The Secret Familiar

by Catherine Jinks

  Ever since that time, I have been unable to enjoy even the simplest of God’s gifts without a vague and nagging sense of trepidation. It seems to me that every good meal holds within it the threat of famine—that every day of peace is only a prelude to war. As for life itself, what is life but a gateway to death? I live with that sure knowledge always. We must every one of us live with it. Over and over again, I have heard the priests warn me that death is the only certainty in this life. (And therefore we must prepare ourselves for eternity.)

  Yet I am unable to confront the possibility of death with resignation. I lose sleep, and concentration, and all appetite. My brain works itself into a fever. I find myself pacing at night like a trapped beast. Though to others I present an inscrutable façade, my thoughts rage about my skull, and my heart batters against my ribs as if trying to escape.

  These are all symptoms of indecision, however—indecision and inactivity. As soon as I have a plan, and may carry it out, my symptoms ease. That is what occurred this morning. After a troubled night, I faced a more tranquil day. For I had decided what to do.

  Once again, I allowed Martin to work. This I did purely out of concern for him, since it gave him refuge. It gave me no refuge, however. I was unable to indulge myself wholly in strategic speculation, owing to the fact that Martin watches me as a sailor watches the sky. Every movement, every sigh, every shift in the aspect of my features is always carefully noted. Months ago, when I first realised this, I thought that he was moved by fear, and that he watched me as he watched his father, alert to the threat of approaching squalls. Then I thought that he wanted to please me by anticipating my wants and moods. Now I am unsure even of this. Perhaps he only watches me for the sake of watching—because I have trained him in the art of watching.

  He no longer opens his face to me like a daisy in the sun. Those brown eyes are no longer clear to their very depths. Something is there: a shadow. A dark fleck. A hesitation, if you will, such as an honest soul must feel when forced to dissemble.

  He is holding something back. Of that I am sure. Yet it is not something of which he is entirely ashamed: I sense a hidden excitement. Could it be his father’s heresy? (God forbid.)

  Whatever it is, it presents no threat to me. Not in his view, at any rate. He would not betray me—not willingly. This morning, when I told him that I would join his family at Mass on Sunday, his smile seemed to illuminate the entire workroom. I could not detect a trace of falsity in that smile. And I was glad, though at the same time felt a tiny prickle of discomfort.

  My main purpose in accompanying Hugues’s family is not that I may share with my apprentice the joy of Christian worship. My intention is to decide whether Hugues himself is more accustomed to praying while seated, and with his head turned to the nearest wall. I have never observed him with any great attention in church. To do so, I think, might be enlightening.

  But I must not allow Martin to shame me with his innocence. There can be no shame attached to the pursuit of obdurate heresy. I know this. My master assured me of it many times. He took my chin in his hand once, and searched my very soul with his eyes, willing me to cast out those few remaining traces of resistance. ‘What can you or I know of God’s plan?’ he said. ‘What can we know of the judgement that awaits any one of us before His throne? Would you rather betray God, or betray your own heart? They are not one and the same, Helié. Do not be led into that error.’

  And I never have. God grant that I never shall. If I remain strong, I shall even endure the pain wrought when God’s will and the heart’s inclination diverge.

  It leaves me so tired, though. When I came to Narbonne, I had thought to avoid all intercourse, and live like a hermit monk, free of any occasion for shame or despair. Now once again my life is a well of secret conflict, and I am tormented by the responsibility for another’s wellbeing.

  But I should have known that there would be no refuge. Every safe place is merely an antechamber to endless peril. Even the firmest ground is nothing more than a thin layer of ice, liable to give way at any moment.

  I allowed Martin to work, as I have mentioned. And I left him to watch over my house after the bells rang for tierce in the cloisters. I laid down my chalk and said: ‘Martin, I must go out for a short time. And while I am gone, you must not unbar the door to anyone, no matter who it might be. Whether lay or cleric, male or female. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Master.’

  I had been too emphatic; it showed in his startled expression. I smiled, but the smile came too late. So I did something stupid.

