XV.
Day before Maundy Thursday
From now on I shall tread very, very carefully—or my next step might prove to be my last.
I put Martin to work all day, scraping skins. He raised no objection, and I wanted him out of his father’s way. When he first entered my workshop, I asked him where his grandmother was, and he looked at me in astonishment.
‘She is sitting by the fire. In the kitchen,’ he said.
‘Will she be going to church, today?’
‘Perhaps.’ He shrugged. ‘She will go on Friday. She told me.’
‘The next time she goes, Martin, you should accompany her.’
He blinked, and his mouth formed a perfect ‘O’.
‘Your grandmother sets a far better example than your father does,’ I continued, trying not to sound pompous. ‘Your father is in error when he fulminates against priests and bishops. We are none of us well placed to judge them— that is God’s task. Instead we must concentrate on our own sins, for which we have full responsibility.’
My apprentice heard me out with the most peculiar look on his face. At first I thought him bewildered. Then his mouth twisted, and his cheeks coloured, and his gaze dropped to the floor.
‘Do you hear?’ I said, wondering greatly at this response. ‘It grieves me that your father should speak without due consideration, in front of his own family. No good will come of such defiance. I myself have no quarrel with the Church, and I cannot believe that it has ever caused you any offence. Has it?’
I waited, but Martin did not reply. Bending my head, I saw that he was blinking away tears.
Much to my astonishment.
‘What is it?’ I said. ‘What ails you?’
He shook his head, still avoiding my regard.
‘Does it hurt you to hear me speak of your father in this way?’ I pressed him. Again, he shook his head. ‘Have you some quarrel with a particular priest?’
‘No, Master.’
‘Then what is it? Come, tell me.’
I believe that he might have obeyed, had his restless eye not suddenly alighted on the view of the street from my window. Seeing him wince, I glanced around.
Hugues Moresi was heading down Stump Way, towards the Rue de Sabatayre.
‘Ah,’ I said, and fixed my attention once more on the boy. ‘Where is your father going? To the Inn of the Star?’
He nodded, miserably. No doubt he envisaged another round of beatings later in the day. And although he himself was no longer at risk, he must have feared for his mother.
‘I am very sorry, Martin,’ was all that I could offer him. ‘You may stay here, if you wish. For as long as you like. Other than that . . .’
Other than that, I had nothing to suggest. Though I am lawfully entitled to expel Hugues from my house, I have no power to interfere between husband and wife.
Martin understood this. He nodded again, even more miserably than before, and cleared his throat. I anticipated some enlightening remark, perhaps on the subject of his father’s beliefs, or his father’s violence, or even his father’s condemnation of me. But I was disappointed.
‘Which skin shall I scrape, Master?’ was all that he said. And I respected his reticence. How not? I myself can hardly be described as forthcoming.
Besides which, if he has been entrusted with his father’s secrets, I would not expect him to divulge them. Not without good cause.
So I wordlessly helped him bind a skin to his frame, before leaving him with some vague excuse about repaying a debt. In fact, I was heading straight for the Inn of the Star. I wanted to see whether Hugues Moresi spends as much time there as he claims. For I learned long ago not to believe everything I hear without confirmation.
The Inn of the Star stands so close to the church of St-Sebastien one can sometimes listen to the canons chanting while one swills down generous amounts of good local wine. The Old Market and the hospital of St-Jacques are also within spitting distance; as a result, the inn is never wanting for patrons, even during Holy Week. When I arrived there this morning, I was surprised to see how busy it was. Several horses waited patiently outside, the subject of endless negotiations. A joglar sat tuning his instrument. Beggars prowled. Dogs scavenged. Pilgrims argued over the rate of exchange for their foreign coins.
Hugues Moresi had joined a crowded table, where a game of dice was underway—though I am not sure that gambling is permitted during Holy Week. No doubt he and his friends are indulged in this matter owing to their repeated and regular visits to the inn. Certainly they had possession of the very best table in the house, and were being generously supplied with food as well as drink. One look at Hugues told me that he would not be stirring from his seat in the immediate future. He had the appearance of a man perfectly satisfied with his lot.
