by Richard Reed
Those few years’ respite from the horrors of war had made them soft, thought Corba, as she struggled to make herself comfortable in the saddle; soft, and complacent, too. She had enjoyed her stay in the hidden villages of the rugged Aude hills, and the occasional visits by her husband, moving from place to place to ensure her safety. The unexpected arrival of Philippa, more than ten years after the birth of her elder sister Esclarmonde, had brought her much joy at an age when she would not have expected to have more children, but now those idyllic summers seemed but a distant memory.
As they headed further west the hills became steeper and more rugged, and the valleys more tortuous. In the distance the jagged peaks of the high Pyrénées appeared fleetingly through the clouds like gaping fangs.
On the third day they found themselves following a stream along a narrow valley overshadowed by towering limestone cliffs. Little Philippa, perched on the pommel of Benoît’s saddle, made even the hardest soldiers smile as she sang catches from a minstrel’s song about the Holy Grail she had learnt over the winter at Peyrepertuse.
The bandits struck shortly before noon as the small group of riders slowed to negotiate a narrow defile created by a rocky promontory. Seemingly from nowhere, an arrow flew across the leading horse and embedded itself into a gnarled old willow that had taken root beside the water.
The outrider reined in his horse sharply and spun round, looking for the assailant. Benoît urged his horse alongside Corba’s mount to shield her with his body as a small group of bowmen slid silently from the dense chestnut woodland, arrows nocked on strings.
“What do you want with us?” cried Benoît. We are simple folk; we have no gold.”
“We’ll be the judge of that,” said a tall, disfigured man with a badly scarred face in which an empty eye socket stared horribly. “Are you in the service of the king?”
“No, we most certainly are not,” said Benoît emphatically.
“Reckon you’re right,” retorted the bandit, eyeing the party. “Reckon you’re Cathars headed for Montségur. And judging from your apparel, my friend, you must be a clergyman – the Inquisition will pay handsomely for you. After we’ve had a little bit of fun,” he added, looking at Corba meaningfully.
“You’ll have to kill me first,” said Benoît furiously, pulling his sword from his smock in one swift movement. In an instant, a bowstring twanged and an arrow thumped into his thigh with such force it knocked him clear out of the saddle. Benoît hung down as the horse skittered nervously, his foot caught in the stirrup, his face contorted with pain.
“Benoît!” shrieked Corba, flinging herself out of the saddle and running to his horse. “Help me get him to the ground,” she snapped. Benoît’s squire was already at her side, and together they gently laid the priest on the ground as the bandits stood watching, bows at the ready.
“There are more where that came from, mistress,” said the man, who appeared to be the leader of the group. “The next one will be in his heart. Or, perhaps, the little girl is more precious to you?” he added after a pause, swinging his bow up to where Philippa still clung, petrified, to the saddle of Benoît’s horse.
Corba summoned her last ounce of courage and drawing herself up to her full height, looked the robber directly in the eye.
“If you do us more harm you will pay for it dearly,” she said fiercely.
“Says who?” he sneered.
“Those who gave me this ring,” she said, tugging a large silver signet ring from her finger.
“A little silver? Good, that will add to our takings.” Stepping forward, he snatched the ring from her hand and squinted at it, before looking up, startled. “Here, François,” he said, turning to the man nearest him. “Is this what I think it is?”
The man walked across and taking the ring, held it close to his face. His expression grew grim, and he crossed himself swiftly. “We’d best not interfere with the likes of them,” he muttered.
The leader took back the ring and eyed Corba speculatively. “Friends of yours, I take it?” he said sarcastically.
“You could say that.”
He hesitated, turning the ring in his hands, then stepped forward, holding it out to her. “Well then you had best be on your way, my lady.” He paused, looking down at where Benoît lay clutching his thigh in agony as his squire bound the wound. “He’ll live,” muttered the robber, nodding in his direction. “I’ve seen worse – there’s not much blood. You won’t mention this? We weren’t to know…”
“Weren’t to know?” exploded Corba. “Never mind that you attacked a priest or threatened an innocent girl!”
“We must make do as best we can, my lady,” said the man stubbornly. “They have burned our homes and killed our women and children. I have no liking for priests, but I wouldn’t have hurt the little lass; she has a likeness to my daughter Ariane – raped and skewered on a Crusader’s sword these ten years’ past.”
Corba’s face softened. “I am sorry for your loss. But I beg of you, if you have no choice but to remain outside the law, then at least avoid harm to those who share your plight. Life is precious; do not allow them to take away your dignity.”
There was something about her eyes that made him look down humbly. “What is your name, my lady?” he asked quietly.
“Corba,” she responded simply. “Some know me as Myriam.”
“I’ve heard tell,” he said, wonderingly. “Men say they sacrificed Béziers for you. I’ll not trouble you further, my lady.”
“Thank you,” she said. “And please, if you value my life, do not tell anyone that we have passed.”
“You have my word,” he said, bowing his head.