  I patted his cheek.

  Never having touched him before, I could have done nothing more likely to cause alarm. Terror leapt into his eyes; I saw it there clearly. Only God knows why I had been moved by such a foolish impulse. Had I thought to offer him comfort? Had my fear of what the day would bring caused me to bestow on him just a small acknowledgement of my fond regard, in case no other opportunity should present itself? (Though this, I knew, was an unlikely outcome.)

  My intentions were unclear even to me. All I know is that the gesture was meant to reassure, and that it had exactly the opposite effect.

  ‘Master,’ he cried, ‘where are you going?’

  ‘Only to visit a friend,’ I replied.

  ‘No! Don’t! Not if . . .’ He bit something back.

  ‘Not if what?’

  ‘You—you should be careful.’

  ‘I should be careful?’ The impact of my sudden stare made him flinch. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because you seem worried?’ He put it to me as a question, though it was not a question at all. It was an observation.

  I was taken aback.

  ‘What makes you think so?’ I said.

  He opened his mouth, but no sound emerged.

  ‘Come,’ I insisted, wanting to know. ‘What tells you that I might be worried?’

  ‘Your face,’ he mumbled.

  ‘My face?’

  ‘There’s nothing on it.’

  He was right, of course. My expression was as blank as one of my own parchment folios.

  Yet he had read it so easily that it might as well have been covered in script.

  ‘My worries are not your burden,’ I said at last, almost winded by his acuity. ‘You have your own troubles, Martin. You should not concern yourself with mine.’

  He dropped his gaze, his lips pressed together, his jaw locked down on what he may have wished to say in response. The most important thing he has learned from me is that one never regrets silence as often as one regrets speech.

  ‘Keep watch,’ I requested. ‘Tell me if anyone calls here while I am gone.’

  ‘Yes, Master.’

  ‘I shall return very soon, child. Have no fear.’

  Needless to say, I spoke with more confidence than I felt. Had Martin seen me in the cellar shortly afterwards, he would have realised it. For as well as wedging a knife into my boot, I threaded a long, sharp needle into my tunic. Then I donned the hooded cloak that I had sewn many years ago, when I was still a shoemaker and skilled at stitching. This cloak can be pulled inside out, very rapidly, through one small hole. Within the time it takes to say the Gloria excelsis, I can transform my pale green cloak into a dark brown one— and thereby, perhaps, escape detection.

  The cloak was green when I wore it to Na Berengaria’s house. I had to knock on the closed door, and upon being admitted, I plunged straight past her stepson—who had the bleary look of someone freshly roused from his bed. Before he could stop me, I entered the kitchen.

  Here I found the master of the house, seated at the table, hunched over his account books. His chin bristled with grey hair. His blunt-fingered hands were spattered with fresh ink. His wife sat nearby, as beautifully groomed as her ageing husband was rumpled and untended. Her brow was puckered; her generous lips were pursed. I knew at once that there must be a discrepancy in the figures.

  Her face lit up when she saw me. There can be no doubt about it: genuine pleasu
re was inscribed upon her features, along with a very natural surprise. Later it occurred to me that I must have represented a welcome relief from the task of addition and subtraction. Even so, a great weight was lifted from my heart.

  Had Berengar Blanchi told her the truth about me, I would not have been received with such cordiality.

  ‘Master Helié!’ she exclaimed, rising. ‘You are most welcome!’

  ‘A fleeting visit, I promise,’ was my hurried reply. For I had seen her husband’s frown, and knew that I was interrupting his calculations. ‘I wish to ask you something, merely.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Na Berengaria, with an encouraging look. Her husband, in contrast, folded his mouth into a lipless line.

  ‘I have met a man who seems—um—sympathetic to the teachings of our blessed master.’ Watching her like a hawk, I saw no suppressed start or wince. ‘I wonder if you would allow him to accompany me here, on Sunday?’

  ‘But of course!’

  ‘With his three grown sons?’

  ‘They will be welcome also!’