He also had the appearance of a man who was quite at home. I heard him address one of the maidservants by name; I saw him pat the innkeeper’s unshaven cheek, and fondly abuse him. Such familiarity, in an establishment of that kind, is only earned by faithful and persistent patronage.
Watching him from behind a knot of jabbering tanners, I decided that Hugues was no ordinary Beguin. And I began to doubt very much that he was planning to visit Berengaria Donas. I saw no indication of anything save a firm intention to get drunk, play dice and argue with his friends about the merits of imported wine.
It did not seem to me that Na Berengaria’s circle would have tolerated such conduct.
Therefore I withdrew from the immediate vicinity of the inn, and started towards the Rue de Sabatayre. On my way, I was naturally obliged to pass the Donas house, and for the second time that morning attempted to do so without attracting the notice of anyone living there. The shop seemed to be open, though in a half-hearted manner; the downstairs shutters were partly folded back, and the door stood ajar. There was movement within. I could see nothing but an indistinct flurry of dark shapes, enfolded in shadow, as I kept to the other side of the street. Nevertheless, I sensed that somebody was about to leave the shop. My suspicions were confirmed when a faint farewell reached my ears, and I glanced over my shoulder to see who was sallying forth— making sure, at the same time, to screen myself from observation behind a pair of large women who had stopped to lean on their brooms and trade insults.
Imagine my surprise when I spotted Berengar Blanchi.
If he saw my face at all, it would have meant nothing to him. At our last meeting I had been well disguised as a blind beggar, and today I was dressed with propriety in dull, unexceptional clothes. In any event, he is not the sort of man to remember faces. His gaze is turned ever-inward, as I observed when I began to pursue him, keen to find out where he would go next. Only a blind man or a visionary would have walked straight into that tethered pig.
Needless to say, I did not turn on my heel and bound after him like a faithful hunting hound. To have done so would have required that I pass the Donas shop for the third time this morning, in full view of any occupants who might have been watching Berengar Blanchi walk away. Instead, I risked losing my quarry by darting into a backstreet that runs parallel to the Rue Droite, hoping that he was on his way to the Bourg, and would not be making any unexpected detours before he reached Caularia Square.
Happily, I was correct in my assumption. When I followed the next cross-street back to the Rue Droite, I found myself just a few paces behind Berengar, and lingered on the corner briefly (pretending to have grit in my eye) so that the distance between us might widen a little. Not that he would have seen me. He was oblivious to his surroundings, and nearly caught me out as a consequence. For as we approached the bridge to the Bourg, something about it seemed to penetrate the fog of abstraction that blinded him. He started, and whirled around— having walked straight past his destination.
His sudden reverse took me by surprise. I was given no opportunity to conceal my face, which was exposed to his direct regard. Fortunately, nothing about my appearance snagged his attention; his dark yet luminous gaze swept ov
er me as he identified his exact whereabouts, ignoring people in favour of buildings. Then he loped gracelessly back through the Alquiere Gate, nearly brushing my shoulder as he passed.
It was a frustrating moment. There was no doubt in my mind that, by turning so sharply on his heel, Berengar must have caught the eye of any idle observer. To have imitated his actions would have looked absurdly suspicious. As a result, I had to keep moving forward. I had no choice but to cross the bridge, cursing inwardly all the while.
Not until I had reached the gate to the Bourg did I feel safe enough to retrace my steps. By slapping my brow, I demonstrated to the world at large that I had forgotten something important. And I returned to the Cité at a brisk pace, hoping against hope that Berengar Blanchi would still be in Caularia Square.
It had crossed my mind that the whole manoeuvre might have been a deliberate tactic, to shake me off. Certainly it was the sort of thing I would have done, had my position and Berengar’s been reversed. Yet I was not convinced. Nothing else in his manner had indicated to me that he was alert to my presence. If he had been, he would have looked back. Just once, to mark my position. I had thought that he might, when he tripped on a pothole outside the chapel of Bethleem. I had been anticipating a single, stealthy glance. But he had exhibited not the slightest interest in anything behind, beside or ahead of him, pressing on as if barely conscious of his stubbed toe.