Chapter 11
Rachel gave an involuntary gasp as the door to the Secret Room swung open. Here, possibly, lay the answer to all the secret hopes she had fostered over the past two years since the project’s inception. They had made their first real ‘find’ – and one they had never thought to see.
The tiny, quadrant-shaped room, with its bare stone walls and dirt floor, was even more empty and unkempt than the sacristy, lit only by the small, circular window in the outer wall and the feeble light filtering through from the sacristy. Cobwebs festooned the ceiling and the ground was covered with a thick layer of debris that had found its way through the loosely fitting roof tiles. Here and there broken tiles lay discarded. Devoid of a ceiling, the room would be cold and draughty in winter – this was plainly not a place where Saunière intended to spend much time. Yet anecdotal reports suggested he regularly disappeared into the room for long periods. That could mean only one thing – whatever his destination, it was not the Secret Room itself. This was just a portal, a doorway to whatever lay in the crypt.
Rachel gingerly stepped up into the wardrobe and climbed down through the doorway into the room beyond. As she stepped down, she turned to look over her shoulder and gave David a girlish grin of excitement that sent a delicious shiver through his body. Mercurial she may be – but he found her quite intoxicating.
She stared around her. The room was utterly bare, and gave no signs of the purpose for which it must once have been used. She shivered, and not just from the cold.
“Rachel, we can’t stay here,” said David through the open door in the wardrobe. “Someone might come in at any moment to check on us.”
“You’re right. Let’s take the key back and go and get some things for later.”
“There’s something you haven’t considered in all this,” said David, as she climbed back through the cupboard. “What are we going to do when they lock up the church?”
“We’ll have to hide inside before they lock up, of course.”
“And how do we get out again?”
“The same way – wait until they open up in the morning, then sneak out.”
“With our stash of loot in plain sight?” said David sarcastically.
“I’m not planning on doing any grave robbing – it’s information we need; information and photographs to
prove it. So don’t forget your camera. And by the looks of it, we’re going to need a spade in here, too, to prise up those slabs and dig out the dirt floor underneath.”
“And how do you propose to smuggle a spade in here?”
“I don’t. You’re going to do it.”
David was almost apoplectic.
“Don’t worry,” said Rachel quickly, as he flushed red with anger. “All you have to do is stick it down your trousers…”
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” he exploded.
“Look, just poke the handle down your trouser leg and hide the blade under your jumper. No-one will notice with all that flab,” she giggled.
David started to respond, then burst out laughing. “You cheeky minx – I’m not that fat! A bit too much French food, maybe. Well, I suppose we’ve nothing to lose – it might just work. Promise me one thing – if we get caught, you do the talking.”
“Absolutely,” said Rachel.
Leaving the sacristy door unlocked, they returned the key to rack behind the museum counter. Hélène, who was still knee-deep in cartons of books, acknowledged them with a brief nod before returning to her task.
There was now only about half an hour to go before the church closed, and most of the tourists had left. Those that remained had completed their tour of the church, and were now traipsing round the adjacent presbytery.
David and Rachel went into the small portable cabin where the dig team kept their tools and overalls. “OK, what do we need – apart from a spade?” asked David.
“Not much – a couple of carrier bags, in case there is anything we need to smuggle out – supermarket bags won’t look suspicious. And a dustpan and brush; or at least a brush.”
“What on earth do we want that for?” asked David.
“We need to leave the place looking as though no-one’s been in there. We are going to have to sweep all that debris to one side, then scatter it back over the floor afterwards to cover our traces.”
“Smart thinking – I’m pretty sure there’s one round here somewhere. And, of course, the camera – and the flashgun. It’s going to be pitch black down there. Maybe the lightweight folding tripod, too. And on the subject of lighting, we need some good, strong torches.”
“I’ve got an LED torch – it lasts forever. You bring one, too, just in case the batteries do go flat. I don’t fancy being stuck down in the crypt overnight in the dark. The torches are in my tent – get the camera out of the car, and I’ll see you back here in five minutes.”
Rachel looked David up and down curiously when she returned to the cabin to find him standing nonchalantly outside. “Have you got the spade?” she asked, intrigued by the lack of bulges under his clothing.
“Absolutely!” said David, mimicking her own buzzword with the same, humorous inflexion. He laughed. “OK, I’ll let you out of your suspense. I remembered I had a folding shovel in the back of the Range Rover – I keep it there in case I get stuck in the winter.”
“A bit of overkill with a car like that, isn’t it? Still, on this occasion your caution seems to have paid off.”
“Why thank you, my lady,” said David ironically, bowing from the waist. “Shall we proceed?”
They wandered into the church trying to look as casual as possible. Rachel gave a quick backward glance as they crossed the threshold, but no-one seemed to be around. The church itself was empty. They walked quickly down the aisle and into the sacristy, closing the door behind them.
“I think we ought to wait in the Secret Room, just in case someone looks in here,” said David.
