An army! An army of lords, coming here! But there are priests here – good, faithful priests. And monks, and nuns. Surely there must be some other way of converting the heretics? Why should the Pope send men with swords?
‘Anyway, my Bishop is getting a little worried,’ the Archdeacon explains, with an irreverent, sarcastic note in his voice. ‘He’s sent me on a mission to speak to the Cathar nobility, like the lady you’re going to meet tonight, in Fanjeaux. He thinks that if I persuade them to band together and go to the Pope to make their submission, then the army will be stopped.’
But of course! Of course it will! What a brilliant idea!
‘Needless to say, it isn’t working. I’ve just been to see the Count of Foix, at Pamiers, and he laughed in my face.’ The Archdeacon is speaking so quietly that it’s hard to hear him. He’s gazing across a field of millet, towards the huddle of stone houses beyond. ‘Without the Count’s support, none of the other lords will even consider such a proposal. Well, why should they?’
‘Because of the army!’ (Isn’t it obvious?) ‘Because of the Holy Father!’
‘No one down here in the south believes that any army can get past Carcassonne,’ the Archdeacon points out. ‘And they’re probably right, too. As for the Holy Father – well, they don’t give a damn about the Pope around here. Never have, and never will.’
‘Then they deserve to be attacked!’
‘Do they?’ He turns and looks at me: his eyes are expres sionless. ‘Do you know what they’re calling this invasion, Isidore? They’re calling it a crusade.’
A crusade? But –
‘The Pope is granting an indulgence to all those who fight against our local lords. That means that everyone who joins the invaders will receive absolution and remission of their sins.’
‘But – but we are not Infidels.’ I don’t understand. ‘This is not Jerusalem. Crusaders go to the Holy Land, to fight the Turks.’
‘Not any more, they don’t.’ When the Archdeacon smiles, it’s not a happy smile – it’s more of a grimace, sour and scornful. His teeth are clenched, and his face looks very dark. ‘After all, why should they go all the way to the Holy Land, when they can come down here? It’s closer, it’s cheaper, the wine is better, the roads are safer –’
‘But I don’t understand.’ This still doesn’t make sense. This is illogical. ‘You just said that Cathars were difficult to distinguish from normal Christians.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Then how will these crusaders distinguish between the people they should kill, and the people they shouldn’t?’
The Archdeacon raises an eyebrow. For some reason, he doesn’t look so angry any more: in fact he looks rather gratified. He even laughs a little, through his nose.
‘Isidore, that’s a very good question,’ he says, squinting as he studies me. ‘And I have to tell you that I haven’t worked out the answer yet. But as soon as I do, I’ll be sure to let you in on the secret.
‘Until then, I suggest we both keep our heads down.’
Chapter 3
14 July 1209
So this is Fanjeaux. I remember hearing that it was built on a hill, but not that the hill was such a high one. How lofty and white its walls are! How fine its church looks, up there near the castle. And how incredibly, unbelievably steep this road is.
‘Give her a nudge,’ the Archdeacon advises, as my horse slows to a standstill. ‘Just a little nudge, in the ribs. That’s right. That’s the way.’ She lurches forward, reluctantly, the loose stones rolling from under her hoofs. ‘It won’t be long now,’ he says. ‘Only a few steps further. I told you we’d reach it in time.’
Yes, but only just. The sun is low and red; the shadows long and dark. Up ahead, there are hardly any people at the gates. Only one man, a garrison soldier, is lounging under the archway: he peers at us suspiciously as we pass through. When the Archdeacon raises a hand in blessing, that oafish creature actually spits on the ground.
I can’t believe it. What disrespect!
‘Not very keen on their clergy around here,’ the Archdeacon remarks, with a twinkle in his eye.
O Lord, have the workers of iniquity no knowledge? Wickedness is in the midst thereof; deceit and guile depart not from these streets.
‘Of course, there’s a strong Cathar influence,’ the Archdeacon adds. He’s sitting very straight in the saddle, his alert, restless gaze flitting from house to house, from face to face. ‘They even have a community of Cathar priests living here. They call their priests “Good Men” and “Good Women”.’
‘They have women priests?’
‘Oh yes.’
