The Night's Dark Shade

by Elena Maria Vidal

  “Do not worry about it, my child,” Esclarmonde replied, with an evasive laugh. Her eyes traveled to the servants, as though she did not feel free to speak further before them. “After all, we are Good Christians here. There are many secrets that I have to share with you, but that will come later. Now, it is time for you to come and meet the others.”

  Raphaëlle had never met anyone as austere as Lady Esclarmonde; she reminded her of a nun, yet at the same time she was nothing like the nuns at the Benedictine monastery in Le Puy. What was it that made her different? Raphaëlle could not quite fathom what it was.

  Esclarmonde led Raphaëlle out of the chamber, with Simonette, Margot and Jehanette trooping along behind. They walked down a long gallery lined with shields, swords, lances and high, narrow windows, followed by an oblique stair and a winding descent. A low door opened upon the great hall of the castle.

  The light from the milky-green mullioned windows paled in the radiance of the old-fashioned central hearth. From the beams of the ceiling were hung banners of the local gentry, as well as those of her uncle’s and aunt’s ancestors, the largest banner being that of the House of Marcadeau, bearing an eagle with a fish in its mouth flying over a castle. The flagstone floor was strewn with rushes and pennyroyal. Dogs roamed about, eager for bones and scraps.

  At the far end was a dais with a long table, where in the center were two canopied chairs for the lord and lady. It was the main table and therefore was draped in a linen cloth. The family sat there, and honored guests. On either side of the dais, spanning the length of the hall, were two trestle tables where the rest of the household ate, with a declension in rank, the lowliest men-at-arms and maids being the farthest away from the head table.

  The entire gathering rose as Lady Esclarmonde entered, guiding Raphaëlle to the dais, holding her hand aloft. She saw the baron, with a thin youth at his side. Nearby were Sir Martin and Sir Gaston, the Knights of Saint John. Both knights wore grey wool tunics covered by black surcoats and mantles, the latter emblazoned with white eight-pointed stars. Black linen coifs were upon their heads. Martin’s companion knight was also tall, but of leaner, more ascetic build, monk-like in his bearing. Her uncle, Pierre de Tourmalet, the Baron de Marcadeau, kissed his wife’s hand and then kissed Raphaëlle’s.

  “Welcome again to my sister's daughter,” he announced, embracing her cheeks. “How you remind me of her!” His baritone voice was warm yet sad; he gazed at her as if remembering a time that was lost to him. “Truly, you look like my sister Madeleine the very day she left our castle at Tourmalet, and rode away to Auvergne to be wed. God rest her soul. As for myself, I later left Tourmalet when I married Lady Esclarmonde de Marcadeau and assumed her late father’s title of baron. You have rested, my niece?”

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  “Very good! And now, let me present your fiancé, my son Raymond.” The baron stood aside and there stepped forward the thin, pallid youth whom she had noticed when entering the hall. She curtsied; he stiffly bowed. She waited for him to extend his hand to raise her up, but when he did not, she rather unsteadily regained her feet, staring at him, wondering what she had done wrong. Was he unschooled? Or did he think her yellow dress immodest? Like his mother Esclarmonde, he was garbed from head to toe in deepest black. His light brown hair rippled to his shoulders; huge blue-grey eyes dominated his face.

  “What a beauteous youth!” Raphaëlle thought to herself. However, she noticed that beneath a classically straight nose his full mouth pouted most ungraciously, while the long, pale fingers of his large hands clenched and unclenched as if with nervous displeasure. His parents seemed oblivious to their son’s rudeness, although the baron blinked with momentary discomfiture, as he bade Raphaëlle sit on his left. Only the lord and lady had chairs; everyone else, including Raphaëlle, sat on benches. Raymond did not assist her onto the bench, but sulkily sat next to his mother, to the right of the baron. At Raphaëlle’s side was Sir Martin de Revel-Saissac. His eyes caught hers for a moment as his lips brushed her hand, causing rapture to strive with intense dread over the feelings that arose at his touch. The castle steward sounded a small silver trumpet. Pages quickly brought to each diner a basin and cloth for the washing of hands.

  The baron mumbled a short, perfunctory grace, hastily blessing himself. Sir Martin, Sir Gaston, Raphaëlle and her attendants likewise made the sign of the cross. Raphaëlle noticed that others in the hall did not bless themselves but rather made an odd circular motion over their bread, as it was distributed by the pantler. Silver decanters brimming with wine were borne in by the butler and the lads who comprised his staff. The baron raised his goblet.

  “I would like to drink to my son and his bride, already betrothed by proxy. Come, my niece.” Raphaëlle rose and stood at Raymond’s side, as her uncle joined their hands. “To the bride and groom!” he cried, draining his goblet.

