There was a squat, bare-legged, well-muscled man in a tunic of coarse grey stamin, who carried a wooden cask. His companion was probably a seaman, and recently disembarked, to judge from his curious rolling gait; he had unusually long grey hair, yet his face was relatively unlined. These two men were undertaking a delivery of some sort. They left without the cask.
There was a fat man who came with his servant. The wealth of this man was clear for all to see: he wore boots of cordwain, robes of embroidered Elne silk, and a cloak that looked like Chalons cameline, lined with more silk. His buttons were made of pearl, and his face was highly coloured from many good meals replete with rich food and fine wine. His servant, in contrast, was thin and pale. Left on the doorstep to wait for his master, this servant gazed at me dully at first, before venting his frustration by pulling a series of grotesque faces. Undoubtedly he assumed that, being blind, I would be oblivious to his crossed eyes and bared teeth. I was not, however, and had to struggle with my own expression. (One smile would have unmasked me.)
When the rich man emerged, he was attended by Vincent Hulart. I know this because the rich man spoke loudly, and addressed the spice merchant by name. Vincent Hulart was a slight, fair-skinned, curly-haired man, whose grave expression made him look older than he probably was. He was neatly dressed in solemn colours—grey, black and purple— but I doubt that he is a true Beguin, for there was a silver clasp on his belt.
I barely glimpsed him before he went back inside, leaving the rich man with a little leather bag of something that he sniffed at appreciatively, on his way to the Grain Market. (Nutmeg, perhaps. Or saffron.)
Another visitor was an elderly man whose face looked vaguely familiar to me. Ever since I saw it I have been racking my brain, but I cannot place those sunken cheeks or that square jaw. His eyebrows were grey and bushy; he was slightly lame, but solidly built. Despite the gold ring on the middle finger of his left hand, he wore brown worsted clothes of the very simplest cut, and a leather thong around his waist. When he reached the house of Vincent Hulart, a serving-girl answered his knock.
I heard him ask for Berengar Blanchi, whereupon she requested his name. ‘Imbert Rubei,’ he answered—yet still I was at a loss. (The name Imbert Rubei means nothing to me, alas.) The girl withdrew; there was a short wait; then a man emerged from the house who bore little resemblance to Vincent Hulart. He was taller and darker, with a vivid and mobile face, all nose and mouth and large, dark eyes. He flung wide his long arms when he saw his elderly visitor. ‘Blessed be the name of Jesus Christ!’ he exclaimed, embracing Imbert Rubei. Who immediately responded with an identical salutation: ‘Blessed be the name of Jesus Christ.’
This is worthy of remark, I think. It had almost the quality of a recitation, or formula.
‘Will you break bread with us today?’ Imbert inquired of Berengar Blanchi.
‘I should be honoured,’ was the reply.
Whereupon the two of them walked off, arm in arm. I should have liked to have followed them, but I could not— not as a blind beggar, in any case. Besides, I had set myself a task. I had determined to watch the house from dawn till dusk, in the hope of identifying any unusual activity that might relate to the anniversary of Pierre Olivi’s death.
By the end of the day, I had determined that Vincent Hulart’s mind was not on dead Franciscans. He was a busy man—prosperous, respectable and preoccupied. His wife was pregnant, and wore fur trimming on her cloak. She already had three young children. The household also consisted of a wet nurse, a maid, and a witless-looking manservant. I saw the maid several times, scuttling out to buy bread and fish and fetch water. I saw the wife only once, when she emerged to pay someone a visit. The youngest child was all over the street. He kept escaping the custody of his wet nurse; he even pushed open a first-floor shutter, and might have fallen if someone had not pulled him back inside. I have no doubt that the piercing screams I sometimes heard were his. Nor was I surprised when, during one of his forays into the wider world, he came to stand before me, his thumb in his mouth, his eyes wide with curiosity.
I was concerned that he might prod at one of my scars. But the wet nurse soon discovered him, and whisked him off before he could do any damage.
