pebbles out of the way as he went, trying
desperately to put off his arrival at the cottage where he had known happiness
for such a short time. He noticed a roof tile was missing, and the lean-to shed
where his wife had kept her pig and a few chickens was hanging precariously off
the end wall of the house. His mind registered that he would need to fix that
before winter set in. It was then that he realised suddenly that he didn’t
really care what happened to the building. There was nothing left of the old
life worth preserving.

As he pushed against the door, the rusted metal hinges groaned in
protest, warning him to keep out. He wanted to turn away, to go back to Lavaur,
his courage deserting him.
Let someone
else do it,
he thought. He pulled himself together sharply. He owed his
dead wife this last duty.

He blinked as the sun shone through the door opening, revealing the
thick layer of dust that coated everything in the room. No one had thought to
clear the fireplace of ashes before the house had been closed up, and the
winter winds had done their damage, blowing in through the hole in the roof,
which, in happier times had let out the smoke from the fire.

Although it was still quite warm outside, it was dark and damp inside.
Arnaud fancied he could smell death and hastily opened the side door leading to
the lean-to. The past winter, although not cold, had delivered an unseasonable
amount of rain, and he could see the black mould climbing up the lime-washed
walls. How desolate it all seemed now. Where had the joyful times gone? Why did
only the sad memories remain?

Forcing himself to enter the small room where his wife had died, Arnaud
remembered the last time he had been there. In his imagination he could still
see his wife’s lifeless body. He wiped away the tears that had begun to flow at
the sad memories.
How easy it is to plan
our lives and have them destroyed in a single day
, he thought. Shuddering,
he left the room to begin the thankless task of clearing it of anything that
reminded him remotely of his past.

It was a small enough chore to rid himself of his former possessions;
the couple had not owned a great deal. What furniture they had managed to
acquire during their short life together was soon disposed of to the gaggle of
nosy neighbours who had congregated outside the cottage when they saw the door
had been opened. They were all well-meaning, the men shaking Arnaud heartily by
the hand, the women kissing him. Berthe, the midwife’s daughter, was there,
wiping her work-reddened hands on her apron. He noticed she was pregnant once
more.
This must be her fourth
, he
thought. She was still a handsome woman and seemed to bloom during her
pregnancies, even though life with her husband was far from easy. He was known
as the laziest man in Ambres, preferring to sit outside their cottage and pass
the time of day with the passers-by—not that there were many of those in
Ambres! Still, he was always ready for a chat should the occasion demand it.

Several of Arnaud’s former neighbours—some clutching pots and pans
and other cooking utensils and others some of his wife’s linen and old
clothes—insisted he go home with them for a bite to eat. Not wishing to
offend anyone, he begged off, saying that he must be back in Lavaur before
nightfall. Shepherding those who had come inside the cottage firmly out the
door, he closed the windows he had opened when he arrived, and with a last look
around, pulled the still resisting door shut.

He had only gone a little way—the good wishes of his former
neighbours still ringing in his ears—when he heard hurried footsteps
behind him. Turning, he saw that it was Berthe.

“I’ll walk a little of the way with you,” she said. “I would like to
hear how the baby is going on. She must be nearly a year now!”

“She’s nearly ten months and is doing well.” Arnaud could not help
sounding like a proud father. “She has begun to crawl and can say
‘papa’—at least that’s what it sounds like to me!”

Berthe smiled. “I imagine she is very pretty, like her mother.”

“She is. She looks exactly like her. She has the same blue eyes and
blond hair.” His voice took on a note of sadness.

“You must be very pleased that she went to the Boutarras. I have heard
only good things about Saissa. They say her own children are a credit to her. I
wish I could have had Maurina with me, but as you can see, I always seem to be
busy myself.” She looked down ruefully at her burgeoning figure before
whispering, “I heard they were believers.”

