The Secret Familiar

by Catherine Jinks

  ‘Would you recant your heretical beliefs? For my sake and for your own? Would you do that?’ I inquired. ‘Please. It hurts me that I should have done you such harm.’

  ‘But the books—’

  ‘They are wrong.’

  ‘Then why do you have them?’

  I had been expecting him to ask this; he is no fool, after all. Yet I found myself almost incapable of forcing out a reply. The secret had been a secret for so long—I felt that giving utterance to it might bring down some dreadful calamity upon us.

  Eventually, after a long hesitation, I told him the truth. And in so doing I took a risk that I would not have taken if I had been in any doubt as to the depth of his regard for me.

  Because I was entrusting him with my life. Make no mistake about that. I would have done nothing so foolhardy, had his soul not been in danger.

  ‘Martin,’ I said, ‘those books were given to me by the Inquisitor of Toulouse. I am his agent. I have served him since I was not much older than you.’

  He caught his breath, and I waited. It is no easy task to accept that a friend is really a stranger. I saw Martin swallow my unpalatable revelation like a sharp bone; he grimaced, and frowned, and for an instant I thought that he might recoil. If he had, I would not have blamed him. Even among the highest prelates in Christendom, a papal inquisitor has very few friends. And among the lower orders he has none at all—except a handful of people like me.

  It must be confessed that I watched Martin with great vigilance, poised to take action lest he bolt for the door. Though I doubted that he would, one must always be prepared for the worst. And let me add that he would have suffered no hurt, had he decided to betray my secret.

  I would merely have confined him somewhere while I made my escape.

  ‘Then you have been spying on them?’ he said at last, in a very small voice. ‘On the Beguins?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For the Inquisitor of Toulouse?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  I could have told him what my master had told me. I could have lectured him on the fatal arrogance of heretical creeds, and why there are certain tasks—like the slaughtering of vermin—which, though unpleasant, must be undertaken for the purpose of ensuring a healthy existence.

  But I did not. Instead my reply was merely, ‘Because I believed that I had no choice.’

  He was silent. All at once I could not endure his solemn regard, and turned my face towards the window.

  ‘The Beguins are misguided—you must not think otherwise,’ I continued. ‘Nevertheless, I cannot betray them. Not now. If I do, they will give your name to Jean de Beaune, and you will be arrested.’

  ‘They—they might not tell . . .’ Martin stammered, at which point I realised that he understood fully the consequences of what he had done.

  ‘They will tell,’ I stated flatly. ‘Believe me.’

  ‘Then—’

  ‘If I run, you will be safe for a while—but only until the Beguins are found out. And they will be found out. They are too rash to escape detection forever.’ I noticed that it was growing dark very quickly, and wondered if I should light a lamp before we were both engulfed in impenetrable darkness. ‘If you come with me,’ I added, turning back to him, ‘you will never be discovered. I can promise that. I have one skill in which I excel above all other men, and that is the skill of disappearing. It is what has kept me alive all these years.’

  There was another pause. As Martin leaned over to scratch his leg, his shadowed face was completely hidden from view.

  After a while he said, in muffled accents, ‘Will I be able to return?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not ever? Not even when I am old?’

  ‘Martin, understand this.’ I spoke a little coldly, perhaps, but the point had to be made clear. ‘If you leave here with me, you will be dead to your family. It must be so. For if you ever approach them again, they will only be able to ensure their own safety by betraying you to the inquisitors. Would you force them to make such a choice?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘You must do as you think fit. I cannot decide for you. I merely offer you my protection because I am the one who has destroyed your life.’

  His drooping spine jerked upright. ‘Oh no, Master!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No, no, you—I—there was never anyone as good to me as you!’

  I stood up then. Truth be told, I could not bear to hear him expand on this subject. His words were like coals of fire heaped upon my head.

  ‘Your mother cares for you,’ I insisted. ‘You must think carefully before leaving her, because once you have made your choice, it cannot be unmade.’

