by Kate Mosse
‘At first, none of this affected Alaïs and Sajhë. They carried on much as before. In the winter, Sajhë travelled to Spain to raise money and arms to fund the resistance. Alaïs remained behind. She was a skilled rider, quick with her bow and sword and had great courage, taking messages to the leaders of the resistance in the Ariège and throughout the Sabarthès Mountains. She provided refuge for parfaits and parfaites, organising food and shelter and information about where and when services would take place. The parfaits were itinerant preachers for the most part, living by their own manual labour. Carding, making bread, spinning wool. They travelled in pairs, a more experienced teacher with a younger initiate. Usually two men, of course, but sometimes women.’ Audric smiled. ‘It was much as Esclarmonde, her friend and mentor, had once done in Carcassona.
‘Excommunications, indulgences for Crusaders, the new campaign to eradicate the heresy, as they called it, might have continued much as before, were it not for the fact that there was a new Pope. Pope Grégoire IX. He was no longer prepared to wait. In 1233, he set up the Holy Inquisition under his direct control. Its task was to seek out and eradicate heretics, wherever and by whatever means. He chose the Dominicans, the Black Friars, as his agents.’
‘I thought the Inquisition came into being in Spain? You always hear of it in that context.’
‘A common mistake,’ he said. ‘No, the Inquisition was founded to extirpate the Cathars. The terror began. Inquisitors roamed from town to town as they pleased, accusing, denouncing and condemning. There were spies everywhere. There were exhumations, so corpses buried in holy ground could be burned as heretics. By comparing confessions and half confessions, the Inquisitors began to map the path of Catharism from village, to town, to city. The Pay d’Oc began to sink beneath a vicious tide of judicial murder. Good, honest people were condemned. Neighbour turned, in fear, against neighbour. Every major city had an Inquisitional Court, from Tolosa to Carcassona. Once condemned, the Inquisitors turned their victims over to the secular authorities to be imprisoned, beaten, mutilated or burned. They kept their hands clean. Few were acquitted. Even those who were released were forced to wear a yellow cross on their clothing to brand them as heretics.’
Alice had a flicker of memory. Of running through the woods to escape the hunters. Of falling. Of a fragment of material, the colour of an autumn leaf, floating away from her into the air.
Did I dream it?
Alice looked into Audric’s face and saw such distress written there that it turned her heart over.
‘In May 1234, the Inquisitors arrived in the town of Limoux. By ill fate, Alaïs had travelled there with Rixende. In the confusion – perhaps they were mistaken for parfaites, two women travelling together — they were arrested also and taken to Tolosa.’
This is what I have been dreading.
‘They did not give their true names, so it was several days before Sajhë heard what had happened. He followed straight away, not caring for his own safety. Even then, luck was not on his side. The Inquisitional hearings were mostly held in the cathedral of Sant-Sernin, so he went there to find her. Alaïs and Rixende, however, had been taken to the cloisters of Sant-Etienne.’
Alice caught her breath, remembering the ghost-woman as she was dragged away by the black-robed monks.
‘I have been there,’ she managed to say.
‘Conditions were terrible. Dirty, brutal, demeaning. Prisoners were kept without light, without warmth, with only the screams of other prisoners to distinguish night from day. Many died within the walls awaiting trial.’
Alice tried to speak, but her mouth was too dry.
‘Did she . . .’ she stopped, unable to go on.
‘The human spirit can withstand much, but once broken, it crumbles like dust. That is what the Inquisitors did. They broke our spirit, as surely as the torturers split skin and bone, until we no longer knew who we were.’
‘Tell me,’ she said quickly.
‘Sajhë was too late,’ he said in a level voice. ‘But Guilhem was not. He had heard that a healer, a mountain woman, had been brought from the mountains for interrogation and, somehow, he guessed it was Alaïs, even though her name did not appear on the register. He bribed the guards to let him through — bribed or threatened, I know not. He found Alaïs. She and Rixende were being held separately from everyone else, which gave him the chance he needed to smuggle her away from Sant-Etienne and out of Tolosa before the Inquisitors realised she had gone.’