Women priests! I don’t believe it. And yet this place looks so ordinary, just like Pamiers, with its narrow streets and stone houses, its dungheaps and chickens and flapping laundry, its shingle roofs and shuttered windows. Even the smells are the same: the smells of woodsmoke, of pigs, of boiled cabbage and bacon fat. And the people don’t look very different, either. That woman over there looks just like Mengarde.
‘Of course, their women priests don’t actually live with their men priests,’ the Archdeacon continues. ‘The women live in a separate house, run by a member of one of the town’s leading families. Guilhelme de Tonneins, her name is. A very pleasant woman.’
‘But – but –’
‘But what?’ Suddenly a small child darts across the road in front of us. My horse jerks its head and whinnies, retreating a few steps. The Archdeacon grabs my bridle. ‘I think perhaps I should lead you, from here on,’ he frowns. ‘This place is too dangerous for an inexperienced horseman. All the noise, and the movement –’
‘But why are there so many?’
‘What?’
‘Why are there so many heretics?’
‘Oh.’ He twitches his own reins, and we round a sharp corner. The road is still rising, but it’s wider now, covered with worn and irregular paving stones. There’s a ditch full of rubbish, and a cheesemonger’s, and a well – a fine well, made of dressed stone, with seats set all around it. The houses are bigger, two-storeyed, rambling, each possessing a poultry yard, a dovecote, a garden, a barn. People are slouching in doorways, talking and drinking, some of them picking their teeth, some of them nursing infants, enjoying the last rays of the setting sun. As we pass, they stare and whisper.
‘To be honest,’ the Archdeacon observes, eyeing the women who are sitting around the well, ‘I would speculate that the number of Cathars in this town is probably related to the degree of support they receive here.’
‘You mean from the Lord of Fanjeaux?’
‘No.’ The Archdeacon smiles, but he’s not smiling at me: he’s smiling at a tall woman in a green gown, who’s carrying a basket of eggs. As he inclines his head she turns away, looking flustered. What in the world can he be doing? Does he know that woman? ‘There is no Lord of Fanjeaux,’ he says, absent-mindedly. ‘Dame Cavears is the mistress here: she has seigneurial rights, and normally lives in the castle when she’s not visiting her relatives. In this town, Isidore, it’s the women who run things.’
The women? How shameful. The Archdeacon squints at me, and laughs aloud: his laughter echoes down the street, where the people fall silent, and turn, and glare. He has an unrestrained, disconcerting laugh. ‘Don’t worry, Isidore,’ he crows. ‘It’s not so bad.’
‘Saint Paul said –’
‘Yes, I know what Saint Paul said. ‘Neither was the man created for the woman, but the woman for the man.’ Well, that may be so, but here it seems to work the other way around. To our advantage, I may add.’ He’s still grinning broadly, without discretion, like a common child of the streets. How dare he laugh? How dare he mock my words, and taunt me, and say such things? It’s unjust. It’s undignified. ‘The men in this country hate priests,’ he says, ‘but the women love them. Even the Cathar women. Even Dame Cavears.’ He’s squinting at me again. ‘What’s the matter, Isidore?’
May the dust of your land become lice. May your carcass
be meat for the fowls of heaven.
‘You’re not angry, are you?’ He sounds startled. ‘You always seem to be angry. What did I say this time?’
May your blood be poured out by the force of the sword.
‘I’m not angry, Father.’
‘Yes you are, I can tell. Is it something I said? About the Cathars?’ He sighs, and carefully guides us around a stack of wood that’s been left in the middle of the road. ‘Let me tell you something, Isidore. One of the finest women I ever knew was a Cathar. A Cathar priest. She may have been misguided, but she was very good. Her name was Esclaramonde.’
‘You – you –’
‘What?’
‘You actually seem to like the heretics!’ (You little heathen. You shameless, noisy, stunted little heathen.) ‘Is that because you were an unbeliever yourself?’
‘What?’ He blinks. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You were an Infidel, once. They told me so.’
‘Who told you?’
‘They all did. At Pamiers.’
He’s shaking his head in disbelief. ‘I was never an Infidel,’ he says. ‘I was born a Christian.’
‘But you came from Jerusalem –’
‘When I was in Jerusalem, Isidore, it was Christian.’ He’s watching the road, because it’s getting very rough, but he keeps glancing at my face as he steers the horses. ‘That was before the Turks invaded the Holy Land, and defeated the Christian king. I am a Christian Arab. I was born in Bethlehem, and brought up in a monastery. I was never an Infidel.’