  ‘Master—’

  ‘Think. Think while I light a lamp.’

  I took a lamp, and went downstairs and ignited it. Having done so, I discovered that I was sweating—and for a short while remained in the shop, trying to recover my appearance of equanimity. I did not want Martin to see me with ragged breath and trembling lips. It would have caused him to doubt my strength of mind.

  The fact is, I had run a very grave risk. And no one, after endangering himself in such a way, is likely to remain unaffected. No matter how brave and resolute he might be.

  I myself can lay claim to only a modest amount of courage. Therefore I suffered the inevitable reaction.

  Finally (by various means which I have perfected, over the years) my agitation was conquered. I was calm again. So I picked up my lamp and climbed the stairs, telling myself all the while that I was a hundred kinds of fool. No man in my position should be encumbering himself with a boy. Though shackled by his conscience, a sensible familiar— having made his offer of protection—would have prayed that this offer was not accepted.

  Yet despite all my fears and doubts, I nursed deep within me a kind of reluctant hope. For I had realised that, against a lifetime’s expectations, I might not have to die a lonely death.

  ‘Master,’ he said, before I had reached the top stair. ‘Master, I have decided.’

  ‘Already?’

  ‘Master, I want to go with you.’

  XXI.

  Easter Saturday (noon)

  I have been very busy since I made my last entry in this journal. Events are outrunning my ability to record them.

  Last night, after Martin had made his choice, I sent him back to his family. I told him that our escape would have to be carefully planned, and that I would need time in which to make preparations. Then, my fate having been sealed, I sat down to contemplate the future with a much cooler head than I had boasted hitherto. As I mentioned before, once uncertainty is banished, and I have a definite purpose or destination in mind, then I am apt to become more tranquil.

  I made various decisions concerning my property. There is a public notary whose services I engaged when I purchased this house; he is an able, distinguished and immensely discreet old man, incapable of defrauding or misleading his clients. I believe that I might safely employ him to sell my house and pass on the proceeds without endangering his reputation in any way. Of course, he could not with decency be approached until Monday at the earliest. No sane man would try to transact any kind of business on Easter Sunday.

  As for my destination, after much thought I decided that I would take a barge from La Barque to the coast, and there find a passage east—from Leucate, perhaps. The trick would be to avoid setting sail from any port at which I had landed, for in that case my movements could easily be tracked from records such as the pilgrim lists in the communal cartularies. (Marseilles, I know, keeps excellent lading and passenger records.) Once landed, I could perhaps make my way on foot to another port—the busier the better—and from there board a galley headed for Genoa, or Sicily. Italy would be safer than Provence, I think, now that the Pope is living at Avignon. And I know from talking with Bernard Gui, and Pierre Autier, and even some of the tanners down by the river, that many exiles from my country can be found in the northern marches and south
ern tip of the Italian peninsula. I would not, in either Messina or Lombardy, be as visible as I might elsewhere prove to be, as a lone foreigner. And I would also have the comfort of a shared tongue.

  Naturally, the expense of such a journey will be very great. So although I can afford to wait for the price of my house— as long as it reaches me before Pentecost—I must sell all my tools and furniture as soon as possible. This will cause no little stir. I was wondering how the sale might be effected in a stealthy manner when my eyelids began to feel heavy, and I realised that it was growing late.

  Once in bed, I drifted off without much delay. Before unconsciousness claimed me, however, my drowsy thoughts did snag on two features of my latest visit to the Donas shop. First of all, I pondered Berengar Blanchi’s remarkable lie. At the time of its utterance, I had been preoccupied with other matters. But the more I considered it, the more it suggested to me that something was not right. Jacques Bonet, as I knew well, had not been in imminent danger of arrest. On the contrary. So where had this lie come from? Surely not from Jacques himself? Though he might have been desperate to escape Jean de Beaune’s clutches, only a fool would have claimed to be the subject of an inquisitorial investigation. Because such a lie would easily have frightened his heretical friends into killing him.