‘But. . .’
‘Alaïs always believed that it was Oriane who had ordered her to be imprisoned. Certainly, they did not interrogate her.’
Alice felt tears in her eyes. ‘Did Guilhem bring her back to the village?’ she said quickly, wiping her face with the back of her hand. ‘She did come home again?’
Baillard nodded. ‘Eventually. She returned in agost, shortly before the Feast Day of the Assumption, bringing Rixende with her.’ The words came out in a rush.’
‘Guilhem did not travel with them?’
‘He did not,’ he said. ‘Nor did they meet again until . . .’ He paused. Alice sensed, rather than heard, him draw in his breath. ‘Her daughter was born six months later. Alaïs called her Bertrande, in memory of her father Bertrand Pelletier.’
Audric’s words seemed to hang between them.
Another piece of the jigsaw.
‘Guilhem and Alaïs,’ she whispered to herself. In her mind’s eye she could see the Family Tree spread out on Grace’s bedroom floor in Sallèles d’Aude. The name ALAïS PELLETIER-DU MAS (1193-) picked out in red ink. When she had looked before she hadn’t been able to read the name next to it, only Sajhë’s name, written in green ink on the line below and to the side.
‘Alaïs and Guilhem,’ she said again.
A direct line of descent running from them to me.
Alice was desperate to know what had happened in those three months that Guilhem and Alaïs were together. Why had they parted again? She wanted to know why the labyrinth symbol appeared beside Alaïs’ name and Sajhë’s name.
And my own.
She looked up, excitement building inside her. She was on the verge of letting loose a stream of questions when the look on Audric’s face stopped her. Instinctively, she knew he had dwelt long enough on Guilhem.
‘What happened after that?’ she asked quietly. ‘Did Alaïs and her daughter stay in Los Seres with Sajhë and Harif?’
From the fleeting smile that appeared briefly on Audric’s face, Alice knew he was grateful for the change of subject.
‘She was a beautiful child,’ he said. ‘Good natured, fair, always laughing, singing. Everybody adored her, Harif in particular. Bertrande sat with him for hours listening to his stories about the Holy Land and about her grandfather, Bertrand Pelletier. As she grew older, she did errands for him. When she was six, he even started to teach her to play chess.’
Audric stopped. His face grew sombre again. ‘However, all the time the black hand of the Inquisition was spreading its reach. Having defeated the plains, the Crusaders finally turned their attention to the unconquered strong-holds of the Pyrenees and Sabarthès. Trencavel’s son, Raymond, returned from exile in 1240 with a contingent of chevaliers and was joined by most of the nobility of the Corbières. He had no trouble regaining most of the towns between Limoux and the Montagne Noire. The whole country was mobilised: Saissac, Azille, Laure, the châteaux of Quéribus, Peyrepertuse, Aguilar. But after nearly a month of fighting, he failed to retake Carcassona. In October, he pulled back to Montreal. No one came to his aid. In the end, he was forced to withdraw to Aragon.’
Audric paused. ‘The terror began immediately. Montréal was razed to the ground, Montolieu too. Limoux and Alet surrendered. It was clear to Alaïs, to us all, that the people would pay the price for the failure of the rebellion.’
Baillard suddenly stopped and looked up. ‘Have you been to Montségur, Madomaisèla Alice?’ She shook her head. ‘It is an extraordinary place. A sacred place perha
ps. Even now, the spirits linger. It is hewn out of three sides of the mountain. God’s temple in the sky.’
‘The safe mountain,’ she said without thinking, then blushed to realise she was quoting Baillard’s own words back at him.
‘Many years earlier, before the beginning of the Crusade, the leaders of the Cathar church had asked the seigneur of Montségur, Raymond de Péreille, to rebuild the crumbling castellum and strengthen its fortifications. By 1243, Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix, in whose household Sajhë had trained, was in command of the garrison. Fearing for Bertrande and Harif, Alaïs felt they could no longer stay in Los Seres, so Sajhë offered his service and they joined the exodus to Montségur.’
