The Secret Familiar

by Catherine Jinks

And being new to Narbonne, I was not accustomed to the brazen self-confidence of its people.

  My memory of Imbert Rubei’s visit to the shop is not so clear. His face has remained with me; I recognised it instantly, upon first sighting him outside the house of Vincent Hulart. But I cannot place him in my shop, no matter how hard I try. I cannot recall what he wore, nor what he said. It is maddening.

  If nothing else, this demonstrates why my register—and this journal—are so necessary. Without them, my memory is a weak and imperfect thing.

  Imbert Rubei’s name appears only once in the pages of my register. Having bought his three quires of parchment, he promptly disappeared, and never returned to my shop. Could he have been buying parchment for a heretical text? Perhaps. If this was the case, however, why did he identify himself? Such a purchase would have been better made anonymously, or under an assumed name.

  Perhaps the parchment was intended for a legitimate purpose. After all, a silk merchant is a man of many financial transactions, which must be recorded somewhere. I have no way of knowing what his intentions really were.

  The only thing I do know, now, is the location of his house. This is very fortunate, since he must be a Beguin. Only consider the facts: firstly, he used the phrase ‘Blessed be the name of Jesus Christ’ in greeting; secondly, he protested the excommunication of the Spiritual Franciscans; thirdly, he is a silk merchant who wears a brown worsted tunic.

  Furthermore, he is a friend of Berengar Blanchi. The pair of them spent a long time together on the anniversary of Pierre Olivi’s death. And Berengar Blanchi is the cousin of Vincent Hulart. And Vincent Hulart was the only name given to Jacques Bonet, before he vanished.

  It seems to me that I should pay a visit to the house of Imbert Rubei. Though not before I visit the house of Berengaria Donas.

  All at once, I feel as if I am surrounded by Beguins.

  X.

  Thursday before Holy Week

  Today I went to the draper’s shop near the Inn of the Star, my head full of Pierre Olivi’s postilla.

  I was unable to finish it last night, because it is a long and difficult work. Nevertheless, I read enough to understand why my master finds it alarming. According to Olivi’s interpretation of the Holy Scriptures, there are seven eras of the Church, and the sixth was founded by St Francis. In the writer’s opinion, St Francis was, after Christ and His mother, the chief observer of the evangelical life. His evangelical rule will be crucified at the end of the sixth era, as Christ was once crucified. The seventh era will then begin with the death of the Antichrist, and the bodily resurrection of St Francis. It will also see the founding of a new Church.

  If I were a Dominican, I would be very concerned to read such things.

  My master once gave me some advice that I have never forgotten. He had discovered a Cathar book called The Secret Supper, which he asked me to read—for it had been translated into the vernacular. This book was full of lies. It claimed, among other errors, that Satan had made all living things; that he had fashioned man out of clay in his own image, and had thereafter imprisoned the spirits of angels in each clay body.

  Before giving me this book, Bernard Gui told me a great truth. He told me that many people will believe a lie when it is written down, simply because they regard script of any sort as somehow holy. He warned me that uneducated men will often be led astray in this manner. For they will read or hear only vernacular translations, of which there are very few; since Latin is the only language that can be understood throughout the world, most of the wisdom available to us is in Latin.

  ‘Heretics draw their own conclusions even where their knowledge is incomplete, and therefore imperfect,’ he said to me. ‘If they had read everything that I have read—if they were familiar with the words of St Augustine, and St Jerome, and St Anselm, and all the other great writers who have defended both God and the Church with their pens—they would know better than to accept as the truth any lie that they happen to read, simply because it is written.’

  Now, I myself have discovered that lies seem to have more substance when they are written down. Even The Secret Supper impressed me as being remarkable, despite its many absurdities. Had I read it without my master’s guidance, I might have been moved to believe it. For I am not an educated man. I am unfamiliar with the words of St Augustine, and St Jerome, and St Anselm.

  But I have been exposed to a number of heretical texts. And the more you read of such works, the less you are inclined to believe them. For they all have something different to say, and none of it seems proven or confirmed by what I have seen of the world around me. I ask myself: if these heretics are so right, then why are their various truths not manifest? And why, if I must choose between heresies, should I choose any one above another?

