‘In,’ I replied, waving him over the threshold. One last scan of the street convinced me that we had not been pursued. Nevertheless, I was careful to close the door firmly behind us before asking any questions.
‘How did you find me?’ I wanted to know. ‘You were not following—I would have seen.’
‘Master, I . . .’ He hesitated. With all the windows shuttered, my shop was so dim that I could barely see his face. But I sensed that he was trying to suppress a mounting panic. ‘Master, I guessed,’ he revealed.
‘You guessed?’
‘My father saw you leaving that shop, once. When he was returning from the inn. He made a joke . . . about the lady, you see.’ Martin became flustered. ‘Not that I ever thought— that is, my father is very—’
‘I know what you mean.’
‘It was a draper’s shop, Master. And then yesterday, when you seemed frightened to go out—you came back covered in so many loose threads. Threads of a hundred different colours and lengths and thicknesses. They were everywhere.’ Martin’s tone was all at once imbued with an unmistakable authority. ‘I thought that you must have gone to the draper’s again, and that the draper’s must be a perilous place. That is why I went there too, after you left. I was . . .’ He faltered, swallowing. ‘I was afraid that you might not come back,’ he finished, almost in a whisper. ‘I was afraid that you might be arrested.’
‘Because you knew my secret?’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘How?’
‘Because of the cask,’ he explained, mumbling with embarrassment. ‘Once, when you moved it, some of the water must have spilled. I saw the drag marks later, before they dried. And so I moved it myself, to see why you had.’
I looked at him for a long time, speechless. What could I possibly have said? That the pupil had outstripped the teacher? I should have been proud, I suppose, but I was heartsick. I could have wept.
This is what comes of ignoring the lessons of the past. This is what comes of a life too closely observed.
I should never have hired him.
‘So you did move my books.’
‘Yes, Master. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for lying.’
‘Go,’ I said. ‘Go to your family.’
‘But—’
‘We can talk later. I must think.’
‘Master, let me help!’ His voice broke on a sob as he clutched my sleeve. ‘Please, you can’t—you can’t go away! Not by yourself! You can’t leave me!’
‘Shh!’
‘Master, I am in danger too! I am a Beguin! You must let me come with you!’
‘Will you be quiet?’ I clapped my hand over his mouth, and spoke to him so fiercely that he cringed. ‘Do you think me a fool? God help me, I understand our position far better than you do—you cannot comprehend what is happening here! Now leave me in peace! Give me some time!’ Pausing to catch my breath, I suddenly realised how distressed he was. His taut posture and ragged breathing caused me to regret my outburst.
I released him, and spoke more quietly.
‘I have to think, Martin. Are you listening? I must consider our choices. Unless I make the right decision, we are lost. Do you understand?’
He nodded.
‘Then go. Please. I will not forget you, I swear.’
It astonishes me that he obeyed. For all he knew, I was about to effect my escape then and there, leaving him to weather the consequences. But he trusts me, for some reason. Though all I have done is lie, and dissemble, and lead him into error, still he trusts me.
Is this God’s punishment, for all my sins?
XX.
Easter Saturday (early morning)
Once I knew a girl named Allemande. She was illegitimate, the daughter of a poor shepherd, and worked as a servant in the house of one Raymond Boret. She looked after the bread, and washed the clothes. Sometimes she brought in the harvest. Had she not been slightly simple, she might have resented her position—for she was treated badly. Raymond Boret often beat her, and made her sleep in the barn. He was equally violent with his wife and his mother. All in all, he was an unfeeling, rough-tongued, autocratic man, who thoroughly deserved the fate that overtook him.
