by K. M. Grant
“Raimon Belot,” he said, “are you on good terms with God?” He hoped this might become a classic inquisitorial opening, bearing his name.
Count Berengar intervened again. “For goodness’ sake, leave him be, Girald. Let him go. The poor boy’s just lost his mother.” As soon as the words were out, Berengar groaned aloud and reached out as if he could wrest them back, but Girald had already pounced on them.
“Ah,” he purred, “just lost your mother. So it’s your mother who has died.” He circled faster, his finger on his lips, as if he was thinking, although he already knew exactly what he was going to say. “I’m sorry to hear that, very sorry.” Eventually, he took his finger from his lips. “I wonder, Raimon. When your mother was preparing for death, did she summon the priest?”
Raimon stood perfectly upright and perfectly silent. Girald raised his eyebrows. “No matter,” he said, “as fortunately we can ask the priest himself.” He addressed Simon Crampcross. “Did you attend Madame Belot’s deathbed?”
“I did not,” said Simon Crampcross. This was the correct answer, he was sure, not because it was the truth but because it was what Girald wanted to hear.
“Nevertheless, though you were not summoned, would you say that Madame Belot was a good woman, a pious woman, a holy woman?”
This was more tricky. Once he would have had no hesitation in acknowledging Raimon’s mother as a good woman. Though a Cathar, she brought him soup when he was sick, and her husband had even woven a new tunic for him last Christmas and only charged half price. And she was pious too, in her way. At least she had a healthy respect for God. That was pious. And he had seen her out in the fields on her knees, praying, which also made her holy. Yet to the inquisitor no Cathar could be good or pious or holy. His face creased and a pearl of sweat trickled into the folds of his chin. Then again, this could be a trick question, for Simon Crampcross knew also that sometimes, and to some people, Cathars were known as Good Men and Good Women. Oh, it was so complicated! The pearl dripped off his pimpled chin and joined the other stains on his shirt as Girald waited for his answer. “I would say she was a …”—the silence was deafening—“er, I think she was a woman.”
“Yes, yes,” said Girald, his patience, despite his good intentions, beginning to fray. “We all know she was a woman.” A ripple went through his audience. The priest was a buffoon. Girald didn’t mind the ripple.
“She was a good woman,” he said. He would clearly have to help this stupid man all along the way.
“Indeed, a good woman. Just what I was going to say.” Another salty pearl dripped onto his chest, where it joined the other to make the small stain larger.
Girald grasped hold of his patience again and gave a meaningful smile. “And such a good woman would want to make a good death?”
Here, Crampcross was on surer ground. “Everyone wants to make a good death, Inquisitor,” he said.
“But good people in particular, wouldn’t you say?”
“Oh yes, Inquisitor, I would.”
“Then, Raimon Belot, I ask you, was your mother a good woman?” Silence. “I must tell you that the choice is stark. There are only two types of women, the good and the bad. Let me rephrase my question. Was she a bad woman?”
Raimon would not answer and Yolanda had not yet learned that silence, too, can be a weapon. She interrupted and began to plead.
“Why are you persecuting us, Uncle? We’ve done nothing. And really, we’re not important enough for someone like you. You should go where you’re really needed.”
“Not important? Castelneuf?” he said, raising his eyebrows at her. “You are too modest, little Yolanda. If Castelneuf was not important, why has the Flame chosen it as the place to reveal itself? Even now, scouts may be bringing it to this very chateau and we must make sure we are ready to receive it by purging this place of those who distort the true word of God. The Flame expects it. No, I go further. The Flame demands it.”
Raimon didn’t move but Yolanda raised her voice as loudly as she dared. “The Flame’s nothing to do with God’s word or how people choose to pray! You know that, Uncle. The Flame’s to keep the French out! That’s what it’s for! It’s the Flame of the Occitan and none of your business at all.”
“But tell me this, since you seem so well informed.” Girald’s voice was dangerously icy. “What’s the point of keeping the French out, little Yolanda, if we are rotten within? God will hardly help us beat the French if we don’t cleanse ourselves first.”