  My master is correct when he says that pride is at the root of all heresy. How, in good conscience, can a man like me—so small and weak and uneducated—set himself against the Church, with all its earthly glory and its ancient wisdom? This is something that I frequently ask myself. Yet heretics fail to do so, and fall into error as a consequence.

  In many cases, such pride is their only fault. While some heretics are murderers, and liars, and hypocrites, and men without conscience, others are in many ways worthy of admiration. They live modest lives, replete with good works and severe self-denial. Even Bernard Gui has admitted as much. ‘The school of the devil, with its appearance of good, seems, in monkey fashion, to imitate the school of Christ in some ways,’ he once remarked.

  I wish that it were not so. I wish that the Beguins, for instance, were venal and vicious. If they were, it would be easier to betray them. It would be easier to think: ‘They are a canker in the heart of Christendom, and must be cauterised immediately, lest they infect and corrupt the body of the Church.’

  But I fear that Berengaria Donas is neither vicious nor venal. She strikes me as being fervent, generous, warmhearted, overconfident, somewhat strident, and just a little bit stupid. Yet she is also a heretic, alas. And as such, she is a danger to us all.

  If only there was some way to make her see reason, before she brings ruin down upon her friends and family!

  The problem, as I see it, is her self-assurance. And the reason for that becomes clear when you visit her house. She lives off the Rue Droite, in a large and handsome stone building which is open to the street on the ground floor. Here I saw roll upon roll of the very finest cloth: biffe of Provins, sarge of Beaucaire, toile of Reims, brocade and samite and damask. The spotty youth watching over this valuable stock cannot have been more than twenty years old, yet he was dressed with the sombre dignity of a middle-aged consul, in long and full garments, beautifully cut.

  I did wonder if he was Berengaria’s son. It seemed likely. He was tall and thin, and his face was long. Yet when I greeted him with the words ‘Blessed be the name of Jesus Christ’, he gave a snort, and jerked his head towards the back of the shop.

  ‘My stepmother is in the kitchen,’ he said.

  It would be impossible to convey his exact tone, which was at the same time impatient, dismissive, subdued, hostile, haughty and disillusioned. It surprised me, I must confess. So did the richness of his apparel, and the lavish furnishings of the shop. (I counted at least three pairs of scissors, and there might have been more.) No expense had been spared to demonstrate that Pierre Donas the draper was a man of the most immense wealth, taste and importance.

  But this illusion ended at the kitchen door. In the Donas kitchen, there was no trace of excess or indulgence. Everything was simple and unadorned; even the few pieces of furniture were as humble as anything you might see in the passes of the Pyrenees. Aside from this furniture, and a meagre amount of food, the kitchen contained only a couple of iron pots, one sharp knife, some wooden spoons, an axe, a hook and a small collection of plain terracotta, none of it decorated in any way.

  The room’s sole adornment was Berengaria Donas, who whirled around in shock when I burst in. My entry was deliberately abru
pt; I wanted no one prepared for my coming. Since the spotty youth had not announced my arrival, I felt that I would be safe enough if I slammed through the kitchen door (hard enough to make it bounce off the wall beside me), before closing and barring it, so as to guard my back. Naturally, I had kept close watch on Berengaria’s stepson, who did not attempt to follow me in.

  There were two other doors leading out of the kitchen. One opened into a courtyard, and stood ajar; the second was shut. No fire was burning. I counted three people in the room: Berengaria Donas, the swarthy tailor, and the long-necked girl. The man and the girl were sitting at a table, eating.

  ‘What—what—’ the matron stammered. ‘Is that you, Helié Seguier?’

  ‘Yes.’

  With her hand to her breast, Na Berengaria sank onto a stool. ‘Why such haste?’ she said. ‘You startled me.’

  ‘I brought your parchment.’ Crossing the room, I flung open the closed door without taking my eyes off the tailor, who was large and well built and posed the greatest threat. ‘You asked me to come.’

  ‘You’re early,’ said the tailor. And it was true. I had timed my visit so as to surprise those awaiting me—in case they wished me ill.

  The adjoining room was a kind of cellar, filled with casks and sacks. No one appeared to be hiding in its shadowy recesses. So I shut the door on it, and moved to the next— which I closed and barred.