  Of course, he might indeed have been a fool. I have heard nothing to suggest the opposite. But even so, I was puzzled— and aware of a growing disquiet. If the source of the lie was Berengar Blanchi, or Imbert Rubei, then their motives demand some sort of inquiry. In my opinion.

  The other mystery concerned Imbert’s house. The proposal that I be concealed there had met with an extraordinarily sharp response. Berengar had been adamant that Imbert’s privacy not be invaded. And Berengaria Donas, upon being reminded of this, had been abjectly apologetic.

  It seemed to me that Imbert must be hiding something— or someone—in his house. Not Jacques, though; of that I was convinced. Jacques had not been seen in the vicinity of Imbert’s house in six months, according to the innkeeper who lived opposite. How could Jacques have been confined indoors for six months? Unless he was dead. But if that were the case, his corpse would have been removed. Or at least hidden. It would not be so openly displayed that visitors would have to be discouraged, surely?

  I was speculating on this matter when I fell asleep. Some time later, I awoke to see that it was still dark outside, and my heart sank—for I knew that I would not be able to sleep again. (The symptoms of extended wakefulness are familiar to me, after many years of restless nights.) I therefore rose and went to write in this journal, completing my last entry just as dawn’s light began to arouse Narbonne. Then I dressed myself. Make no mistake, it was still very early. I had no expectation of seeing even Martin at this point, let alone any of my neighbours.

  I was consequently very much taken aback when someone knocked on my front door. I had just begun to take inventory of my stock, in preparation for its sale; when I threw open the shutters, and peered out my workshop window, I saw that a shrouded figure stood below me, barely visible in the filmy light.

  The creak of hinges alerted my visitor. Before I could issue any sort of challenge a pale face was lifted, and I recognised Berengaria Donas. She placed a finger to her lips.

  Then, with more urgent gestures, she indicated that she wished to talk with me in private.

  My amazement can easily be imagined. On my way down to admit her, I armed myself with a knife from my workshop— since it is always best to be prepared. The thought crossed my mind that, should Adhemar or any of my other neighbours chance to observe Berengaria’s entry, word would soon spread that I had a lover. What other cause but dalliance would drive a woman to seek my company at such an hour?

  ‘You should not have come,’ I whispered, as she brushed past me on the threshold. ‘You could have been seen.’

  ‘There is no one about,’ she rejoined. ‘Besides, I wore my hood up.’

  ‘Even so.’ I barred the door, and surveyed her with a kind of wary interest. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes bright. She looked excited. ‘Why are you here?’ I asked.

  ‘To bring news.’ With her customary self-assurance she flung off her cloak, and seated herself on the nearest stool. Her sweeping glance seemed to take cognisance of, and at the same time summarily dismiss, every humble item in our immediate vicinity. ‘Berengar Blanchi came again yesterday,’ she went on. ‘He had spoken to Imbert Rubei. They have devised a plan for your rescue.’

  ‘Then you had better relate it to me upstairs.’ I did not want my tenants to overhear this. ‘If you have no objection.’

  She admitted to none—and indeed, she had always presented the appearance of a woman sublimely unconcerned about her own reputation for marital virtue. Perhaps she regards this as a petty preoccupation, compared to the much more worthy principle of evangelical poverty. Perhaps her wealth gives her a confidence not easily felt by those who must rely on the goodwill of family or friends, and who are therefore obliged to regulate their conduct.

  Or perhaps she is one of those rare souls who are oblivious to questions of gender and purity. I can understand this. While some clerics of my acquaintance never cease to fret over every aspect of the subject, I myself regard it as being of limited interest.

  There are far more dangerous and perplexing things to worry about, in my view.

  ‘That is a fine linen chest,’ said Berengaria, upon reaching my workroom. ‘Sturdy but simple. Is it oak?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very handsome. There is no sin in preserving one’s cloth from harm, as long as the cloth is plain.’

  ‘What did you want to tell me, Na Berengaria?’