It so happened that I was the agent of his downfall. Though not a particularly fervent believer himself, his house was a safe haven for various Cathars related to him by blood and marriage. And I know this because I myself lodged there. Six years ago, when I was still a cobbler, Raymond Boret took me in and gave me a bed. I paid for it, naturally; he was not a generous soul. I also chopped wood, and ran the occasional errand for him. Most of all, I earned my keep by listening to his stories. He loved a full house, because it gave him an audience—but when no other guests were in residence, and when the womenfolk were busy with their chores, he could always come in search of my willing ear. In this way I learned everything there was to know about the population of his village, and a good deal as well about connected families living higher up in the mountains.
After seven months, I had collected enough information to keep my master busy for twice that length of time. And I felt no compunction at all about informing on Raymond, who in his cups had admitted to the rape of his own niece, and to having defrauded a friend by selling half his sheep without passing on the sum that had been paid for them.
I felt that the world would be a better place without Raymond Boret.
But in cases such as this, there are always other people implicated. Thanks to Raymond’s pervasive influence, his entire household was infected with Cathar opinions. His wife had been in no position to protest against feeding and housing perfecti. His daughter had been expelled by her own husband for her heretical leanings. His mother was more devout a Cathar than any of them.
As for Allemande, she had allowed herself to be converted. The perfecti had impressed her with their fasting and preaching. At the same time, however, she had not altogether rejected the saints or the Holy Virgin. Her thinking was rather muddled on this subject.
In all truth, she was a biddable, sweet-tempered, ignorant young girl, who came to regard me as someone blessed with unlimited knowledge and a saintly disposition, if only because I could read simple texts, and made no effort to force her when we were alone. (Cobblers, I fear, are notorious for their lustful natures.) I know that she admired me very much, for she would follow me around like a dog, and was forever scenting my clothes with herbs, or bringing me sweetbreads. In the end, I succumbed to temptation—for she was perfectly willing, and as pretty as a lamb. But my weakness left me in an awkward position. Naturally, I wished her no harm. For while she might have been a heretic, she had sinned only because she was obedient and simple-minded. Her error was not founded in pride.
I must confess that I tried to warn her. Though I was running the gravest risk, I took her aside one day and told her to leave. I said that Raymond Boret’s household was doomed, and that she should seek work elsewhere as soon as possible. I told her that I myself was not staying. I even gave her money, and one of my winter cloaks. Yet all this meant nothing in her eyes, because I would not take her with me.
It was for my own safety that I left her. A veiled warning would not have earned my master’s condemnation, but active assistance was another matter. So I cast her adrift, knowing all the while that my attempt to shield her was half-hearted, at best. Had I truly sought to protect the girl, I would never have informed on Raymond Boret—since it was inevitable that he would be arrested, and would then seek to win favour by naming names. Unless, of course, he escaped. Perhaps I was half hoping that she might pass on my advice, thereby enabling the Boret clan to flee over the mountains before I had a chance to make my report. Perhaps I had too much confidence in the refuge offered by the Pyrenees at that time; it is, after all, a very long way from Toulouse to Catalonia, and six years ago the Bishop of Pamiers was not zealous in his persecution of heretics. Not like the current bishop, who exceeds even my master in his fervent dedication to the task of rooting out error among his flock.<
br />
In all honesty, I am still unsure as to the reasoning behind my decision. Reason, I daresay, had very little to do with it. I acted without fully comprehending my own motives, and was thereafter affected by a kind of numbness as I sought out Bernard Gui, acquainting him with most (though not all) of the facts. He knew that something was wrong. No man so gifted in the art of exposing secrets could have been unaware that I had suffered a mysterious blow, whose effects not even I understood, back then. I told him that I was finished. That I was too widely suspected to be of any further use. And this was the truth, though not the whole truth.
The fact is, I needed time to recover.