  ‘Are you afraid of something?’ asked the tailor.

  ‘Of many things,’ I rejoined. ‘This parchment is valuable.’

  The tailor scowled. ‘Are you calling us thieves?’ he demanded, whereupon Berengaria placed a reproving hand on his arm.

  ‘Master Helié has good reason to be nervous,’ she said. ‘As do we all. He has seen what befalls those who remain faithful.’ And her eyes filled with tears. ‘May we ourselves prove as steadfast in the face of such terrible suffering and persecution.’

  The pale girl crossed herself. The tailor rose abruptly. I must admit that I fell back in alarm, for he was—as I have said—a large man, with long limbs and a broad frame. But he offered no violence. Instead he placed a hand on each of my shoulders.

  ‘We saw you at the field of martyrdom,’ he announced. ‘We saw you gather up holy relics of our brothers and sisters in Christ.’

  ‘You are mistaken,’ I said, wriggling out of his grasp. The tailor, however, would not be denied.

  ‘I saw you,’ he insisted. ‘I was there, to bear witness.’

  ‘We have our own holy relics,’ Berengaria added. She too rose, and held out her hand. ‘Come. Let me show you.’

  I hesitated.

  ‘You have nothing to fear from us.’ Her eyes were still wet, yet she offered me a smile of entreaty. ‘We embrace you as a brother, Master Helié. What makes you so afraid?’

  ‘I come from Carcassonne,’ was my carefully thought-out reply. ‘The home of Jean de Beaune.’

  ‘That devil!’ spat the pale girl. ‘He will burn in hell!’

  ‘We must pray for the soul of Jean de Beaune, that he may become enlightened,’ said Berengaria. ‘But we are not his friends. We are your friends, Master Helié.’

  She then introduced the tailor as Blaise Bouer, and the girl as Guillelma Roger. Blaise appears to be a customer of the Donas family, while Guillelma’s father—according to the matron—is unsympathetic to his daughter’s spiritual needs. Therefore she spends most of her time at the Donas house, where she helps to cook and clean and cut wood.

  ‘We are all of us good Christians, dedicated to serving the poor,’ Na Berengaria informed me. ‘On Sundays we gather here, with some other good people, and pray, and read from certain holy texts, and collect alms for those whom the Carnal Church would condemn—such as the poor and the weak, and fugitives from unjust persecution.’

  You may be sure I was interested to hear that. Yet I asked no questions, and remained wary, standing with my wrapped parchment clasped to my chest.

  ‘We would welcome you into our midst, on those days,’ Berengaria continued. ‘We are overjoyed to have found you, Helié Seguier.’

  ‘You will draw strength from our faith,’ said Guillelma. ‘This is a house of poverty, and we all believe in the evangelical life, such as was described by the blessed Pierre.’

  ‘You must bring your relics with you,’ Berengaria instructed, ‘that we may venerate them along with our own.’

  I looked from one guileless face to another. Though Blaise had a slightly forbidding aspect, his brown eyes were clear and keen. Na Berengaria smiled serenely, like the Blessed Virgin. Guillelma’s countenance shone in a way that boded ill for the lot of them; she had about her the appearance of someone moved by an incandescent rage against the rich and the powerful.

  ‘You are mistaken,’ I repeated, stalling. Whereupon Berengaria took my hand, and led me into the cellar. I must confess that I was reluctant to follow, since Blaise was practically treading on my heels. But I could not with any justification have refused to go; I had already shown myself suspicious enough, and was afraid that any further show of resistance would cause them to wonder at the extent of my distrust.

  So I put my faith in the knife that I had concealed in my boot. And I went into the cellar, where I met with no rough handling. On the contrary, the mood of my companions was subdued and reverent. And I saw why when Blaise opened one of the casks.

  Concealed inside this cask was a large wooden box, almost as big as a linen chest. Though the light was poor, I could see that it was finely carved. Gently lifting its lid, Blaise revealed a bundle of white silk, rather bulky and evil-smelling. Then Na Berengaria knelt down. With the practised ease of a woman accustomed to manipulating rich fabrics, she unwrapped the bundle rapidly and gracefully, to expose one of the grisliest objects that I have ever encountered.