  “Here, here!” The rest of the assembly followed suit. Raphaëlle disengaged herself from Raymond’s clammy grip and returned to her bench. Her heart sank; surely he was not pleased with her. “I should not have worn this gown: it is too gaudy,” she thought. A kitchen varlet brought round a piping stew, followed by scullions with dishes of roast pheasant and chicken quenelles. Finally, the cook himself and his senior assistants carried in wide copper trays laden with roast venison, caught in the early morning.

  Raphaëlle could not remember when she had last dined so well. She nevertheless tried to eat delicately, as taught by her mother. She shared a cup of wine with her uncle, whose page attended them, slicing and serving the various dishes, so that everything could be easily eaten with the fingers. To her astonishment, she noticed that Raymond and Esclarmonde partook of none of the meats; rather each had in their trenchers nothing but cabbage, mushrooms and turnip greens bathed in walnut oil. Through her partly lowered eyelashes she observed at least twenty or more in the assembly of about two hundred who were likewise feeding solely upon herbs. The baron ate heartily, taking thick slices of venison, talking over her to Sir Martin, from whom he reaped the news. The Knight Hospitaller did not look her way, but spoke solely to her uncle and the other knights. Raymond, on the other hand, continually leaned over, gazing fixedly in her direction as if he had something to say to her. During the course of the meal, a pair of local musicians played the lute and recorder. What surprised Raphaëlle is that there were so few children, quite unlike her father’s hall in Auvergne. After the final course of fruit and marzipan, Lady Esclarmonde, who had long completed her light repast, rose and came to Raphaëlle. “Come, my child. It is my custom to walk in the garden at this hour.”

  Raphaëlle followed the baroness out a side door, which opened directly onto a lavish garden. While descending a shallow, stone staircase, Esclarmonde introduced her to half a dozen other ladies, who were accompanying the baroness. All were garbed in austere, muted hues; Raphaëlle had the impression of being amid a novitiate of very gloomy nuns. She was distracted from her thoughts by the splendor of the colored leaves of the fruit trees. The apples, pears, and apricots had long been collected, yet their scent seemed to linger.

  A profusion of golden calendula lined the paths, as well as potted shrubs of rosemary, boxwood, and silvery wormwood. Beds of mint, pennyroyal and lavender monopolized the sunniest corners, their fragrances competing in beguilement with the roses and jasmine. Raphaëlle wished that Sir Martin were there, walking at her side.

  “Now, I wish to speak with you more openly than I could before your servants,” said the Lady. Raphaëlle looked askance at the women following them. “Those maidens are in training,” declared Lady Esclarmonde.

  “Oh, are they entering religion?” asked Raphaëlle.

  The baroness laughed softly. “In a way. They are seeking the Good. Now, my child, I wish to share with you secrets which I could not discuss in front of the servants. You see, the world around us is a mere shadow. It is best to divest oneself of it, to fast, to pray, to live in chastity. Do you love chastity, my dear?”

/>   “Of course, Madame. It is a noble virtue.”

  “What do you know of chastity in the married state?”

  “It means to be faithful, to be of one heart with one’s spouse, and to know no other lover.” At the word “lover” the face of Sir Martin was all that she could see, and she felt herself blushing.

  “Ah, but my child,” the Baroness gently chided. “Surely you are aware that all carnal relations are displeasing to the Good God. Lust of any kind, especially the lust that is regularized by matrimony, keeps us from becoming truly spiritual beings.”

  Raphaëlle had never before heard marriage spoken of in that way. Her mother had always told her that wedded life was sanctifying. “But, Madame, I am to live as a married woman, however, am I not?”

  “Ah, marriage. It is regrettable, but necessary,” sighed Esclarmonde. Raphaëlle was confused. “Yes, celibacy is indeed a high calling. But marriage is necessary, or else there would be no children.”

  At that moment, Raphaëlle glimpsed a young girl flitting in and out of the bright-leafed pear trees. She danced as she moved, like quicksilver; Raphaëlle guessed it to be the same fey creature whom she had spotted on the battlements the previous evening.

  “Ha! There are too many children,” replied Esclarmonde in a chilling voice.

  “Madame, who is that maiden?” Raphaëlle interrupted. The girl had vanished through a low, ivy-draped door in the far wall.

  “It is only one of the servants who is a bit mad,” answered Esclarmonde. “Pay her no mind. As I was saying, it is because of the excess of children that we have so many beggars, so many thieves, not to speak of the imbeciles and madmen, who should not have been born at all.” Raphaëlle was appalled at her scornful tone. The Baroness continued with a sigh. “We do our best. We try to teach the people the truth, that there is more to the universe than marriage and the begetting of children. There is so much to learn and so much to be.” She stopped to pull a weed from the bed of mint. “Are you familiar with herb-lore, my child?” They strolled through the garden for about a quarter of an hour, discussing the various herbs and their healing properties.