Then why are you so impious? Why do you favour heretics? Why do you have such strange ideas?
‘Mind you,’ he adds, with another sly, taunting grin, ‘one of the finest men I’ve ever known was an Infidel. In fact he was the commander of the Infidel forces that seized Jerusalem. His name was Saladin.’
Saladin! Lord Jesus protect us.
‘Saladin was a noble man. A chivalrous man. Most worthy of respect.’ (What a monster he is. Just look at the way he’s laughing at me, secretly, behind that solemn expression. I can see it in his eyes. I can hear it in his voice.) ‘You know, Isidore,’ he says, ‘I realise that when you’re brought up in a cloister, things look very simple. But the world isn’t as clear as the writing in a book. It’s not plain black on plain white. It’s a lot more complicated.’
So you say.
‘However, we can’t talk about that now.’ He lifts his head to look at the castle walls: they’re looming in front of us, dark against the darkening sky. The battlements are saw-toothed, like the horns of an antelope; the towers seem to spring up like trees from a sheer face of solid rock. ‘We’d better save our philosophical discussions until after we’ve talked to Dame Cavears,’ he says. ‘Otherwise I won’t have the breath left to deal with her.’
You mean we’re going into the castle, now? We’re really going in? O give thanks unto the Lord, for he is good: at last I’m going to see the inside of a genuine castle. Will there be troubadours, I wonder? Will there be dancing and music and golden hangings on the walls? Will they serve marvellous delicacies, like peacocks, and sugar, and apples of paradise?
Are we actually going to sleep there?
‘One more climb,’ the Archdeacon says, pointing at the ramp leading up to the gateway. ‘One more climb, and we can all relax.’ He drops my reins, and takes the lead: his horse begins to ascend, wearily, carefully, stumbling on the uneven surface. I’m glad we didn’t arrive any later. It’s already getting a bit dim – imagine trying to find your way up here in the dark! Someone hails us from above, and the Archdeacon shouts a reply.
‘Benedicite! I come in peace!’ he bellows. There are three people hovering near the gates of the fortress: three men in steel hats. One of them is leaning on a spear; the other two are eating nuts, and laughing. They stop laughing when they see us.
‘It’s a priest,’ says one.
‘It’s the priest from Carcassonne,’ says another.
‘Yes, that’s right.’ The Archdeacon addresses them in a friendly fashion, as if they’re his equals. ‘It’s me again. I’ve come to see your mistress.’
‘What for?’ The one with the spear pushes his helmet back from his forehead. He’s as fat as a heifer at grass, and his haircut surpasseth all understanding. ‘We’ve already got a priest here.’
‘Yes, I realise that,’ the Archdeacon replies. ‘But what can you do about the fetters of love, my friends? I just can’t tear myself away from your enchanting mistress.’
The three men burst out laughing. They howl. They shriek. They slap their legs and hold their sides.
I don’t understand. What’s so funny?
‘Oh my friends,’ the Archdeacon chides, ‘do you hold such little hope for my suit?’
‘Go on,’ the fat one splutters. ‘In you go.’
‘On the wings of love, most fair.’
‘With a boot up your backside, more like!’
What brainless talk is this? Why should an Archdeacon stoop to such vulgar badinage? He jerks his head at me, and the sound of laughter soon fades as we pass through the thick walls, emerging onto an open stretch of gravel with a great stone keep at one end. God be praised! What a work is this!
‘You have to watch how you conduct yourself around Fanjeaux.’ The Archdeacon swings a leg over his saddle, and drops lightly to the ground. ‘They’re quite capable of refusing entry, if you put on airs. Come on, Isidore, down you get.’
Down. I have to get down. But I seem to have lost the stirrup . . .
‘Here, take my hand,’ he says. ‘I’ll hold the horse. Just bring your other foot – that’s it.’
By the blood of the Lamb! What’s happened to my knees?
‘Are you all right?’ He peers at me as I sway and stagger. ‘Don’t worry, it won’t last. You’ll soon develop the muscles to cope.’
I’m coping perfectly well, thank you.
‘Can you walk? Would you like to lean on my shoulder?’