Arnaud looked at her, the surprise evident on his face. Could he trust
her with the truth about Saissa and Pierre? He knew Berthe’s reputation as a
gossip was second to none and didn’t wish to bring unwelcome attention to the
couple whom he had grown to admire for their dedicated way of life. He was well
aware that he could not have been more fortunate in his choice of foster
parents for his daughter.

“They may be,” he said, choosing a middle ground between outright denial
and admitting the truth.

“It’s only that I am interested in the believers myself,” she continued.
“I’ve spoken to one or two in the village here, but I have to keep it from my
husband. He’d be furious if he thought I was having anything to do with them.
You should have heard him go on about that man who came to see your poor wife
before she died. My mother was impressed by him, though, and she’s nobody’s
fool! She says she didn’t know what he said to your wife but could see that the
poor girl died happy. My husband thought it was a scandal. No priest and all,
you know. Well, to be honest, so did I at the time, but I’m not so sure now.
I’ve heard that even women can have their say in their meetings. That’s a bit
different from the Church,” she said with a sniff.

Hardly pausing for breath she went on. “My mother and I have been
talking. As a midwife she has seen all sorts of people—good and bad, rich
and poor—and she says she has never met a believer who did not live a
good, honest, hardworking life. We’d both like to find out a bit more about how
they live and why, but in this small place it’s difficult getting someone to
look after the children. And I daren’t ask their father to mind them…or any of
the neighbours—they’re all so nosy.”

Arnaud suppressed a chuckle. He was certain he was in the presence of
one of the nosiest women ever created by God, but didn’t doubt her sincerity.
He left her with the promise that he would ask around in Lavaur to find someone
who would come and talk to her.

Arnaud hardly noticed the walk back into Lavaur, so occupied was he by
what Berthe had said to him. If the truth were known—and he could
scarcely admit it to himself—he had spent the whole of last winter since
his wife had died, and most of the spring and summer, in the company of several
believers who had impressed him with their ideas and the fact that they lived
by what they preached. Never a religious man, he could easily recognize the
difference between them and the priests in the Catholic Church.

The abstemious way of living of the Cathars, as people were beginning to
call them, contrasted sharply with the profligate life that many of the
Catholic clergy led. There were some good and honest men amongst the
priests—those who strove to bring comfort to the poor and needy—but
on the whole, these were largely lost in the hundreds whose object it was to
get rich at the expense of their parishioners. Several Archbishops had spoken
out about the abuses they saw in their church, but there were just as many who
turned a blind eye to what was going on under their noses. Since the death of
his wife, Arnaud had turned these facts over in his mind time and time again.
He had never occupied himself much with his church; going to mass on an
irregular basis was the closest he had come to finding God. He could not
remember his last confession but he knew it had been before he had married!

As these thoughts chased one another around his head, his mind began to
clear a little. He realised that he had had little interest in women since his
wife had gone. There had been several who had pushed themselves forward, eager
to fill an empty space in Arnaud’s life—he was, after all, a well-set-up
man with good prospects in the glove trade now—however, rather than seek
the company of women, more often than not he had found himself in the company
of some of the Cathar elders, enjoying their lively discussions and listening
to their teachings. They were all, to a man and to a woman too, excellent and
persuasive speakers!
 

So it was, that along the dusty road leading to Lavaur, Arnaud finally
made up his mind to find out as much as he could about the beliefs of all the
good people he had encountered since his wife’s death. What the future would
bring he could not guess; he only knew that for the first time in nearly a
year, he had begun to feel a peace within himself.

When Arnaud, pleased with his decision, spoke to his in-laws, he saw
that there were tears in their eyes. It was an emotional time for the three of
them, for they all knew that but for the death of his wife, they would not be
savouring this moment in Arnaud’s life.

“If only she could have been here to see this,” said his mother-in-law,
kissing him. “She would have been so happy.”