Audric nodded. ‘But they became visible when they travelled. Perhaps they should have separated. Alaïs’ name was now on an Inquisitional list.’
‘Was Alaïs a Cathar?’ she asked suddenly, realising that, even now, she was not sure.
He paused. ‘The Cathars believed that the world we can see, hear, smell, taste and touch was created by the Devil. They believed the Devil had tricked pure spirits into fleeing God’s kingdom and imprisoned them in tunics of flesh here on Earth. They believed if they lived a good enough life and “made a good end” their souls would be released from bondage and return to God in the glory of Heaven. If not, within four days they would be reincarnated on Earth to start the cycle anew.’
Alice remembered the words in Grace’s bible.
‘That which is born of the flesh is flesh; and that which is born of the Spirit is Spirit.’
Audric nodded. What you must understand is that the Bons Homes were loved by the people they served. They didn’t charge for officiating at marriages, naming children or burying the dead. They extracted no taxes, demanded no tithes. There’s a story of a parfait coming across a farmer kneeling in the corner of his field: “What are you doing?” he asked the man. “Giving thanks to God for bringing forth this fine crop,” the farmer replied. The parfait smiled and helped the man to his feet: “This isn’t God’s work, but your own. For it was your hand that dug the soil in the spring, who tended it”.’ He raised his eyes to Alice. ‘You understand?’
‘I think so,’ she said tentatively. ‘They believed individuals had control over their own lives.’
‘Within the constraints and limitations of the times and place in which we were born, yes.’
‘But did Alaïs subscribe to this way of thinking?’ she persisted.
‘Alaïs was like them. She helped people, put the needs of others before her own. She did what she thought was right, regardless of what tradition or custom dictated.’ He smiled. ‘Like them she believed there would be no last judgement. She believed that the evil she saw around her could not be of God’s making, but, in the end, no. She was not. Alaïs was a woman who believed in the world she could touch and see.’
What about Sajhë?’
Audric did not answer directly. ‘Although the term Cathar is in common usage now, in Alaïs’ time believers called themselves Bons Homes. The Inquisitional Latin texts refer to them as albigenses or heretici.’
‘So where does the term Cathar come from?’
‘Ah, well, we cannot let the victors write our stories for us,’ he said. ‘It is a term that I and others . . .’ He stopped, smiling, as if sharing a joke with himself. ‘There are many different explanations. Perhaps that the word catar in Occitan – cathare in French – came from the Greek katharos, meaning pure. Who can say what was intended?’
Alice frowned, realising she was missing something, but didn’t know what.
‘Well, what of the religion itself then? Where did that originate? Not France originally?’
‘The origins of European Catharism lie in Bogomilism, a dualist faith that flourished in Bulgaria, Macedonia and Dalmatia from the tenth century onwards. It was linked with older religious beliefs — such as Zoroastrianism in Persia or Manicheism. They believed in reincarnation.’
An idea started to take shape in her mind. The link between everything Audric was telling her and what she already knew.
Wait and it will find you. Be patient.
‘In the Palais des Arts in Lyon,’ he continued, ‘there is a manuscript copy of a Cathar text of St John’s Gospel, one of very few documents to escape destruction by the Inquisition. It is written in the langue d’Oc, possession of which in those days was considered a heretical, punishable act. Of all the texts sacred to the Bons Homes, the Gospel of John was the most important. It is the one which lays most stress on personal, individual enlightenment through knowledge – gnosis. Bons Homes refused to worship idols, crosses or altars – carved from the rocks and trees of the Devil’s base creation – they held the word of God in the very highest esteem.’
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.
‘Reincarnation,’ she said slowly, thinking aloud. ‘How could this possibly be reconciled with orthodox Christian theology?’
‘Central to the Christian covenant is the gift of everlasting life to those who believe in Christ and are redeemed through his sacrifice on the Cross. Reincarnation is also a form of eternal life.’
