The Secret Familiar

by Catherine Jinks

  To some degree, I was already aware of this. I had known of his fondness for scriptural narrative and colourful gossip. I had sometimes fed his desperate hunger for stories culled from my past (heavily edited). But it had not occurred to me, until then, that his attachment to me was based on more than the contrast between his father’s rough handling and my own more gentle deportment.

  All at once, it became apparent that Martin sees me as a figure of mystery and adventure. My secret life, once uncovered, must have seemed to him immeasurably thrilling when compared to his own plodding, disregarded, undernourished existence. First I had introduced him to the delights of the written word. Then I had opened his eyes to the hidden meanings of dress, speech, gesture and the positioning of telltale scars. Finally, I had revealed myself to be a man absorbed in all manner of intrigue and subversion.

  Is it any wonder that he threw in his lot with me? That he has decided to forsake his family to follow my star?

  But it is done for the wrong reasons. For childish reasons. When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.

  What will happen when Martin becomes a man? For he will not remain a child long—not if he comes with me.

  God grant that, in taking him from here, I will inflict on him less harm than he would suffer if he stayed.

  ‘Martin,’ I warned him, ‘this is no game, such as you play with your brothers and sisters.’

  ‘No, Master.’ His tone was reproachful. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You must be vigilant. Cautious. You must do exactly as I tell you.’

  ‘Yes, Master.’

  ‘I would prefer that you were not involved. It worries me. But I have no choice—I must ensure that the Dominican is distracted. And he would be suspicious if anyone else appeared in your stead.’

  Martin nodded eagerly. His solemn manner, though well meant, did not convince me that he truly understood the dangers that confronted us. So I got up and went to my frame, which stands near the workroom window. From beside it I retrieved the sharp metal stylus with which I customarily mark up my finished skins.

  ‘Here,’ I said. ‘Take this with you tonight. Conceal it under your clothes. If anyone should attack you, shove it directly into his eye, if possible.’

  It would be wrong to say that Martin flinched. But he certainly blinked, and looked startled enough to reassure me.

  Perhaps I have finally managed to impress him with the seriousness of our situation.

  Blaise needed no convincing. He came, as I said, not long ago—surprising me a little. (For I was expecting Na Berengaria.) Martin was downstairs when the tailor knocked, and called me away from this journal; having been instructed not to open the door to anyone, my apprentice very properly sought permission before even replying to Blaise’s request for admittance.

  I immediately sent the boy back upstairs. And I was very careful when I unbarred the door. Though I see no particular reason to distrust Blaise, I did not quickly relinquish the heavy slab of wood with which I secure my shop, even after he had crossed the threshold. One must always be prepared, as I have said.

  ‘Na Berengaria sent me,’ he announced, slamming the door behind him. He thereupon fixed me with a look so openly contemptuous that I immediately understood two things: first, that Berengaria had revealed to him my entire secret, and second, that he was not inclined to be as forgiving as she was.

  I had anticipated no freely bestowed absolution from Blaise Bouer. He is an altogether different type from the lady he serves, being driven by an obscure, festering resentment. This anger, while it gives him courage, must inevitably saddle him also with the most ferocious and abiding grudges.

  Nevertheless, it has worked to my advantage. Granted that there is nothing a rancorous man appreciates less than being fooled. Granted that I myself had fooled him. A violent and uncooperative response would not be unexpected, in such circumstances.

  But it must not be forgotten than I am practically a stranger to Blaise. Berengar Blanchi and Imbert Rubei, in contrast, call themselves his friends and brothers in Christ. Yet they betrayed him by neglecting to warn him about my identity. They kept secrets and told lies. They did not treat him as a true friend.

  The treachery of friends is always more difficult to endure than the treachery of strangers.

  I had anticipated that Blaise would be outraged by the mere thought of his fellow Beguins conspiring together without his knowledge. And I was not disappointed. Though he surveyed me much as a knight might survey a dung heap, I sensed that the full force of his anger was being directed away from me.

  ‘She has revealed all,’ he growled. ‘And I have come with her final instructions.’