“This is all wrong.” Yolanda turned to her father. “Tell him, Father. Tell him that’s not our way.”
Girald gave Berengar no time to answer. “And what is ‘your way,’ I wonder? Is it the way that allows the Cathars to inflict their foul beliefs on the innocent? Do you actually even know what those beliefs are, Yolanda? Well, do you?” He could tell by her face that she did not. He resumed grinding his ring around chillblained fingers.
“Perhaps I can tell you. You see, unlike you, I have made a study. You look surprised at that, but why? ‘Know thine enemy’ is an old and very useful adage. But this is not the time for a lesson. I shall simply ask you one question: do you think it right that the dying should be denied food and drink?”
Yolanda was momentarily silenced. She had never heard this before but she, like Girald, noticed a tiny movement from Raimon. Girald, who had been looking for it all this time, pounced at once.
“This is hardly news to you, is it, Raimon, because I’ll bet that’s what happened to your mother. Some bullying perfectus told her she must never eat again after he offered her what they call the ‘consolation.’ Consolation! She wasn’t consoled, was she? She was starved. Needlessly.” He paused. “Painfully.” His voice took on a singsong quality. “Day by day. Hour by hour. Minute by minute. Second by second. And all at the say-so of some fraud claiming to be perfect. Perhaps, without this perfectus, your mother would have survived and would even now be baking bread for you at home.”
It was a happy coincidence for Girald that Raimon’s last cheerful thought of his mother had been of her baking. It was an effort to keep staring fixedly ahead and he knew Girald could feel his effort. The inquisitor’s voice became like the stroke of a tiger’s paw.
“Catholics, Raimon, do not believe such rubbish. Not at all. What we offer is hope. Now throw over the Cathar nonsense and come to those who offer not starvation but comfort to the afflicted, and your shackles will be removed at once. You will be completely free to go.” His voice was mesmerizing and, as he intended, was now the voice of reason in the room.
Yolanda’s arms unclenched themselves a little from her sides. Uncle Girald was showing some mercy, she thought. All Raimon had to do was agree and this would be over. That would be easy. After all, what did he care about the technicalities of religion? And what Girald had said! Starvation. Madame Belot had starved to death. That really was worse than any penance Simon Crampcross could devise. Raimon should have told her. He surely did not imagine she would have told anybody else. Involuntarily, she moved toward him, wanting to comfort.
The inquisitor did not stop her. The girl could be useful, for Raimon was still saying nothing. He waited for a moment, then began again.
“There’s another thing, Raimon. A boy like you, of an age to fight, will naturally be thinking of the Occitan herself. You’ll be aware of her—our—present danger. Do you ever, I wonder, stop to examine the root of that danger?” Girald moved back now, to embrace a wider audience.
“The truth is that the Occitan is not King Louis’s enemy. His enemy is only the Cathars. Without them, there would be no war here and no need for any bloodshed. King Louis doesn’t want to wipe out the Occitan, he wants—indeed, it’s his Christian duty—to wipe out the heretics. No true Catholic can stand by as they preach evil doctrines. So if you care about the Occitan, if you truly want to help her, you must turn Catholic and denounce those heretics who threaten to destroy her.”
Much to Girald’s satisfaction, there was a murmu
ring. Some servants were very pale but for many his words had struck home. Get rid of the Cathars. Live in peace. The inquisitor would leave. King Louis would go back to Paris. It was a message many wanted to hear.
Raimon heard the murmurings, saw the faces, and now chose to speak. “Denounce the heretics? Hand them over to be burned? Is this how we treat our neighbors in the Occitan? Is this how we treat anyone?” His voice was sharp and commanding. The murmuring ceased. The picture the inquisitor had painted became murkier.
Girald twitched. Blast the boy. Silence would have been better. “We burn to save, Raimon.”
“Burning, starving, what’s the difference?”
“We burn with God’s authority. The Cathars starve with the devil’s.”
“They say that the other way around.”
Girald’s eyes gleamed. Success. “So you know what they say.”
“You said it yourself. Know your enemy.”
Girald blinked. “So they are your enemy too?”