I was approached on only three other occasions during the day. Even in a city the size of Narbonne, a newcomer cannot remain utterly unremarked—especially in a quarter full of respectable burghers and guildsmen. The Rue de la Parerie Neuve is not the sort of thoroughfare where dead dogs, heaps of excrement or expiring beggars are roundly ignored. At one point, an angry matron approached me with a broom, and urged me in no uncertain terms to stop spoiling the look of the street. The hospice of St-Paul, she said, was the proper place for someone like me. In response, I mumbled the Lord’s Prayer in Saxon (having learned it from a mercenary guard in Toulouse), and convinced her that I could not understand. Then she pushed at me with her broom, causing another woman to scold her from across the street. ‘Is this street your very own, that you would decide who uses it?’ my defender snapped. I was forgotten in the ensuing argument.
Towards the middle of the day, a man passed me who stopped, turned, and retraced his steps. He wore the robes of an Augustinian canon. He said: ‘Can you hear me, Blind Man? Do you need guidance?’
I knew that Saxon would not avail me, since there was every chance he might have some acquaintance with it. So I simply held out my hand, and was much relieved when my female defender from across the street—who was sewing in the good light to be had upon her doorstep—remarked: ‘He cannot understand you, Father, he is foreign.’
‘Foreign?’ said the canon.
‘Only a foreigner would try to beg here,’ she joked. ‘There are much better pickings near St-Sebastien.’
‘If he is still here at nightfall, you should take him to St-Paul,’ the canon suggested.
‘I?’
‘You will serve God in doing so.’ The canon traced a cross over my head, then went hurriedly about his business.
I resolved that I would make my escape long before any attempt was made to succour me.
The third person who approached me was Berengar Blanchi. He returned to the house not long before I departed, and his appearance was curious; his eyes had a damp sheen, his cheeks were flushed, and he seemed to be somewhere else in his mind—to judge from the way he walked straight through a pile of horse dung. He noticed me, though. Just as he reached his cousin’s front door, he hesitated, swung around, and came up to me, fumbling in his purse as he did so. From a closer vantage point, his expression was even more peculiar: wildly exultant, yet at the same time deeply troubled.
He dropped a silver livre into my hand, and did not stay to receive my mumbled blessing.
I have my suspicions about Berengar Blanchi. His long, dark robes had a vaguely clerical cut to them. He wore a scrubby beard and very short hair. His fervent gaze and uncontrolled movements hinted at a mystical nature of the kind that is better walled up in a monastery than set free to roam unchecked through the streets. I wish I knew where he went. Of all the people I saw today, moving in or out of Vincent Hulart’s house, he was the one who most resembled the Beguin I met in the Capitol Tower.
So far, he is my most likely suspect.
The sun was sinking towards the horizon when I finally left the Rue de la Parerie Neuve. I did not return to the graveyard of St-Paul. Instead I went straight to the church of St-Nazaire, which is small and very dark inside. Here I wedged myself between a corner and a column, and washed myself as best I could with the water from my wineskin. I would have done so at a city well, or on the bank of the Aude, had I been careless of my privacy. Such a transformation, however, was not one to be effected in public if I wished to avoid notice.
I had to change my clothes, too. This was a more difficult task. At one point I was interrupted by the passing of a priest very close to my hiding place, and had to freeze with one arm held aloft, thrust halfway into a dangling sleeve. Fortunately, the priest was old and hal
f-blind. I heard him trip over a stair, and mutter something most unpriestly as a consequence.
I would not have attempted such a mad undertaking if any daily office had been in progress. But with the choir empty, I was confident that I would not be disturbed.
It was impossible to wash my hair. Instead I hid it under my hood, resolving to attend to it when I was at home. I also abandoned my stick, which can easily be replaced. And on my way out of the church, I left my beggar’s takings for the poor.
I was one of the last back into the Cité, before the gates closed.
Martin must have been waiting in my workroom. He came scampering downstairs as I entered the shop, even though it was twilight and he should have been with his parents. His presence annoyed me. I was concerned that he might question the state of my hair, or wonder why I still carried a heavy load when I claimed to have been distributing samples all day. Though it was dark down in the shop, with every shutter closed and no candles lit, I would have preferred an unseen arrival.