  ‘Not here,’ I said quietly. ‘Upstairs. No one will overhear us in my workroom.’

  Though plainly disinclined to take advice from a stinking papal lackey, he must have seen the sense in this proposal. For he pursued me up the stairs, only to find Martin waiting at the top.

  ‘Is this the same boy?’ Blaise asked suspiciously, eyeing the stylus in Martin’s hand. ‘The one we surprised outside the house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is he a creature of the inquisitors, also?’

  ‘No.’ I spoke calmly. ‘He is innocent of guile, and God will therefore punish anyone who seeks to harm him.’ Placing a hand on Martin’s shoulder, I added, ‘Once I myself have dispatched his assailant to an early grave.’

  The tailor snorted. ‘With poison, no doubt. Or some other underhanded method,’ he snapped. ‘I am not a skulking, lying sneak, Master Helié. If I intend to harm someone, I speak of it openly. I do not come to him in the guise of a friend, and knife him when his back is turned.’

  ‘I am pleased to hear that, Master Blaise.’

  Having established that he was an honest man, the tailor went on to recount the events of the day. Apparently, Imbert had been visibly disconcerted by Na Berengaria’s request that Martin accompany me over the city wall. He had raised various objections: that the bargemen were expecting only one fugitive; that two would cost more than one; that a boy could not be trusted to keep his mouth shut or obey orders. When Na Berengaria had insisted that I would not leave without Martin, he had put her off with a promise to ‘think about it’—and had ejected her from his house. He would, he said, have an answer for her before the end of the day.

  ‘He had to consult his fellow conspirators,’ I remarked, upon hearing this. ‘It is my belief that Imbert is well acquainted with the activities of the Dominican. Berengar Blanchi may be ignorant, but not Imbert, I feel sure. Therefore he would have wanted to speak to Sejan, at the very least.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Blaise. ‘In any event, Imbert came to the shop not long ago with his agreement. Your apprentice, here, will be included.’

  ‘First over the wall?’

  ‘First over the wall.’

  I must explain the reasoning behind such a strategy. The original plan, as presented by Imbert Rubei, was that I should be hidden in the Donas vineyard until it was safe to climb over the city wall. At the base of this portion of the wall— which rises hard out of a field of olives—I would be met by Imbert Rubei, who would conduct me to a barge moored at La Barque, on the river.

  But I have a strong suspicion that the barge will not appear. Rather than being conducted to a place of refuge, I will probably be killed. Who exactly has undertaken to accomplish this act, I have no way of knowing; any number of people might be capable of it. Imbert. Sejan. Even Berengar Blanchi.

  It is my belief, however, that the Dominican, at least, will meet me at the bottom of that wall. He has already tried to summon me to his priory with a forged letter. And if that was his first attempt to have me killed, then he was almost certainly planning to do it himself.

  Naturally, I cannot be certain of this. But the possibility is strong enough to merit extreme caution henceforth. That is why Blaise and I will conceal ourselves in the vi
cinity of the chosen olive grove far ahead of time. That is why Martin must be sent over the wall, as a distraction—for while my apprentice is climbing down his allotted length of rope, the attention of those awaiting him will be wholly directed towards his descending figure.

  At which point, Blaise and I will surprise the attackers into surrendering their weapons. And, perhaps, into telling the truth.

  But Blaise had misgivings.

  ‘Do we really need the boy?’ he objected. ‘If you came over yourself, I could lie in wait with Guillaume, or Perrin.’

  ‘Perrin?’ I blinked, assailed by a mental picture of that fragile, passive, unworldly creature. ‘Are you joking?’

  ‘Well—perhaps not Perrin,’ Blaise conceded. ‘But Guillaume—’

  ‘Is the size of a house,’ I finished. ‘It will be hard enough to find cover for ourselves, let alone a man of Guillaume’s considerable girth. So unless Na Berengaria’s sturdy husband is willing to lend us his assistance . . . ?’

  ‘No,’ said Blaise.

  ‘No. I thought not. And Guillelma, though doubtless willing, would not have the required strength. Therefore we shall need Martin.’