“If she had lived to see this change in you, her life would have been
complete,” her husband added. “But come now,” he continued, “we both know that
she is alive and well somewhere in another body, and one day Arnaud, you will
be certain of it, too. If we truly believe this, there is no need at all for
sadness.”

His wife looked at him and in a voice quivering with emotion said, “I do
believe she sees what is going on and is happy that she was the instrument of
Arnaud’s calling.”

“No more tears, then. Arnaud’s way will be long and arduous. If he is to
achieve what God has chosen him for, we must help him all we can. God alone
knows what is in store for our Church. The Catholic Church sends out warnings
against us and some of our people have been burned at the stake in the north.
Times will be harder from now on and we should think ourselves blessed that our
Count Raymond, although not a believer himself, has many family members who are,
and does his best to protect us from the worst of any persecution. He has held
back the tide of hate that flows from Rome, but, alas, the waters are getting
stormier and he may not be strong enough to help us all he would wish.”

After this unexpectedly long speech from his father-in-law, Arnaud sat
down. Until this moment, he had truly not considered the persecution that the
believers had undergone. Of course, he had known that they practised their
religion under conditions of near secrecy, but he had not understood the
importance of this as a protective mechanism to ensure the survival of their
Church.

“You must take care to whom you speak.” Arnaud’s father-in-law looked
him straight in the eye. “Eventually, you will come to know all the brothers
and sisters, but in the meantime speak with Bertrand and seek his advice. He’ll
not fail you.”

Arnaud’s mother-in-law went off to prepare the simple supper they ate
every evening before bed—plain broth served with a few vegetables and
bread. Worn out by his walk into Ambres that day, seeing the remains of what
had been once a happy life, and the hugely emotional decision he had made,
Arnaud felt his eyelids begin to grow heavy.

“Why don’t you stay here tonight?” his mother-in-law suggested. “You can
get an early start tomorrow. You’ll probably catch Bertrand before he sets off
again.”

Arnaud gladly accepted the invitation. It had been a long day, one that
had been physically and emotionally draining. It did not take him many minutes,
wrapped in the warmth of the dying fire, to fall asleep.

Arnaud’s father-in-law looked at the young man speculatively as he
slept. “He’ll do,” he grunted. “He’s just the sort we need. He isn’t greedy for
worldly possessions and there doesn’t seem to be another woman on the horizon.
I’ve noticed a strength in him lately—not a hardness but a tempering,
like a fine metal. He’s very fit, too. Bertrand told me that when they were
away together last year, he was able to keep up with them and never once
flagged or asked for a rest.”

“Time will tell,” his wife said. “I am sure as I can be that God has
called him. And if it took our daughter’s death to accomplish this, I think I
can live with that.”

The next day Arnaud was up at dawn, intent on waylaying Bertrand before
he left on another preaching trip. He wasn’t sure where the
perfectus
had been staying, but armed
with some suggestions from his erstwhile hosts, he managed to track him down
after knocking at only two doors. He was just in time; the older man was
already garbed in the familiar black robes and sandals that signified his rank
in the Cathar Church and was saying his goodbyes to the faithful couple whose
religious zeal had made them worthy enough to receive him under their roof.

Although he was in a hurry, for he had a long journey ahead of him that
day, Bertrand greeted Arnaud with a warmth that spoke volumes to the younger
man. He had heard these men called
bons
hommes
by non-believers and he was beginning to understand why. They were
good men. Although people who didn’t really understand what the elders were
about had accused them of being miserable because of their austere way of
living, there was no doubt that their example had caught the imagination of
many in the general population. They visited village after village, and indeed chateau
after chateau, where they were received with extreme veneration as they carried
their message in their preaching. Even the most cynical of non-believers had to
admit that the lives of these men of God were dedicated and pure. Fasting was a
way of life to them; often their only meal would be bread and water. In any
event, no meat ever passed their lips and they would sooner die themselves than
kill any living creature. It was well known that one of them had once chosen to
be hanged rather than kill a chicken!