‘What are you doing here?’ I snapped, and he faltered on the stairs. I could not see his face very well in the poor light, but I am quite sure that it assumed a stricken look.
‘I—I—’
‘There was no work for you today. I told you not to touch any of the skins.’
‘Master, I did not . . .’
‘Then you had no business here. Go home.’
I was eager to conceal all the secret things in my bundle. I was anxious to reach the barrel in my cellar, and lift the flagstone beneath it. But Martin’s whispered apology, and the way he fumbled at the wall for support as he turned from me, had a chastening effect on my conscience.
‘Martin,’ I said, in a gentler tone, ‘these are my quarters. You should not make free of them as if they were your own.’
‘No, Master.’
‘Of course you are welcome. More so than anyone else. But you must not come in if I tell you to stay out.’
‘Master,’ he objected—albeit in a very small voice—‘you told me not to touch the skins. You did not tell me to stay out.’
Surprised, I peered through the gathering shadows. Was he being insolent? Even now, I cannot decide. Yet there was no trace of disrespect in his stance or his manner. Just an earnest desire to avoid condemnation.
‘You have the mind of a legist, my friend,’ I said dryly. ‘Very well. You have me there. Do not presume on my goodwill, however.’
He assured me that he would not. All the same, I have my doubts.
He will continue to presume on my goodwill, I feel sure. Because he knows quite well that he has it.
VII.
Monday, Feast of St Benedict
Today I went to the sermo generalis of Jean de Beaune. The Inquisitor himself was present, as was the Archbishop, the Viscount, and many priests and friars. I did not see my master. But I did see Pons the Beguin.
He was burned, along with sixteen others.
I cannot imagine the expense of such an undertaking. In Toulouse, I remember, there was always much bickering about the exorbitant cost of an execution: of the stakes, the ropes, the wood, the straw—even the executioners. (One is appointed to each heretic, and they cost twenty sols apiece.) To burn one heretic, it is necessary to spend something in the region of three livres a head. Multiply that by seventeen, and marvel at the threat posed by these Beguins—whose confiscated possessions cannot be that much of a prize, if they truly believe in Holy Poverty.
Proceedings began yesterday, in the cathedral. They took place on a high platform under the makeshift roof. The crowds were not so great in there, and I had an excellent view of the heretics, and of Jean de Beaune as he delivered his sermon. It was not a good sermon. The Inquisitor scoffed at those who would ‘die for no good reason’. ‘These men wish to be burned for barley and for the colour brown!’ he proclaimed, leaving all to think: then why kill them? Bernard Gui would not have made such an error.
After the sermon came the oath of obedience, and the solemn decree of excommunication against all impeding the Inquisitor in his work. To my surprise, no confessions were read aloud; only the charges. Some were very minor, and the accused in these cases all agreed to repent. They were given terms of imprisonment, and in one instance a pilgrimage with crosses. Seventeen Beguins, however, refused to abjure their heresies. Some of them tried to explain why— Pons among them. They were immediately silenced, by the simple expedient of removing them from the cathedral with great force and speed.
All were returned to the Capitol Tower for one more night’s reflection, before their sentences were carried out.
None changed his mind. Seventeen stakes had been raised in Caularia Square, next to the gate, and each of them was used today. There was hardly room in the square to accommodate so many piles of faggots, let alone every person who turned out to watch the Beguins meet their fiery ends. The crowd at the execution site was far bigger than that in the cathedral. Indeed, it was so great that I despaired of spotting a hidden Beguin among all the good Catholics. Nevertheless, I scanned the hundreds of faces with great concentration, and was finally rewarded after most of them had gone.
The execution itself was particularly unpleasant. As ever, the fault lay in a lack of proper organisation, such as my master would never tolerate; I suspect that the root of the problem was money. It costs money to buy ropes and kindling, as I have said. In Toulouse, heretics are always tied at the ankles, below the knee, above the knee, at the groin, at the waist, and under the arms. A chain is also secured around the neck, and faggots mixed with straw piled up almost to the chin. By this means, the fire is quick and fierce, and the possibility of an unexpected release, through the burning of any one ligature, exceedingly remote.