  Blaise had to agree. We made arrangements to meet each other at the Royal Gate, after the bells have rung to signal the end of nones. This will give us a couple of hours before the gates close at sunset; we shall have ample time in which to conceal ourselves somewhere advantageous.

  ‘Though it worries me that we must hide ourselves in the fields of St Felix,’ Blaise fretted. ‘The olive trees there are neither very high nor very thick. They are well spaced, and there are no stooks or barns or fences—certainly none close to the walls.’

  It is a problem, I had to agree. Neither of us are well acquainted with the area adjacent to Na Berengaria’s vineyard, on the other side of the city wall. We cannot be certain that we shall find there an overgrown hollow, or a bushy copse of wild oak. So I hit upon a solution.

  ‘Have Na Berengaria gather up all the wood she can,’ I suggested. ‘Olive wood, if possible. Vine branches, logs, faggots—scrappy fuel, in part. Just as long as it hasn’t been shaped or worked in any way. Then have her bind it together in several large bundles, and throw them over the wall at the end of nones.’

  Blaise began to nod.

  ‘So that we may collect them!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘And heap the wood up over us.’ I wanted to be sure that he understood. ‘As if the monks of St Felix have been clearing and stacking, but have yet to haul in the timber.’

  ‘A very good notion.’ For the first time, Blaise regarded me with something like approval. ‘But what of the noise when we emerge?’

  ‘We must construct a kind of tunnel, or exit. In any case, my intention is that we attack so quickly that they have no time to respond to any noise.’ I cocked my head. ‘Have you considered your weapon, Master Blaise?’

  His manner immediately became furtive. Glancing about the room, he lowered both his head and his voice.

  ‘A sword,’ he murmured.

  ‘A sword?’ This was wholly unexpected. ‘You have a sword? You?’

  ‘Shh.’ He seemed offended at my astonishment—for all that he is a tailor, and no knight or mercenary. ‘I have served on the city militia, you know.’

  ‘Is that how you came by it? Through some comrade in arms?’

  ‘That is my secret,’ was his rather pompous reply. ‘Be assured, however, that I know how to use it.’

  ‘Then I am confident in our victory.’ What else could I say? ‘My own weapon will be a dagger. But I will undertake to do my part, since I am no stranger to combat.’

  Martin’s eyes brightened to hear this; I am convinced that he was about to request details of my campaigning experience. Since it has involved crushing a man’s skull with a rock and an axe, however, I quickly forestalled him.

  ‘Go back to the Donas house now, and tell Na Berengaria about the wood,’ I said to Blaise. ‘You must take Martin with you, so that you can leave him with her. It will be her task to conduct him to the vineyard, and help him over the wall.’

  Blaise nodded.

  ‘For myself, I have one more job to complete while you are so engaged,’ I continued. ‘It is my belief that we will certainly flush our Dominican friend out of hiding if he has incontrovertible proof that I am a spy—and that I do not suspect him. Therefore I shall send a letter to the priory, addressed to Bernard Gui. The letter will be dispatched by hand of messenger—I shall pay a beggar, perhaps, or a pedlar—and it will alert our Dominican friend to the fact that I have agreed to escape Narbonne with Imbert’s help. My stated reason for doing this will be the desire to uncover yet more Beguin sympathisers, such as the bargemen entrusted with my safety. When the Dominican sees this letter, it should make him believe that I will simply walk into his trap, all unsuspecting—’

  Suddenly, I stopped. A thought had struck me with all the impact of an arrow. I stared at Blaise.

  ‘What?’ he said, frowning.

  ‘I know who it is.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘The Dominican. I know who it must be.’ Thinking aloud, I counted the reasons off on my fingers. ‘He would be the logical choice for the job of discarding Olivi’s bones. He would know who has arrived and who has left the priory. He would know how to read langue d’oc but not Latin, because he is a lay brother. And he could be sure that if I sent a reply to his forged letter, it would not reach the hands of any other Dominican.’

  Blaise waited. Martin waited. I looked from one to the other.