  In which case, I thought (as I studied the woman’s face), my own status cannot be a matter of debate in this house. For if Na Berengaria has been informed that I am secretly looking for Jacques Bonet, why would she encourage me to bring friends along to the next gathering? Why would she embrace four unknown men? Especially if there are plans afoot to ambush me here on Sunday.

  I glanced at her husband, and saw that he was not well pleased. His expression became gloomy as his gaze ran doggedly down a column of figures. Yet I am not persuaded that he knows the truth, either. If he did, surely he would have raised some objection, instead of assuming the demeanour of a man whose wife’s mad schemes were no concern of his, thank the Lord.

  I cannot understand that marriage. Perhaps Berengaria brought a substantial dowry to it. There can be no other explanation for the way her husband silently endures what he so obviously deplores. Any other man would have beaten his wife to a pulp long ago.

  ‘We are meeting here tomorrow as well,’ Berengaria told me. ‘Would your friends like to mourn Our Lord’s crucifixion with us?’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ I wondered if this was a stratagem to lure me in without my guards. ‘After Mass, you mean?’

  ‘Why, yes. As it happens.’ For the first time, Berengaria’s smile receded. It was replaced by a slightly pensive look. ‘Do you attend Mass at St-Sebastien, Master Helié?’

  ‘I would be foolish not to, Na Berengaria. Since the priests there would certainly want to know why.’

  She nodded, in a resigned fashion. ‘That is very true,’ she said. ‘How I wish that we could still receive the Holy Sacrament in the Franciscan priory, as we used to! But most of the friars there now condemn the martyrs of Marseilles as heretics, and are therefore heretics themselves.’

  When she sighed, I sighed with her. It seemed to be expected. I did not, however, lose sight of my purpose. If the invitation was a pretext, I wanted to see how she would respond when I called her bluff.

  ‘I will come with my friends, tomorrow,’ I declared. ‘They will have no objection, I feel sure.’

  ‘Good,’ said Berengaria—and I would swear an oath that her approval was genuine. ‘Who is your friend, Master Helié?’ she wanted to know. ‘What is his rank?’

  ‘He is a blacksmith,’ I replied. ‘As are his sons.’

  A blacksmith, as everyone knows, has a well-developed musculature, and an easy familiarity with steel implements of all kinds. He is also very much the inferior of a rich draper. So I cannot be sure whether the slight shift in Na Berengaria’s smile signified her dismay at how well defended I would be, or whether she was simply adjusting to the fact that she must soon find herself on intimate terms with a hulking great blacksmith and his enormous, sooty sons.

  The latter, I think. Otherwise she would have asked more questions. Had I been in her place, I would have expressed concern about the wisdom of admitting four unknown blacksmiths into her confidence. At the very least, I would have wanted to know more about them.

  But she seemed willing to put herself at enormous risk, simply because I had vouched for these men. Would she have done anything so reckless, if she thought me an agent of the archiepiscopal inquisitor?

  ‘A blacksmith,’ she mused. ‘He will be the first among our number. Does he live in the Cité?’

  ‘In the Bourg,’ I replied, edging towards the door.

  ‘Indeed! I wonder if Imbert Rubei knows him?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘Good day to you, Na Berengaria. I must go now. Blessed be the name of Jesus Christ.’

  I left before she could press me for a name. I shall have to think of one. And I shall have to think of a plausible excuse when the sturdy blacksmith and his sons fail to attend the next meeting. What if Berengaria wants to pursue them herself? God knows, she has an ardent nature. If I admit that I have been unable to convert my ‘friends’, she might very well undertake to do the job for me.

  I have dug myself a pit, and fallen into it. Climbing out will be difficult. But it was unavoidable—and now, at least, I am reassured. Unless I have learned nothing of human nature in the last ten years, Berengar Blanchi did not mention the Archbishop’s report to Berengaria Donas.

  So why did he visit her?

