Having checked my previous entries in this journal, I now know why the name ‘Alegre’ is so familiar. It was my master who mentioned it during our last meeting. Alegre was the maiden name of Guillaume Hulart’s wife, Jacquette. Jacquette Alegre was a follower of the Beguin Rixende, some thirty years ago. Her husband was Vincent Hulart’s father—and Berengar Blanchi’s uncle.
So the priest from the Archbishop’s Chancellery may very well be related to Berengar Blanchi.
I cannot tell how important this connection might be. In my own native land, I have known Cistercian abbots and Cathar perfecti who have sprung from the same stock. I have known cousins who would happily kill each other, and cousins who would die for each other. In a city such as Narbonne, moreover, it is easy enough to avoid one’s relatives, as long as one lives in a different quarter and parish.
Besides, the connection between the priest and the heretic might be too remote to count as a connection at all.
It is worth keeping in mind, though. Sejan Alegre interests me. If he works for the Archbishop’s Chancellery, then he cannot live far from the Archbishop’s palace. In which case he might very well have a benefice at the cathedral of St-Just, next door. And if Sejan Alegre is attached to the cathedral, there could be a link between him and the man I finally found this morning, in the Hospital of St-Just for the Poor of Narbonne. Who knows? Nothing can be disregarded— not at this stage.
Happily, the search was not as long as it could have been. Though I was absent from my shop for an entire morning, it could easily have been a whole day; visiting all the hospitals in Narbonne would be a full day’s work. I had decided to disregard the city’s leprosaria, at least for the time being. Since they occupy sites outside the walls, I thought it more likely that my quarry would be working elsewhere. It must also be confessed that I was reluctant to visit a leprosarium, unless absolutely necessary. Such places are not for the faint of heart.
I began my search near the northernmost gate of Narbonne, at the hospital of St-Jacques, with the intention of moving southwards and ending at St-Paul. St-Jacques was an alarming sight. It had not occurred to me that Easter would fill it to bursting point; only when I reached it, and saw the mass of people spilling from its doors and silting up its rooms, did I recollect that St-Jacques is above all a place of lodging for pilgrims, and that pilgrims tend to be very much in evidence during Holy Week.
I cannot give the vaguest estimate of how many people were seeking shelter there. Had I tried to count them, the ceaseless movement would have defeated me. In the hall every bench and table was occupied by shrouded, sleeping forms. Whole families—some with children—were encamped in corners. One or two of the guests inhabiting this room seemed poorly; there was a grey-faced old woman slumped wearily against the wall with her mouth hanging open, and a man shivering with fever. But for the most part I saw only healthy travellers in the hall.
The ill and dying had been relegated to a couple of long, rush-strewn dormitories. It was in the largest of these chambers that most of the attendants were concentrated— among them many lay brethren. I recognised two members of the charitable group known as the Good Works of the Whites. There was also a man carrying a water jug who was dressed rather like a Franciscan tertiary, though I doubt that he could have been one (since Franciscan tertiaries often end up on the stake, these days) and another man clad in the robes of the order of St-Esprit. A priest of St-Sebastien murmured prayers over one deathbed, while a dishevelled but handsomely attired layman was bloodletting with grim efficiency, stopping every once in a while to scold the queasy-looking boy who held the basin.
But none of these attendants was the man who followed me yesterday. Nor did I find him in the courtyard, where more weary pilgrims clustered around the well and the entrance to the latrines. Though I spent some time picking my way across crowded floors, and scanning all the dazed, fretful, flustered, pinched, tired and unhappy faces, I saw no trace of the man I sought. Neither was I challenged by anyone in authority, though one of the guests did ask me for food. Since the demand was made in French, however, I pretended that I did not understand it. And I left without making a donation, having identified no one of official status to whom I might safely entrust my money.