It was not without due consideration that I chose Narbonne as my bolt-hole. Narbonne lies far from Toulouse, but not so far as to require a different language. In Narbonne, I knew that I would be very unlucky to encounter anyone with whom I might have been associated in the past. My greatest fear (and, paradoxically, my greatest desire) was that I might accidentally discover what had befallen Allemande. It was my hope that she had found a haven in Catalonia. During moments of weakness, I would try to imagine her there. But while I was anxious to know her whereabouts, I could not face the far more likely possibility that she had been arrested, and imprisoned in the mur at Toulouse. I could not countenance such a disturbing thought. That is why I tried to banish the whole subject from my mind. Whenever it surfaced, I would repress it with severe force. And by this means I have been able to live from day to day, quietly, as a soldier might live while recovering from his wounds.
Then Bernard Gui reappeared. Had it not been for Bernard Gui, I might never again have confronted the kind of choice that faces me now. But his reappearance has ripped open old scars, and shone a blinding light in my eyes. I seem to have advanced not one step in six years. Here I am, back where I started. Torn between heart and head.
There are two possibilities, neither of which appeals. Yesterday I sat pondering them for a very long time. I knew that, for a wise man, the correct path would be the path of self-preservation. This would involve making a full report immediately, either to Germain d’Alanh, Jean de Beaune or Bernard Gui. It would not involve approaching either my parish priest or the Dominican priory, as Bernard Gui advised, since I am convinced that someone from that priory is a friend of the Beguins. And parish priests are notoriously unreliable.
The old Helié would have gone already. He would have slipped away this morning, bound for the Dominican priory at Carcassonne. But I left that Helié in the mountains, years ago. I left him there when I left Allemande.
Once upon a time, there would have been only one possible course of action open to me. No alternative would have crossed my mind. Yesterday, however, I realised that I had a choice. I could either make a report, or I could withhold my information.
I remember gazing at the familiar furnishings of my workroom, as I slowly realised that whatever I decided to do, these comforting objects would soon be lost to me. Narbonne, in fact, would be lost to me. If I made my report to Jean de Beaune, and the Beguins were arrested as a consequence, I would be ill advised to show my face in the city again. Oh, I might very well live unmolested. The truth might not emerge—and even if it did, it might not trouble the majority of Narbonne’s citizens. But one cannot live comfortably as an unmasked agent of the inquisitors. There is always the fear that somebody, somewhere, will exact revenge for all that he has lost.
If, on the other hand, I failed to make a report, then what would follow? Retribution, inevitably. The inquisitors would seek me out. Not at first, perhaps; not for a while. Perhaps not until Pentecost, or later. In the end, though, Bernard Gui would grow uneasy. He would demand an explanation. And what explanation could I possibly give that would satisfy my master?
Suppose I went to him now. Suppose I said to him: ‘I was afraid to approach you, because I have accidentally led my apprentice astray. He has imbibed grievous error, and testified to the fact in front of many witnesses. Yet I believe that, with my guidance, he will renounce his heresy and embrace the true faith once more.’ Would Bernard Gui grant me the custody of Martin’s soul? Would he say to me: ‘I entrust you with the boy’s eternal salvation’?
Perhaps he would, but I very much doubt it. I myself was once a heretic, after all. And when I vanished from my master’s sight, he was disconcerted. He was displeased. His faith in me—if it ever existed—must have been undermined.
Besides which, I am no priest. What right have I to claim pastoral authority? No monk on earth would feel justified in abandoning an errant sheep to my care—especially not a monk who has spent fifteen years as an inquisitor of heretical depravity. While Bernard Gui might very well be sympathetic to my plight, he would not allow his sympathy to interfere with his God-given work. I can almost hear him point out that, although I possess great discernment, I have not the skill to penetrate the depths of a human heart.
For all my efforts, I would not be able to shield Martin. That is the truth with which I grappled yesterday afternoon. Were I to attempt some form of trade—were I to offer up information in exchange for the boy’s freedom—I would no doubt find myself incarcerated. Why pay for something, after all, which can be extracted at no cost to oneself?