Scanning the busy square upon my return from the bridge, I saw no trace of him. And I knew that I could not afford to stand and stare without a plausible excuse. So I approached the entrance of the Viscount’s palace, where many petitioners, beggars, mercenaries and lazy old men are wont to sit in the shade at all hours, awaiting a summons or simply watching the world go by. People will often arrange to meet at this same spot. You will frequently see loafers gossiping with the guards, or lingering beneath the awning of a nearby shop, examining fruit and leather goods. Therefore, when I took up a position under the Mauresque Tower, and peered at the milling crowds as if in search of someone, I was subjected to no unwelcome scrutiny. Why should I have been? At least half a dozen other men were similarly engaged.
At first I did not see Berengar. He was not in the square. And I was about to admit defeat when my gaze wandered towards the Archbishop’s palace—which stands directly opposite the Viscount’s abode, just as the Archbishop himself stands in direct opposition to the Viscount. Looking straight down the cavernous entrance to the palace courtyard, I noticed two men talking. One was a guard, who had about him a certain archiepiscopal gloss. The other was Berengar Blanchi. After a short discussion, during which Berengar’s companion pointed towards the cathedral, the two men parted. Berengar headed for St-Just. I watched him disappear through its southern door before I ventured to move so much as an eyelid. And even then I did not follow him.
In all truth, I was unmanned. It seemed to me very ominous that Berengar Blanchi, of all people, should be making inquiries at the Archbishop’s palace. For what possible reason would a devout Beguin do any such thing? Unless, of course, he wished to communicate with his cousin, Sejan. About something that might concern his visit to Berengaria Donas.
I can still feel the chill that invaded my gut at this point. I had the same instinctive reaction nine years ago, on Mount Vezian, when that so-called woodcutter took up his axe. After the first tide of panic has surged through my veins, it recedes before a sudden, icy calm, which compels me to act with the most detached yet implacable deliberation. I know exactly what must be done, and I do it. Yet it is my will alone that propels me. I cannot summon up any kind of emotion. All my fear, desire, anger, self-pity—all of it is briefly discarded, until such a time as I have leisure to indulge my feelings.
It was therefore in a state of intense yet impassive resolution that I approached the archiepiscopal attendant, who had taken up what must have been his customary gate-keeping position. In a dry voice, I told him that I was looking for my friend Berengar Blanchi. Berengar, I said, had instructed me to meet him at the Archbishop’s palace. He was a tall man, thin, with big brown eyes, wild hands and an eager way of talking. He was dressed from head to toe in dark grey.
‘Oh. Him,’ said the guard, sounding bored. ‘He was just here. But he left.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Father Sejan isn’t working here today.’ A careless gesture. ‘I told your friend to ask at St-Just.’
With a nod, I signified my thanks. Then I moved towards the half-completed cathedral, though not with any intention of chasing down Berengar Blanchi. I wanted merely to convince the Archbishop’s guard that I genuinely wished to find my friend. Had I headed off in some other direction, he might have been suspicious. He might have wondered what I was doing.
In fact, I was trying to avoid Berengar. Though desperate to overhear his conversation with Sejan Alegre, I knew quite well that any attempt to eavesdrop would fail. Even in the dusty, noisy nave of the cathedral, I would almost certainly be seen—and recognised—by the priest. As for the cloister, it would afford me even less concealment. Had I been dressed in a habit, I might have had a chance. But no layman, however insignificant he might be, can ever escape notice in the canonical quarter.
That is why I skirted St-Just and hurried home. All my thoughts were bent on reaching the refuge of my workroom. Though outwardly calm, I was becoming increasingly agitated. For it seemed to me that there was one obvious reason why Berengar Blanchi might have visited his cousin directly after paying a call on the Donas house.
God help me, what if they know?
When I reached my house, I had to collect myself before confronting Martin. I did not want him to notice anything unusual about my appearance. So I paused at the bottom of the stairs, taking a few deep breaths as I untied my cloak. I remember feeling suddenly exhausted, and almost unequal to the climb.
But I accomplished it, at last, only to be greeted at its conclusion by a worried-looking apprentice. Evidently my tread on the stairs is not usually so slow.