My next stop was the House of the Repentants, which lies very close to the hospital of St-Jacques. In contrast to the latter, this foundation would not admit me. After inquiring as to my name and business, a portress allowed me to make my donation through a hatch in the front door. Though baulked, however, I was not much dismayed. Being a refuge for reformed prostitutes, the House of the Repentants is no doubt inhabited by a large number of healthy young women, and is almost certainly staffed by lay sisters and nuns. It is not the sort of place you would expect to find a large, shambling young man covered in vomit and urine.
So I moved on, passing St-Sebastien, crossing the Old Market, and following the Rue Droite all the way to Caularia Square. Here, just before the street meets the square, the Hospital of St-Just for the Poor of Narbonne stands directly opposite the cathedral. It is, in fact, more a chapter hospital than anything else, as I saw when I gained entry. The place is full of impoverished, incontinent, toothless old clerics. Having never in my life paused to wonder what might happen to the world’s senile priests, my visit to the Hospital of St-Just was quite a revelation.
Though freely admitted, I discovered that I could not simply wander in off the street, as I had at St-Jacques. The fat and jovial porter (who could not have been more different from that surly porter at the Dominican priory) had me wait inside the door after I had explained my business—under a false name, of course. I should perhaps mention that this same porter happened to let slip the term ‘crooked stick’ during his brief conversation with me. I believe that his exact words were: ‘Come in, come in. Sit yourself down and be at ease. You will find no crooked stick among our brethren, for we are happy to welcome all who seek admittance.’
At first I was startled, but quickly realised that he had meant nothing by it. Certainly he did not recognise me, any more than I recognised him. I wonder if he even realised what he had said. As I watched him swagger away, I thought to myself: You are luckier than you deserve, my friend. And I made a mental note.
He is the second former Cathar that I have identified in the last four months.
Within the time it would take to recite a dozen paternosters, I was joined by a lay brother who described himself as the ‘Lieutenant of the Procureur’. My promise of alms must have drawn him to me as dung draws a fly. I explained that I had not been impressed with St-Jacques, and wanted to inspect his own foundation before parting with my money.
‘For the remission of my sins at Eastertide,’ I said, ‘it seems fitting that I should bestow a generous sum on the poor. But I do not want my money squandered. I want it put to good use.’
This seemed reasonable to Brother Bongratia, who conducted me through the hospital so briskly and assiduously that I hardly had time to catch my breath. As I have already observed, a great part of the hospital’s population comprises aged men whose former occupation could be deduced from the number of them moved to bless me when I passed, or to mumble vacantly in Latin when asked how they were. They could not really be distinguished by their clothes, since all the brothers and sisters, no matter what their origins, wear vaguely similar garments marked with a cross. There is a proper infirmary, with a proper infirmarian attached to it. The latrines are so impressive as to be almost of a monastic standard, spotlessly clean and with running water to carry away the ordure. Of the few younger brethren, the majority are crippled or slightly mad; one has obviously been stricken down by a wasting disease, and another is a blind youth whom I saw—rather to my astonishment— emptying the piss-pots of those incapable of visiting the latrines themselves.
It was in the infirmary that I espied the object of my quest. He was peeling bandages off somebody’s bedsores, and I saw at once why he was needed. Only a strong arm could have pinned down the writhi
ng, squealing sufferer, whose lesions had adhered painfully to the bloody cloth, and whose enfeebled intellect was not amenable to persuasion.
I marked the determined set of my quarry’s jaw—so at odds with the drooping slant of his smoky eyes—and turned away before he could see me. ‘There is a stout heart,’ I observed to Brother Bongratia, when we had lingered for just a moment on the threshold. ‘I would find it hard to undertake such duties, day after day.’
‘Ah, Loup earns his keep,’ my companion replied cheerfully. ‘He had one foot in the grave when we found him, but now, as you see, he could lift twice his own weight. Very quick on his feet, too. And this is the cellar . . .’
So the name of my mysterious pursuer is Loup. That is the sum total of what I bought today, for an outlay exceeding thirteen sols. At least, however, I was not forced to visit every hospital in Narbonne. And I am particularly grateful that I was able to avoid the leprosaria.