“Everyone who claims to kill for God is my enemy.” Raimon’s voice rang out like a bell. Girald was not the only one who could address the whole room. “Why do you listen to this man?” he demanded of them, sparing no one. “We are the people of Amouroix in Occitan. We know what’s right and wrong. Let’s not listen to this anymore.”
People could not help paying attention, but though they nodded and even gave small cheers, when Raimon caught their eyes individually they looked down and shuffled. The only people who persisted were Gui and Guerau, who stamped their feet and clapped. Girald had them removed.
Raimon looked to the benches behind the inquisitor’s chair. Berengar was nervously admiring, Aimery was frowning, and Hugh, so far as he could tell, was bored. No one was going to rise on his behalf. He had failed. His eyes briefly met Hugh’s and Hugh allowed his to drop first.
Raimon had been mistaken about Hugh. He was not bored. It was true that, to begin with, he had been watching the proceedings as a Roman senator might have watched his fiftieth circus: with a kind of bloodless detachment. But when Raimon appeared, his interest had sharpened considerably. It was clear from Yolanda’s reaction that this boy was no friend. No, indeed. Hugh realized something he had taken no account of before—he had a rival, and this made his intended, whose fascinations were already far above what he had imagined they would be, much more of a catch. Bored? Not one bit.
Yolanda herself, with Brees now pressed against her legs, was both thrilled and aghast at Raimon’s outburst. It seemed so obvious to her what he should do. He should just say that he wanted nothing to do with the Cathars, which was true, and mumble something about Catholicism, which everyone would know he didn’t really mean but which would satisfy Girald, and then they could be out in the hills again, swimming or riding or making chains of flowers in memory of his mother, or just sitting as they sometimes did, breathing and being. Yet the thought of Girald crowing was intolerable. She moved and Aimery was on her at once.
“Stay still, Yola,” he hissed. “Can’t you see this isn’t finished yet?”
“But Raimon’s right, Aimery. We do know what’s right and wrong, and burning people must be wrong. You think so too. You must. You should say so.”
“Shh.”
Girald was waiting, tiny beads of moisture on his upper lip, his bowels beginning to churn as they often did when his stomach was completely empty. He needed to finish this and lie down. He crossed his hands below his belt for support. “Are you saying that you, Raimon Belot, know what is right or wrong better than a king or an anointed priest?”
The room was silent again. Raimon knew at once that he had lost any chance of carrying the room with him. However, he had not lost everything. He had seen the Flame, had held it. It had, in some way, chosen him. The thought stiffened his resolve. He was not going to back down. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
Girald’s face convulsed as his insides lurched again. He dared not have hoped for such a good answer. He clasped his hands tighter as his bowels contracted. “Do you hear that? The boy condemns himself.”
“And I’ll do it again if you want me to.” Raimon lifted unclouded eyes to his interrogator.
“There’s no need,” Girald said quickly. He turned and addressed the group directly again. “Now, all those who wish to follow Raimon Belot, who is claiming to be the new Methuselah and the new Messiah all in one, step forward. Don’t be shy! Didn’t you hear him? He knows better than I do, better than any king, better than the pope himself or even a Cathar perfectus how to get to heaven. He is Jesus Christ himself.”
“That’s not what—”
“Silence! You have declared yourself. I am simply going to lay out how things are.” He grasped his hands together in the tunnel of his sleeves. He could feel bile in his throat. “You are quite free, my friends, to follow this new Messiah. Do not let me stop you. I will only warn you that if you do, you too will be a heretic—not a Cathar heretic, of course, but a new species; perhaps we could call you Raimonians. Yes, that’s a good name. So, you can burn with your new leader, or he can burn alone. Which is it to be?”
“Nobody’s going to burn,” Berengar spoke up at last. “I forbid it.”
Girald dismissed him with a contemptuous wave. “Who wields the greater power, a count or an inquisitor?”
“Well, an inquisitor, naturally. The church always comes first, for the church is guided by God. I don’t dispute that. But I—”
“The boy will burn this afternoon.”