  ‘It has to be the priory porter,’ I said. ‘Brother Henri.’

  This meant nothing to them. Why should it? They would have had no reason to visit the Dominican priory, or knock on that little door leading into the cloister. Nor would they have been subjected to Brother Henri’s brusque and discourteous welcomes. And they were clearly disconcerted when I laughed, because the matter did not seem to them in the least humorous.

  But it is. I find it very funny that I shall be able to revenge myself, at long last, on a man who has slammed the door in my face at least half a dozen times.

  There remained little else to say, or to prepare. I did warn Blaise that he should dress in very dull colours before joining me at the Royal Gate; greys, blacks, browns or muddy greens will be suitable. I also advised him to don a hooded cloak. And I requested that he bring some rope or cord, with which to bind our captives if necessary.

  ‘You must understand,’ I said, as he opened his mouth, ‘that these men may very well be dangerous. The Dominican, especially, has demonstrated a good deal of cunning, and a venal attitude that does not bode well; his anger and his discontent are manifest on his face. He may have no compunction about killing every Beguin in Narbonne if it ensured his safety. Which it would, Master Blaise. Have no doubt of that. With every one of you dead, he would no longer have to fear exposure.’

  This point was well worth making—and the tailor absorbed it in silence. As he did so, I turned to Martin.

  ‘You must go with Master Blaise now,’ I said. ‘Have no fear of what your parents might say; I will provide them with some excuse for your absence. With luck, we shall find ourselves back in this room before cock-crow, since I have every intention of returning over the wall after this affair is concluded.’ Squeezing the boy’s shoulder, I stooped until our eyes were level. ‘Meanwhile, I would have you place yourself in Na Berengaria’s care. She is a good woman, and will let you come to no harm.’

  Martin’s brow puckered. He glanced at Blaise, before leaning close to my ear.

  ‘But she is a heretic,’ he whispered. ‘You said that the Beguins are wrong, and sinful. How could she then be good?’

  There is something that Bernard Gui used to say to me, many years ago, when I was very young. I thank thee, O Father, Lord of Heaven and Earth, that thou hast hid these things from the wise and the prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes, he would say, with a crooked smile. It happened rarely, but always in respon
se to some simple question of mine, which had left him oddly confounded. He explained to me that this expression of gratitude was derived from the Holy Scriptures, and that it contained an abiding truth: that sometimes even the wisest of men must receive a lesson from the simplest, and that God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise. Because, in the words of our Lord, whosoever therefore shall humble himself as a little child, the same is greatest in the kingdom of Heaven.

  ‘Helié,’ my master told me once, ‘to be great in the kingdom of Heaven is to be truly enlightened. And sometimes, only a child has the humility to see plainly what lies in front of his nose.’

  I remember this remark so clearly owing to the wonder— and the rueful affection—that were evident in his voice. I felt peculiarly blessed at that moment. It was perhaps the moment at which I delivered my soul into my master’s care.

  As for Bernard Gui’s own feelings, they are now revealed to me. For my reasoning has been suddenly overset. When Martin asked me his question, all my calm assumptions were yanked awry, upended, and exposed to an unwelcome amount of penetrating light.

  I saw, in a flash, that Na Berengaria’s excessive pride and Martin’s excessive humility had lured them into the same error. I saw that her sins and his must therefore merit equal forgiveness; that the goodness so manifest in Martin might likewise be manifest in her. And I saw that, just as all the heretics are wrong to seek perfection in any man, so too is the Church in condemning all heretics for being misguided or mistaken. Because there is none wholly good but one, and that is God.

  I thought: who am I to pass judgement on this woman, when I would extend to my apprentice infinite mercy? How is it possible that all her many virtues should be wholly undermined by her deluded beliefs, when Martin’s are not?

  Sitting here now, awaiting the moment when I might leave my house and make for the Royal Gate, I am a different man from the one who last wrote in this journal. My mistake was an excess of humility. Like Martin, I followed my master into falsehood. For just as the Beguins err, so too does Bernard Gui. Both believe themselves wholly right, and their opponents wholly corrupted.