I returned home in time for my second meal, which I collected from the kitchen. Here I found most of the Moresi clan, excepting, of course, my tenant’s elderly mother. Though still fairly infirm after her bout of illness, she had clearly managed to struggle off to St-Sebastien—where, as a rule, she practically takes up residence during Holy Week. Hugues was good enough to rise in greeting. He urged me to join him at the table, cuffing his eldest daughter to clear a space on the bench beside him. But I declined, with thanks. It is not my habit to eat with the Moresi. To share a meal with someone is to invite familiarity, and I prefer to maintain a distance between myself and those with whom I reside.
It does not trouble me in the least that Hugues thinks me very proud and unfriendly. I know this because his voice is far more penetrating than he realises. Since my own opinion of Hugues is even less flattering than his opinion of me, I have not taken offence.
‘Thank you, no,’ I said, in response to his hearty invitation. I was far too tired to think of an excuse, so my tenant—who was in an uncharacteristically genial mood— produced one for me.
‘The boy tells me that you have been making charitable visits to hospitals,’ he remarked. ‘That would be enough to turn my stomach. I expect you would rather have a spoonful of broth, or milk.’
‘Bread and lentils will be sufficient,’ I replied, accepting a little of each from Hugues’s wife. Martin immediately sprang up, offering to carry the lentils for me. His father, meanwhile, declaimed on the subject of hospitals.
‘I would rather give alms to the hospitals than to the Church,’ he said. ‘Give alms to a monk or priest and the money will be spent on filling his belly. Give alms to a hospital, and you are truly helping the poor, now that the consuls of the city control our hospitals.’
A grunt was my only refuge, since I was not of a mind to indulge Hugues’s evident desire for a debate on the merits of ecclesiastical administration. His views, in any case, were not of a kind that merited encouragement; once again, they filled me with unease. While Hugues does not bear himself like a typical Beguin, the sentiments that he expresses are sometimes enough to make my blood run cold.
With a nod, I therefore took my leave. Martin followed me upstairs to my workroom. Here I had already poured wine for myself, and uncorked my pot of honeyed almonds. (Honeyed almonds are my greatest weakness, even during Lent.)
‘There,’ I said, bestowing a handful upon my apprentice.
‘Take some.’
‘Oh.’ His response was a sudden intake of breath. ‘Thank you, Master!’
‘Did anyone come knocking today? Any priests from the Archbishop’s palace?’
‘No, Master.’ He peered at me, his demeanour anxious. ‘Is that bad or good?’
‘What do you think?’ It was an idle remark, and probably a foolish one. For the boy took me seriously.
‘Good?’ he hazarded, and looked gratified when I said: ‘Of course.’
‘Most priests are bad,’ he remarked, nodding sagely, ‘because they dress in rich clothes, and drink the wine of fornication.’
I nearly choked on my almonds. As I coughed and spluttered, Martin patted me timidly on the back.
‘Are you all right, Master?’ he said, after the paroxysm had eased.
In fact, I was not all right. I was aghast. I am still aghast.
My heart sank as I surveyed my apprentice, who gazed back expectantly, eagerness warring with apprehension on his face. My own face was a blank. I have trained myself to assume such a mask at moments of dismay. Yet that stare of mine, which I am unable to suppress . . . that stare must have made him nervous.
He fidgeted, and looked away.
‘So you agree with your father?’ I said at last, moving my head so as to catch his wandering eye. When I did, he flushed.
‘My father?’ he echoed, then nodded shyly. ‘Oh, yes.’
‘But still you will go to Mass on Sunday?’ This I was determined to find out. Eschewing Mass at Easter is the surest way of identifying oneself as a heretic to all the world.
‘Yes, Master,’ Martin replied. ‘Do—do you think I should not go?’
‘Of course you should go! Did I say otherwise?’
‘No . . .’
‘There are good priests as well as bad priests. It makes no difference. Each will be judged by God, according to his sin.’
‘You mean—when the Carnal Church is destroyed?’
I sat down abruptly. My knees have a tendency to fail me sometimes. They fail me even when my face does not.
‘Go now,’ I said. ‘Go back and finish your meal.’