No, I wouldn’t like to lean on your shoulder! I’m not an old man! I don’t need your help and I don’t need your sympathy. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
The Archdeacon looks around. There’s a pall of smoke hanging over the clumsy huddle of buildings propped against the inner wall of the bailey: they’re made of wood and mud brick, and there are lights showing through some of their doors. I can smell cooking, and see people lurking in the shadows, but no one moves or utters a word of greeting. Only the dogs approach, growling and sniffing our ankles.
Good dogs. Nice dogs.
‘Useless bunch of ill-mannered pus-bags,’ the Archdeacon mutters. Undaunted by the hostile atmosphere, he raises his voice to address a man in a leather cap, who’s slouching on a doorstep with his arms folded. ‘You there! Fellow! If you’re not busy, you can take our horses.’
‘Where to?’ A frightening voice, like a thunderclap, but the Archdeacon doesn’t flinch.
‘Why,’ he says, winningly, ‘to the stables, of course. I am a guest of Dame Cavears.’
The man grunts. He comes forward and snatches the reins from the Archdeacon – who takes a very deep breath, holds it for an instant, and slowly lets it out again.
‘Come, Isidore,’ he murmurs. ‘I think we’d better announce ourselves.’
I can hear a baby crying. I can see a ruined tower, all gaping holes and piles of rubble. There’s a discarded shoe lying in the dust near my foot, and a goat nibbling at a cabbage-stalk. But there’s no music, no dancing, no silken flags. And that smell – it smells more like salted herring than roast peacock.
Oh Lord, am I to be disappointed once again? Why are things never as good as the poets and philosophers tell us they are? Is it because I’m unworthy to drink of the river of thy pleasures?
Or am I simply in the wrong place, at the wrong time?
‘Come, Isidore.’
It’s the Archdeacon; he’s heading for the keep. How can
he move so swiftly, after all that riding? When he reaches the stairs he bounds up them two at a time, like a young goat, and waits for me at the top with his foot tapping.
The door of the keep is disappointingly small, with no carvings or pillars to ornament it.
‘Now don’t worry if Dame Cavears teases you a bit,’ he says, in a low voice. ‘She’s an old lady, and she’s practically blind, so you have to be tolerant. Just stand up straight and take it like a man. That’s what I do.’ He grins at me, and winks. ‘Don’t fret yourself, boy. Remember what I said? The women in this country love priests.’ He gives me a push.
‘Go on,’ he urges. ‘In you go. I’m right behind you.’
Chapter 4
14 July 1209
Behold the house of Hezekiah, full of precious things. Behold the merchandise of fallen Babylon: the gold and the silver, the silk and the linen, the vessels of ivory and brass. Painted chests, as blue as sapphires and as red as rubies; tablecloths heavy with embroidered flowers; tapestry hangings like the pages of some great illuminated manuscript, glittering in the candlelight. Every surface seems to be enamelled or gilded or painted or carved, busy with colour, gleaming with richness. Only the floor is unadorned.
I feel like the Queen of Sheba coming before the wealth of Solomon. There is no more spirit in me.
‘Who’s that?’ The colours shift as someone moves; it’s so hard to distinguish the people against the patterns. But there she is – I can see her now. An old, old woman, with a face like a sun-dried apple and a gown as scarlet as sin. ‘Who’s that?’ she squawks. ‘Is that you, Enguerrand?’
‘No, Madame, it is not,’ the Archdeacon replies. At the sound of his voice there’s a flurry of movement: heads turn, benches creak. I can count three faces, all of them female. The room is so abundant in candles – great bunches of them, made of beeswax – that every line, every hair, is clearly illuminated. The old woman is sitting on a kind of throne, with a back to it, as if she were a Bishop. She wears a rich veil, embroidered with gold, and many golden rings. The other woman is dressed simply, in a dark robe and veil; she has a humble, careworn face, like the virtuous woman of Solomon’s proverbs, who riseth while it is yet night and eateth not the bread of idleness. Her eyes are grey, just like those of the girl beside her – the girl who looks up, and looks away, and makes such a beautiful shape with her mouth; the girl who is as fair as a lily among thorns. Her skin is white, like the heavenly robes of the martyrs, but her hair is raven black through a net of woven silk.
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