That, at least, is what he told me.
‘Are you ill?’ he demanded, and I shook my head.
‘Of course not.’ Something about my tone discouraged further inquiry. He returned to his work, and I went through the motions of attending to my own. But I was unable to concentrate properly; having nearly ruined a good pigskin, I finally went downstairs and shut myself in the cellar, far away from Martin’s inquisitive presence.
I had to think.
Supposing that Father Sejan is a friend of the Beguins? Supposing that he and his cousin are on good terms? If that is the case, then he might have become acquainted with Jacques Bonet through Imbert Rubei, Berengar Blanchi’s friend. And anyone even remotely familiar with Jacques Bonet would have recognised his description in the Archbishop’s report.
Father Sejan might have asked himself: Why is the Archbishop searching for a corpse that looks like Jacques Bonet? And why should he be sending information about this search to a humble parchment-maker?
Even if Jacques is still alive, I am in grave peril. Even if there is not a single Beguin in Narbonne who knows that Jacques was an inquisitorial agent, it must be obvious to Father Sejan, at least, that I am not who I claim to be. Why else would Germain d’Alanh, the archiepiscopal inquisitor, be sending me details about a missing Beguin at the behest of the Archbishop?
Perhaps Father Sejan asked his cousin to warn Berengaria Donas, and to make inquiries. Perhaps his cousin did so this morning, stopping to tell Sejan about it on his way back home. Perhaps the entire Beguin population of Narbonne is now busily discussing how I might be disposed of.
No, no. This is foolish. I am becoming overwrought. I am not thinking clearly. I must set down what I know, fact by fact, and consider the logical sequence.
All the following people are acquainted with each other: Berengaria Donas, Imbert Rubei, Berengar Blanchi. Berengar Blanchi’s cousin is Sejan Alegre, who knows that I have an interest in the corpse of Jacques Bonet. It is possible that Sejan me
t Jacques Bonet. It is therefore possible—though not certain—that he has informed Berengar Blanchi about my interest.
On the other hand, I may be wrong. Sejan might never have met Jacques Bonet. He might be unsympathetic to his cousin’s beliefs. His cousin’s visit to the Donas house might have been a coincidence. With Easter Sunday fast approaching, he and Na Berengaria very possibly met to discuss a suitably Beguin way of celebrating the feast.
And then, since he happened to be in the Cité, Berengar might have visited Sejan on a whim.
Which explanation is more probable? I hardly know. It hardly matters. What matters is that I find out whether I am under suspicion.
Otherwise I will be taking my life into my hands, if I walk unprotected into Na Berengaria’s house on Sunday.
XVI.
Maundy Thursday (morning)
I slept badly last night, plagued by ugly dreams. It seems that I shall never escape my years in the Toulousain, and in the mountains. They lie in wait for me always, much as I lay in wait for the man I killed.
Once, long ago in the spring, I was journeying towards Catalonia using a shepherds’ high road. It was still very cold, but the sun held a promise of warmth. There were flowers in the valleys, and green buds higher up. I was young, then, and more easily able to forget my cares. My legs were stronger, and my spirits more responsive to external influence. I remember whistling as I walked along, alone up there among the snow-capped peaks. My new sheepskin cloak had made me very happy.
And then an evil smell reached me, soiling the fresh breeze. The further I walked, the worse this stench became. As I drew closer to its source, the green haze of new growth became somehow sickly in my eyes, and the twittering birds no longer charmed me. Some subtle poison was affecting God’s glory, turning it to ashes and rot. Finally, upon mounting a large boulder, I saw the source of the corruption, and turned away and vomited.
A corpse had been nailed to a cross, up on that high, lonely track. It was an old corpse, dead before winter. Black with age and frost, it hung by only one arm, since the weathered sinews of the other had parted around the nail or wedge used to secure it. I did not examine it closely. I know not whether it was the corpse of a man or woman. I saw only grinning teeth, and empty eye sockets, and hair or rags aflutter in the breeze. Then I ran, still retching. I retched and prayed with equal fervour. I traced a hundred crosses over my breast.
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