‘Master—’
‘Go.’
‘You are not angry with me?’
‘No.’
‘If I have said something wrong—’
‘Later. Not now.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Go on. Your food will be getting cold.’
He went at last, with many a stealthy backward glance. But I showed him nothing, in either my expression or my posture. Not until I heard the door to the kitchen bang shut did I allow myself the luxury of closing my eyes, and slumping in my seat.
I have been thinking ever since. Thinking and thinking. Is my tenant a Beguin after all? While his past observations about greedy priests can be explained away (though not, of course, excused), his son’s reference to the Carnal Church brands them both like a yellow cross.
Can I really be such a fool? Have I been sharing my house with a heretic for the last few years, all unknowing? Is heresy the true cause of Hugues’s splenetic nature?
Of course I was not that well acquainted with the Beguin heresy before I spoke to Bernard Gui. Upon noticing how plainly Hugues dressed, I had put it down to his humble trade, and the fact that he spends so much on wine. How can a genuine Beguin be an habitual drunkard? Unless the drunkenness is only a ploy, and the time that he claims to spend at the Inn of the Star is in fact spent with other Beguins? With Na Berengaria, for instance? She lives near the Inn of the Star.
But I would be prepared to swear an oath that Hugues is genuinely drunk when he staggers home to beat his wife. Nor, despite his penetrating voice, have I ever heard him refer to Pierre Jean Olivi, or St Francis, or Berengaria, or anyone else connected with the Beguins.
I hardly know what to think.
If Hugues is a Beguin, recognised by other Beguins, then his children are doomed. They have imbibed poison straight from their father’s mouth—much as I did, so long ago. I had thought to curry favour, by parroting the lies that I had heard from my relatives, and by running errands for the liars. God help me, I was misled by my own desperate need for commendation.
And Martin is the same. He would do anything to win his father’s grudging approval. He would sell his soul, just as I did. If Hugues is ever charged with heresy, Martin will be questioned also, and it will be the end of him. He will waste his youth away in the Capitol Tower, or some such place. He will have to endure the rats at night. Or the brutal attentions of the gaolers. Or worse.
But this fretting is pointless. I have to think logically. All will
be well if Hugues is ignorant of Na Berengaria and her circle. And he must be, for I have seen no evidence of association. Berengaria and Guillelma were strangers to Martin when they came here. Never once, during the last four years, have Blaise, Guillaume, Perrin or Berengar Blanchi visited this house, on any pretext whatsoever. Imbert paid a visit, but his business was with me.
If Hugues is a lax Beguin (as a habitual drunkard would have to be), then he might not mix with earnest Beguins such as the ones I know. He might nurse his beliefs in isolation. He might air them occasionally at the Inn of the Star; perhaps he has a likeminded friend there. And this being the case, he is no concern of mine. The trail that I follow links Berengar Blanchi to Imbert Rubei to Berengaria Donas. Hugues stands far outside the net. I have no positive proof that he was ever in it—and God grant that I shall never find any. After all, what do I know? Only that his son used the words ‘Carnal Church’. Perhaps Hugues once employed the term while railing against tithes. There is every possibility that it might have caught his attention years ago, when the grave of Pierre Olivi was still an object of veneration, and the anniversary of his death was still celebrated with feasting, votive offerings, and inflammatory sermons from rabid Spiritualist friars.
I must not indulge my imagination. I must not permit my fears to cloud my judgement. Martin is still safe as things stand. Before I begin to worry about him, I should determine whether his father is known to Na Berengaria’s circle. I should follow Hugues the next time he sets out for the Inn of the Star.
That will help to determine matters.
There are so many tasks to be accomplished. I must discover why Loup has been pursuing me. I must find out if the connection between Sejan Alegre and Berengar Blanchi is of any importance, or whether it is a coincidence merely. I must establish the whereabouts of Jacques Bonet, alive or dead. And I must decide whether my apprentice is truly at risk.
Firstly, however, I must calm myself.
Nothing useful can be done when one’s emotions are governing one’s mind.
The Secret Familiar Page 13