It became apparent to me that Martin would receive a summons if I were to betray the Beguins, and that I could only prevent his arrest by disappearing. By becoming a fugitive. I turned the prospect over and over in my mind, studying it from every angle. There were various considerations, none of them serious. My property could be disposed of long before anyone thought to confiscate it; by the time a search was instituted, any agent entrusted with the sale of my possessions would already have surrendered the sum that was realised—and could not be blamed for having done so. In other words, as long as I planned carefully, I would not be left destitute.
I would, however, lose my trade. Never again would I be able to work as a parchment-maker, or even as a cobbler, since Bernard Gui has known me in both guises. But this does not much concern me. I have skills enough to train as a tanner, or a bookbinder. I could probably earn my keep mending clothes, if necessary. I have no fear of starving.
My fear concerns Martin. As I pondered his predicament, I realised that my disappearance would only postpone his inevitable fate. Were I to vanish, on the very heels of Jacques Bonet, Jean de Beaune would do one of two things. He would either send in another familiar, or he would lose all patience, arresting the Hularts, and everyone associated with them—Berengar Blanchi included. At which point names would be divulged. And Martin’s, almost certainly, would be among them.
It occurred to me that Martin had been right. Only by taking him with me would I protect him from the inquisitors.
I confronted this unpalatable fact with the utmost dismay. Avoiding detection is hard enough when one is alone; it is doubly hard when one is accompanied. And though Martin has some talent for dissimulation, he is not by any means skilled enough to become somebody else. Not for any great length of time.
Yet I knew, with a kind of awful certainty, that I could not leave him. Once the possibility of taking him had entered my head, it remained lodged there. No matter how much I paced, no matter how often I turned my thoughts to other matters (such as Berengar Blanchi’s curious lie about Jacques Bonet’s imminent arrest, for instance), I was unable to ignore my own burgeoning compulsion. Having abandoned Allemande, I do not possess the strength of mind to abandon my apprentice.
Were I to walk off without him, I would never recover. It would break me. Allemande damaged me somehow, but Martin would break me. I would lose part of what it is that keeps me alert and whole and able to survive in isolation. When I tried to imagine myself on the long road ahead, all alone, I could see nothing at my journey’s end but an empty void—a complete absence of far, far more than just one small child. Exactly what I would relinquish, I am unable to define exactly. Myself, perhaps.
In any event, I made my decision. After pacing the room for a good while, I sat down ag
ain, and stared at my hands as the light faded. Though utterly familiar to me, they also seemed strangely removed, as if they were attached to someone else. Had they really bludgeoned a man to death? It was inconceivable. Such an act seemed beyond the capabilities of anything so small and weak and worn.
Then I got up and went to find Martin. It happened that he was waiting in the courtyard, beside the door to my shop; very possibly he had been waiting there since our last exchange. I did not ask him if that were so. I simply invited him back upstairs, where I placed him on my own stool. In the dimness, his eyes looked enormous. He stared mutely, afraid to speak.
I seated myself opposite him, on top of my linen chest. And I said, ‘I am no Beguin, Martin. I am no heretic. And nor should you be.’
His mouth opened in astonishment.
‘The Beguins are wrong,’ I continued. ‘You have to understand that. If you adopt their beliefs, then I cannot help you.’
‘But—’
‘Listen to me.’ I lowered my voice, and leaned forward so that our foreheads were almost touching. Though I had no real expectation of being overheard, I could not prevent myself from adopting this attitude. ‘The books that you found are full of lies. It grieves me that you should have read them. Martin, there is only one true church, and it is the Church of Rome. I am a faithful son of that church. I would that you were, also.’
His expression was pitiful to behold. I have never seen such confusion on any face.
‘It seems as if you have strayed into error out of loyalty to me,’ I added. ‘But you were misled. That is why I am confident that you will turn away from sin, now that you know the truth. I wish that you had known it before.’
By this time Martin’s bewilderment had given way to a more complicated emotion. He narrowed his eyes, gazing at me intently. I pressed on regardless.
The Secret Familiar Page 19