  ‘Only this.’ She turned from the chest. ‘If you will pack up a few possessions, and come to my house as soon as possible, I will hide you in my vineyard. Then tonight you can climb over the city wall. Imbert will meet you on the other side, and take you to a boat moored downstream. In this way you will not have to pass through the gates, and no one will detain you.’

  Now it so happens that last night, along with all my other musings, I had asked myself what I should do with regard to the Beguins. And it had crossed my mind that leaving them ignorant might not be the best choice. On the one hand, I was reluctant to share my secret with such a painfully injudicious group of people. On the other hand, my first object was to delay for as long as possible the Beguins’ arrest—since this would inevitably result in Martin’s name becoming known to Jean de Beaune, and the Moresi becoming subject to interrogation.

  It had occurred to me that if the Beguins could be persuaded to leave Narbonne (or, at the very least, to avoid welcoming into their midst yet another inquisitorial agent), then I myself would be better protected. So when Na Berengaria revealed her plan, I did not put her off with vague protestations. Nor did I make promises that I had no intention of keeping.

  Instead I studied her face, noting its fine-grained skin and noble measurements, its indestructibly artless yet somewhat imperious expression. It must be said that I can find in my heart no trace of contempt for this woman. Exasperation, perhaps. Impatience, certainly. But her generosity has been of a very rare order, and her disposition is one of the most upright and amiable that I have ever encountered among the heretics of this world. Being myself steeped in duplicity, I recognise no trace of it in her. Were she not so proud, she would be altogether admirable.

  I understood that she would not knowingly betray me, once the truth had been revealed. That is why, without preamble, I suddenly remarked: ‘Your concern for me is misplaced. I am in no danger from Bernard Gui, at present. Nor from any other inquisitor of heretical depravity.’

  She blinked. But she said nothing.

  ‘That summons was neither written nor sent by Bernard Gui,’ I continued. ‘It was forged by someone known to Father Sejan Alegre—for what purpose I am still unsure. Perhaps to test my true allegiance.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Wait.’ I held up my hand. �
�Hear me out, then judge for yourself. I know Bernard Gui’s writing very well. Because I myself am an agent of Bernard Gui, just as Jacques Bonet was an agent of Jean de Beaune.’

  Still she seemed not to understand. Her evident perplexity gave way to no look of dawning horror.

  ‘Jacques Bonet was instructed to seek out any unidentified Beguins of Narbonne,’ I explained. ‘But he vanished. So I was told to discover his whereabouts. I am no Beguin, Mistress. And never was.’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head, a stunned half-smile flickering across her stricken features. ‘No, you’re—you’re lying.’

  ‘I have lied to you. But no longer. You must believe me when I say that I have had a change of heart.’

  Her breathing quickened. All at once, her face lost its colour; it became ashen, and she stumbled backwards. The truth had suddenly hit her—as truth often will—with the force of a crossbow-bolt.

  I caught her arm to steady her.

  ‘Listen to me,’ I said. ‘You will come to no harm through my actions. I intend to leave here as soon as possible. I intend to disappear. But if you remain, Mistress, you will suffer the same fate as the men and women whose relics you venerate.’ As she lowered herself weakly onto my linen chest, gaping like a fish, I tried to impress upon her the extremely vulnerable nature of her position. ‘Do you understand?’ I went on. ‘Your group is in grave danger. You have been far too trusting. You have freely embraced two impostors; if you embrace one more, you will surely come to grief.’

  ‘Jacques Bonet.’ She was staring at me, wide-eyed. Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Not Jacques. No. Not Jacques!’

  ‘He secured his freedom by pledging his service—’

  ‘But he was at Imbert’s house! He was living there!’ Her voice cracked on a shrill note, as she moved both hands to her temples in an attitude of the most profound anguish. ‘God help us, what if he saw? What if he knows?’ She caught her breath, and sprang to her feet. ‘What if he told them?’ she whispered, clutching my wrist.

  ‘Told whom?’ I demanded. ‘About what?’