  ‘This is the head of Esclaramonde Serrallerii,’ Berengaria murmured. ‘And this is her shoulder, and part of her chest.’

  ‘Amen,’ said Guillelma.

  ‘And this is the kidney of Jean Egleysa. And this is the shin of Brother Pierre de Frayssenet, holy martyr of God.’

  Solemnly they all three crossed themselves, apparently unmoved by the unpleasant odour. I followed their lead. There was a moment of devout silence, after which Berengaria leaned forward and gently kissed the blackened, grinning teeth of Esclaramonde Serrallerii.

  When she looked up at me, I knew what I had to do.

  God knows, I have done worse in my life. Once I hid in a dung heap. Once, while starving in the mur at Toulouse, I ate bread that the gaoler had pissed on. Once, outside the cave of La Vache, I killed a man, striking him with a rock and then finishing him off with his own axe.

  Once I abandoned a girl who loved me.

  Always, in life, there are acts that must be performed, and suffering that must be endured. God has willed it so. Therefore I dropped to one knee, and planted a lingering kiss upon the shin of Brother Pierre de Frayssenet, which looked like nothing so much as a piece of splintered charcoal.

  By this simple display of veneration, I won Na Berengaria’s entire sympathy and trust. Even Blaise was convinced—as well he might be. Having passed such a challenging test of devotion, I was embraced by all, one after the other. Then, while Blaise returned the relics to their hiding place, I was gently questioned by Berengaria. When had I come to Narbonne, and why? Was it in pursuit of enlightenment? Or had I been fleeing persecution?

  I explained that my family had been active supporters of the Franciscan Bernard Delicieux, who for so long had fought the Dominican inquisitors at Carcassonne, and who had died in prison as a consequence, only the year before. Jean de Beaune was suspicious of everyone who bore my name, I said. Therefore I had left Carcassonne some five years previously, and had found peace in Narbonne.

  ‘But I live in constant fear,’ was my earnest—and truthful— declaration. ‘Jean de Beaune seems to be everywhere, nowadays. If I were to raise my head, he would surely chop it off. I have kept myself to myself, for how can I tru
st anyone?’

  ‘You can trust us,’ Berengaria insisted.

  ‘You have given me no choice,’ I replied. ‘You know me now, and I know you. We must trust each other.’

  ‘Have no fear, Helié Seguier,’ said the matron, with a confidence that seemed ill-founded to me. ‘You should understand that we are not required to take oath before prelates and inquisitors in regard to anything but the faith and the articles of faith. Are you aware of that? If we are questioned about our brothers and sisters, we are not obliged to speak, even if under oath, because in doing so we would not be loving our neighbour in the way of Christ. Also, if we are excommunicated for refusing to tell the truth before any court, such excommunication is unjust, and does not bind us. Since the prelates and inquisitors themselves are heretics.’ She smiled at me, in a reassuring fashion. ‘Therefore you need not fear that we shall betray you. Even if one of us is arrested, there is no risk. We have all agreed not to speak of each other to our enemies.’

  ‘We would die, rather!’ Guillelma exclaimed, and Blaise nodded. I hardly knew where to look. The naïvety of these people is astounding.

  Do they truly believe that inquisitors extract information purely by the imposition of solemn oaths?

  ‘So do not abandon us through fear,’ said Berengaria, in a tone almost of command. ‘You are the lost sheep in the wilderness. You must return to the fold, where you will find strength in your faith, and where you can do good for the poor. Come to us on Sunday. Come and join us in our prayers, after Mass.’

  ‘This Sunday is Palm Sunday,’ I pointed out.

  ‘All the more reason to come. Better to worship Christ among the humble and devoted, in a house of poverty, than before wicked priests hung about with gold.’

  There was a murmur of agreement. I felt constrained to join in, and when I did so, was rewarded with Na Berengaria’s approving smile. This widened when I agreed that my parchment should be donated, free of charge, to the holy cause of spreading Pierre Olivi’s wisdom. ‘For the money that you have saved me,’ Berengaria observed, as she conducted me from her kitchen, ‘I shall be able to feed an entire hospice full of lepers for a month.’ And she patted my cheek, with a kind of brisk and motherly indulgence, before turning me loose on her doorstep.