“No, no, Uncle.” Yolanda could hardly breathe. “You’ve misunderstood. Raimon’s not saying he knows better than everybody, are you, Raimon? Tell him. Tell him.”
“My dear, that’s exactly what he’s saying and you know exactly how things work. If you have a diseased tree, do you leave it to infect others?”
“No, Uncle Girald, but men are not trees.”
“I agree. Men are not trees. Men have free will. They can change their minds.” He knitted his fingers. “Let’s see if we can make Raimon change his, shall we?” His bowels began a new agony of twisting just as he realized that he had gotten a little carried away. Berengar was right. No one was going to burn that afternoon because Girald required authorization from a higher figure than himself to light a pyre. He was still too newly appointed. His fingers felt slimy. It was all going to slip away. He was going to be humiliated unless—He turned to Aimery. Aimery would help him. They spoke quietly and then Girald coughed. “I wonder if we should send for your father and sister.”
Raimon swallowed. “Leave them alone.”
“That’s not really possible, unless”—Girald used the pause to good effect—“unless we go back to the beginning. I shall ask you again whether your mother was a good woman, and if you say yes I will know that a perfectus visited your house when she was dying. This information will be useful to me and I like useful information. It might even be useful enough for me to find it in my heart to leave your father and sister at home. But if you won’t tell me, well, I shall send for them and see what they have to say.” This was a gamble for Girald. Raimon might remain silent, voluntarily turning himself into a martyr. Then Girald would have to concede that the pyre would have to wait. But then, what child would condemn his own flesh and blood? This was, Girald knew, the crudest form of blackmail, and Girald did not like anything crude. But his insides were crippling him. At his next trial he must make sure the accused had no opportunity to reply.
Raimon was aware of everyone in the room: the crowd losing sympathy; Yolanda sunk beside Brees; Hugh, sitting like an observer at a play; Aimery, looking at the ceiling; and the count, with his head in his hands. He could not let his father and Adela burn, and they would burn, or at least Adela would because she would never give in. He was beaten and he knew it. He said it quickly.
“Yes,” he whispered, and then, because a whisper seemed an admission of a weakness he did not feel, he said it again, boldly. “Yes. Yes. My mother was a good woman.”
The w
hole room groaned in pity and relief. Raimon only heard Yolanda.
Girald leaned toward him and the questions, learned from a list, came tumbling out. “Were you present at your mother’s consoling?”
“Yes.”
“Did you lay your hands on her with a perfectus?”
“Yes.”
“Did you say the words?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know the name of the perfectus?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” Girald barked. “What is it?”
“The White Wolf.”
“And where is this White Wolf now?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you know where all the Cathar hiding places are.”
Though nothing would have pleased Raimon more than the White Wolf’s capture, he would go so far and no farther. “I don’t know where he is.”
Girald considered, and then made up his mind. This was enough for his purpose. “Finally we have it,” he said, and his voice boomed. Even his bowels gave him a temporary celebratory respite. “I knew you would eventually turn”—he chose the word as carefully as an archer chooses his arrow—“telltale.”
The taunt sang around the hall and though he had suspected it was coming, it still thumped straight into Raimon’s gut. Telltale! What a sting that word had. He could see it written on the walls, murmured in the taverns, inscribed on his tombstone. Telltale! Telltale! He would have preferred traitor. A telltale sounded so coy, so like a sneak, and Raimon had always hated sneaks. It didn’t matter that everyone knew why he’d given in. It was still terrible to him, and worse, that he had tried to rally the people of Castelneuf behind him and he’d failed. He had made himself a pitiable figure by not realizing how often, except in dreams, fear trumps heroism. And all this in front of Hugh.
Only when, as a last insult, Girald produced the prescribed uniform of the outed and shamed heretic, a tabard of rough canvas garishly decorated with yellow crosses, and ordered him to wear it at work and rest forevermore, was he tempted to proclaim that the Flame belonged to him and that if people rallied behind him, together they could save the Occitan. But it would have been a lie. The Flame was not his. Parsifal had warned him not to come here and he had disobeyed him. So he said nothing.