“Good idea.” Rachel climbed up into the wardrobe and pressed the catch in the far corner, as David had done earlier. The door to the Secret Room swung open invitingly. She climbed down inside once more, and turned round to face David. “Hand down your things,” she said. He passed her the camera and flashgun, then reached under his jacket and pulled out the folding spade, before retrieving the floor-brush from the waistband of his trousers. He was about to climb through the opening when she stopped him. “Haven’t you forgotten something?” David looked puzzled. “The cupboard door!”
He tutted at his oversight, and pulled the outer cupboard door shut. As he did so, they heard steps ringing out on the flagstones in the church. Quickly, he stepped down into the Secret Room and shut the inner door behind him. They stood frozen in silence, waiting for the visitor to leave the church. Instead, through the thin partition they heard the door to the sacristy creak open. They both held their breath. After a few moments they heard it close again – and a key turn in the lock. The footsteps receded into the distance, and then there was a deep thud as the heavy oak door to the church was pulled shut. They could just hear the dull rasp of its ancient lock turning, and then silence.
They looked at each other aghast in the fading light. It was Rachel who spoke first.
“We’re trapped!”
“No shit, Sherlock,” said David sarcastically.
“How are we going to get out of here?”
Panic shone momentarily in her eyes, and he relented. “Don’t worry, we’ll find a way out. If the worst comes to the worst, we’ll just have to holler out of the window tomorrow morning. But then, of course, everyone will know what we’ve been up to.”
“Why did they lock the door?”
“Hélène knew we’d been in here. She probably checked to make sure we had locked up properly.”
“Those didn’t sound like a woman’s footsteps.”
David shrugged. “Whatever. We’re here now; we’ve done the deed. There’s no going back.”
Chapter 12
Languedoc, south-west France, February 1233
The long winter passed without incident at Puylaurent. Corba and Benoît had been greeted warmly by the ageing châtelain Pierre Catala and his son Roger, who had made them their honoured guests and extended every hospitality. Corba and Benoît had even been given their own tower at the north-western end of the château, which had been hewn out of the living rock at the summit of the pog, as the Occitans called the steep, volcanic mounds that jutted up from the valley floor.
Benoît’s party had been sworn to secrecy to protect Corba’s identity, but despite the precaution, rumour abounded, and as word spread Corba came to be regarded with awe by the many Cathars who had taken refuge at the château. The faydits, the nobility dispossessed of their lands by the Pope’s crusade, showed her particular reverence, and by the time of their leaving, their lodgings had become known as Our Lady’s Tower.
Corba tried to ignore the gossip as best she could without appearing rude, focusing her attention instead on trying to continue the important task of educating her daughter. It was not easy.
“But Maman,” protested Philippa one day, after reporting back one of the rumours she had heard. “Why don’t you tell people who you really are?”
A fleeting smile crossed Corba’s face at Philippa’s naivety. “I am afraid, ma petite, that if that became known, the Pope’s men would not stop until they had torn this place down, stone by stone, to capture me.”
“But why?”
“You are too young to understand the evil that drives these people, Philippa,” said Corba quietly, “and I have no wish to upset you by telling you of their misdeeds. Suffice it to say they have done unspeakable things in the name of God, and they will stop at nothing to see us all eradicated – like so much vermin,” she said vehemently. “That is how they see us. Nothing we can say will change their minds. They take our words and twist them to suit their purpose.”
She turned to look out of the turret’s narrow, arrow-slit window, fighting back the tears so that Philippa would not see her grief. She stared out across the valley, where the tiny houses that comprised the village of Puylaurent clustered around the foot of the pog, to the scrub-covered mountains that rose dramatically from the valley floor just a short distance beyond, their dark green flanks broken with sheer limestone outcrops, rising in serried ranks to the snow-covered pea
ks in the distance. How, in God’s name, in the midst of so much beauty, could such evil exist?
“But Maman…”
“No more! Back to your studies,” she scolded. “Have you finished reading that book? So tell me, what have you learned about the Madeleine?”
“Well, what I don’t understand is why her teachings are so different to those of St Peter.”
“He was a simple fisherman, Philippa. He did not fully understand the Lord’s teachings, any more than some of the other disciples. Mary was a well-educated woman – she was of royal blood and came from a wealthy family. She could not only read and write, but she would have studied many ancient texts. Look at the anointing of Christ – none of them understood that it was a sacred ritual that only she could perform, anointing Jesus as king, the rightful heir of David. They just accused her of wasting precious spikenard, the simpletons!”
“Did all the disciples hate her?”
“Not all, though many were mistrustful. You have to understand that women had no respect in Jewish society – you’re lucky you have grown up among the Cathars, where women are treated as equals. The Church of Rome is not so open-minded – it does not even allow women to be priests, unlike our parfaites. But as for your question: yes, others were less hostile; Levi, for one, but especially John. Jesus, John and Mary were very close. But the men were all cowards; they would not stand with Our Lord at the crucifixion. Only the women stayed until the end.” A surge of anger ran through her. “Hah – and they think only they are fit to be priests!”