The labyrinth. The path to eternal life.
Audric stood up and walked over to the open window. As Alice stared at Baillard’s thin, upright back, she sensed a determination in him that had not been there before.
‘Tell me, Madomaisèla Tanner,’ he said, turning to face her. ‘Do you believe in destiny? Or is it the path we choose to follow that makes us who we are?’
‘I — ’ she started, then stopped. She was no longer sure what she thought. Here in the timeless mountains, high up in the clouds, the everyday world and values did not seem to matter. ‘I believe in my dreams,’ she said in the end.
‘Do you believe you can change your destiny?’ he said, seeking an answer.
Alice found herself nodding. ‘Otherwise, what’s the point? If we are simply walking a path preordained, then all the experiences that make us who we are — love, grief, joy, learning, changing – would count for nothing.’
‘And you would not stop another from making his own choices?’
‘It would depend on the circumstances,’ she said slowly, nervous now. Why?’
‘I ask you to remember it,’ he said softly. ‘That is all. When the time comes, I ask you to remember this. Si es atal es atal.’
His words stirred something in her. Alice was sure she had heard them before. She shook her head, but the memory refused to come.
‘Things will be as they will be,’ he said softly.
CHAPTER 70
‘Monsieur Baillard, I — ’
Audric held up his hand. ‘Benlèu,’ he said, walking back to the table and picking up the threads of the story as if there had been no interruption. ‘I will tell you everything you need to know, I give you my word of that.’
She opened her mouth, then closed it again.
‘It was crowded in the citadel,’ he said, ‘but for all that, it was a happy time. For the first time in many years, Alaïs felt safe. Bertrande, now nearly ten years old, was popular with the many children who lived in and around the fortress. Harif, although old and frail, was also in good spirits. He had plenty of company: Bertrande to charm him, parfaits to argue with about the nature of God and the world. Sajhë was there at her side for much of the time. Alaïs was happy.’
Alice closed her eyes and let the past come to life in her mind.
‘It was a good existence and might have continued so but for one, reckless act of vengeance. On the twenty-eighth of May I242, Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix received word that four Inquisitors had arrived in the town of Avignonet. The result would be more parfaits and credentes imprisoned or sent to the stake. He decided to act. Against the advice of his sergeants, including Sajhë, he assembled a troop of eighty-five knights from the Montségur garrison, their numbers swelled by others who joined en route.
‘They walked fifty miles to Avignonet, arriving t
he following day. Shortly after the Inquisitor Guillaume Arnaud and his three colleagues had gone to bed, someone within the house opened the locked door and admitted them. The doors to their bedrooms were smashed open and the four Inquisitors and their entourage were hacked to death. Seven different chevaliers claimed to have struck the first blows. It is said that Guillaume Arnaud died with the Te Deum on his lips. What is certain is that his Inquisitorial records were carried away and destroyed.’
‘That was a good thing, surely.’
‘It was the final act of provocation. The massacre brought a swift response. The King decreed that Montségur was to be destroyed, once and for all. An army comprised of northern barons, Catholic inquisitors and mercenaries and collaborators set camp at the foot of the mountain. The siege started, but yet men and women from the Citadel still came and went as they pleased. After five months, the garrison had lost only three men and it seemed the siege would fail.
‘The Crusaders hired a platoon of Basque mercenaries, who clambered up and pitched camp a stone’s throw from the castle walls just as the bitter mountain winter was setting in. There was no imminent danger, but Pierre-Roger decided to withdraw his men from the outworks on the vulnerable eastern side. It was a costly mistake. Armed with information from local collaborators, the mercenaries succeeded in scaling the vertiginous slope on the southeastern side of the mountain. Knifing the sentinels, they took possession of the Roc de la Tour, a spike of stone rising up on the easternmost point of the summit ridge of Montségur. They could only watch, helpless, as the catapults and mangomels were winched up to the Roc. At the same time, on the eastern side of the mountain, a powerful trébuchet started to inflict damage on the eastern barbican.