Today, no chains were used. The heretics were tied only twice, around the ankles and chest. Most dreadfully, the fuel was insufficient, and some of it must have been a little damp. (Even as Jean de Beaune was asking the Beguins to recant, I was thinking to myself: ‘These pyres are not finished, surely?’) When lit, the wood emitted a lot of smoke and very little flame. There were hacking coughs, and pitiful cries, and more wood and straw had to be rushed into the square as people fled from the stinking pall that hung over the cathedral and palace. Even some of the clerics departed, looking pale and sick.
This made matters a good deal easier for me. Only the most fervent souls felt constrained to hold their ground— whether they were for or against the Beguins. While covering my mouth and nose with a piece of cloth, I peered through the smoke with streaming eyes at those who remained.
There was no point looking for tears. In that smoke, everyone was weeping. People who covered their faces were not necessarily overcome with horror, though it must be confessed that one of the heretics had dropped from his stake; owing to the unevenness of his pyre, his bonds had burned through while he was still alive (if unconscious), and the panic-stricken guards were heaving more vine branches onto his twitching body. I cannot think such a spectacle worthy of the Church. I was glad that the smoke obscured much of the initial conflagration, though a wind sprang up soon after the bells of St-Just began tolling, and dispersed some of that noxious cloud.
I was also glad that Martin did not attend. Though his father and eldest brother were present, Martin himself had been left in my workroom, with firm instructions about finishing a parchment. It was the first time I had ever let him finish a parchment (that is, scrape it for the second time), and I was worried that he might ruin it. But I am so very, very glad that he did not witness what I witnessed today. It was a disgraceful exhibition of greed and incompetence. No doubt the Viscount was to blame—or perhaps the Royal Viguier. I hope that Jean de Beaune calls him to task for it.
Despite the confusion, however, I can testify that there were some who died most bravely. Pons was among them. My wandering gaze was drawn back repeatedly to his pyre, where he prayed aloud in a firm voice until the smoke billowed up to choke him. I was not close enough to hear any final pleas, nor to witn
ess his death agonies—for which I am grateful. The smoke obscured much of what I preferred to avoid seeing. Nevertheless, I observed that he died well.
And this was noted, as it is always noted. I was watching a group of muttering Franciscans when I heard a voice remark, just behind me: ‘He died a good death. He must be a holy martyr.’ Looking around, I perceived a man of about my own age, addressing his older companion. The younger man was tall and swarthy, with a scrubby jaw, a tumbling thatch of thick black hair, and eyebrows as dark and threatening as thunderclouds. His distinguishing features were his missing front tooth and the hard calluses on his right thumb and forefinger, which marked him as a tailor. (Shoemakers have similar calluses, but in slightly different locations on the hand.)
His companion was shorter, fatter and half-bald. He had small features clustered together in the middle of his round, red face: a button nose, a pursed-up mouth like a cat’s fundament, and a pair of little, watering eyes the colour of the Aude after heavy rain. I was at a loss when it came to his livelihood, until I saw him roll his right shoulder in a certain way, and wince as he rubbed his elbow.
A weaver, I thought. And my senses were suddenly alert. For of all the trades, in all parts of the world, weaving is the most prone to errors of belief. I do not know why. Perhaps it is because a weaver must sit rooted to the spot, day after day, making the same motion over and over and over again. Perhaps, in the circumstances, anyone would take leave of his senses, and start pondering questions that should rightly be left to people with more education.
Whatever the cause, you should never lose sight of a weaver if you can possibly help it. I kept my eyes on this one, and was pleased that he did not leave the site of the execution. Instead he and the tailor remained in the square, sometimes praying, sometimes solemnly watching, as the heretics died and the flames guttered. I should mention that Imbert Rubei was nowhere in evidence. This surprised me, because I had thought that such a pious-seeming man, in such humble brown worsted, would certainly attend this most solemn of occasions. But I did see Berengar Blanchi, Imbert’s friend and Vincent Hulart’s cousin. He was red-eyed and white-faced, swaying back and forth at the edge of the crowd, praying fervently.
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