  I was pondering this mystery when I turned into Stump Way, and saw something that made my heart miss a beat. A man was standing with his ear pressed against my front door. It was Loup, from the hospital of St-Just. After watching him for a moment, I realised that he was in fact talking to someone inside. To Martin, perhaps?

  Then he caught sight of me. Slowly, hesitantly, he moved away from the door, and advanced in my direction with increasing confidence as I, in turn, strode forward to meet him. There was no attempt at concealment. Nor did he demonstrate the guilty air of a man caught out in the performance of an underhanded act.

  On the contrary, he hailed me in a cheerful voice distinguished by faintly French intonations.

  ‘Are you Master Helié Seguier?’ he inquired.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Then I have a message for you.’ He placed in my hand a crumpled parchment folio, folded three times but unsealed. ‘Your boy would not take it.’

  ‘I told him to keep the door shut. My stock is very valuable. Who wrote the letter?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Loup replied, and strode off without a backward glance—though not as if he was in any particular hurry.

  By this time, I was aware of my neighbours’ scrutiny from various upstairs windows. So instead of lingering to examine the document, I walked quickly towards my shop. Upon reaching it, I employed the three double-raps with which I customarily alert Martin to my presence; he unbarred the door almost at once, and started gabbling before I had even crossed the threshold.

  ‘Master, did you see him? The man? He had a letter for you—’

  ‘I spoke to him. I have the letter.’

  ‘You told me not to admit anyone.’

  ‘I know. You did well.’

  ‘It was lucky that you came back!’

  ‘It was,’ I agreed, and sent him to fetch my meal from the kitchen. I then hurried up to my workroom, where I discovered that the elaborately folded parchment was merely a covering used to protect and conceal the letter inside. This letter was written on the very highest quality vellum, folded twice, and properly sealed.

  The seal bore an imprint of a dog with a torch in its mouth. My master once explained to me the meaning of this picture, which is based on a kind of Latin pun.

  Domini canis. Hound of God.

  It is the sign of the Dominicans.

  XVII.

  Maundy Thursday (evening)

  I must now conclude this morning’s entry, which was cut short for reasons that will soon be explained.

  The letter, as I said, was stamped with a Dominican seal. I examined this seal thoroughly before I broke it, and was quite convinced that it was genuine. For I am no stranger to the Dominican seal. Every
curve and hollow of its design is familiar to me.

  So is the script of Bernard Gui, my master. Sometimes, when afflicted by a sense of my own profound isolation, I have taken his letter of recommendation from under the cellar flagstone and studied it, as one might study a beloved face. Therefore I recognised at once that I had been sent a forgery. The new letter was signed with Bernard Gui’s name, but it was not signed by Bernard Gui. I knew this even before I compared it to the old letter.

  There are many, many ways in which I can prove my theory. To begin with, in imitating my Master’s hand, the forger laboured for too long over the shape of each character. As a consequence, although he copied the elongated Ts and Qs quite well, his ink was laid down too heavily. Bernard Gui is a prolific writer; as well as the many letters and reports that he produces year after year, he has also written numerous works of theology, liturgy, history, hagiography and geography. A man so liberal with the written word does not use his pen like a chisel, carving the text into his parchment. Instead his quill tends to skip and fly, so that the ink dries thin and pale, and sometimes disappears altogether.

  Bernard Gui also employs contractions, but only when he is writing in Latin. When writing in the vernacular, he never contracts anything. He told me why on one occasion, after he had accidentally dropped a stray Latin document onto the floor and I had picked it up. Upon glancing at the document, I had been amazed at the number of little letters written high—and in very small characters—beside the big ones. Bernard Gui explained that these little, high characters give a shortened form of common Latin words, and that they are often used by educated men, who can recognise what they stand for. Uneducated men like myself, however, are not accustomed to reading, and are unfamiliar with most words, even in the vernacular. Consequently, no one wanting to be clearly understood by the semi-literate would substitute V for ‘vos’ when writing in the vernacular, even though he might employ the same contraction when writing Latin. (The two words have an identical meaning in each language, as I discovered many years ago.)