  Esclarmonde announced that the time had come to rest. Raphaëlle was escorted to her chamber. It had never occurred to her that there could ever be too many children. Margot and Jehanette were already snoring on their pallets. Was there an excess of people in the world? Was that why there were so many thieves and beggars? Raphaëlle removed her jewels and the plum surcoat, while loosening the laces of the gown. She shook her hair out of the gold net, and then lay down upon the coverlet.

  “I have been too vain,” she thought. All her attempts to be beautiful had failed to impress her husband-to-be. If only he would look at her the way Sir Martin did. Listening to the wind in the turrets, she drifted into a doze. She dreamed she was riding with Sir Martin once more, not in an hour of terror, but through a June field of lavender. She felt the security of his arms, his breath upon her face; she sensed herself pressing closer and closer against him until her heart beat next to his. In her sleep she heard a voice, repeating the words, “Too many children,” in a sing-song fashion. Raphaëlle awoke suddenly, as if someone had struck her. “They are Cathars here!” she whispered aloud. “This is a castle of Cathars!” And she marveled at her own blindness.

  Chapter 4: The Believers

  Raphaëlle trembled. She dreaded facing Margot and Jehanette, and having to tell them that she had made a doleful mistake by coming to the Château de Mirambel. The sounds of sleep had ceased; she could hear them stirring. How distressed they would be to see her in such turmoil! She had been taught to always present a calm exterior to servants. She noiselessly sped from the chamber. She had to be alone, to think, to pray, to decide what to do. If only she knew where the chapel was, but then, it was always kept locked. She did not know where she was going, as she ran down the gallery in the opposite direction of the great hall, her saffron gown billowing behind her.

  The gallery narrowed into a low-ceilinged passage, laden with shadows and sudden turns. Coming around a corner, she espied a man and a woman emerging from a chamber. It was her uncle, the Baron, with Simonette. He stroked Simonette’s shoulder in a familiar manner. Bewildered, Raphaëlle spun soundlessly around, ran a few paces back, and dodged out a half-opened door, through which sunlight was gleaming.

  She found herself on the battlements, caught in a swirl of wind. The chill invigorated her, sharpening her mind. No sentries were in sight, for she had come out where the north tower curved, affording her enough of an indentation in the body of the castle for a few yards of privacy. She crept to the edge of the wall and peered through the crenellations, breathing in the expanse of the valley below. The autumn colors melted into each other against the grey crags. The river glittered through the wooded hills and meadows like a twisting snake. In the distance, the snow-covered peaks pierced the very heavens. Raphaëlle experienced the illusion of flying into the immensity of blue. Memory engulfed her, and the longing for her mother and father, her brother and sister. Tears flowed with abandon, as she rested her face against her hands, which gripped the rough, stone merlon.

  “And God saw that it was good,” quoted a masculine voice behind her. She turned around. Martin de Revel-Saissac stood behind her, in a grey tunic girt with sword and scabbard, his ebony head bare. His jovial eyes and smile were so close to her, it was like sinking back into the pleasant dream from which she had been awakened.

  “You wonder how the Cathars can believe that it was all created by the devil,” he said, gesturing towards the vista of mountains and sky. Then he noticed her tear-stained face. Gravity shadowed his brow; his lips parted with concern. “You have been weeping, Lady Raphaëlle.” His eyes darted across her partially exposed shoulders. He stepped towards her, to be halted by the flash of her temper.

  “You!” she cried. “Why did you not tell me?! This place is a hotbed of Cathars! What a fool you must think me! You should have warned me!”

  “Warned you?” he queried. “It was too late when I met up with you on the road. Where else would you have gone at that desperate hour? You were already in a fearful humor. I would have been cruel to add to it.”

  “Perhaps,” she choked. “But I shall not stay here. I will go home tomorrow. I have decided.”

  “I do not think the baron will permit you to leave. You are already legally bound to Master Raymond; they have taken possession of your dowry, I daresay.”

  “Then you should have let me escape when I had the chance,” she fumed. He moved forward, taking her hand. “No, it would not have been right. It is good that you are here. You are needed in this valley. You will be a strong influence for good, and for truth, to the people here.”

  “But there is great wickedness in this place!” she cried. “It is not a castle of light; it is a castle of darkness. So, since my fiancé is a Cathar, will he think he will be sinning if he marries me? But then, I just saw my uncle, a married man, caressing a woman not his wife! It is all so…so…twisted!”

  “I told you your uncle was no boon companion of mine, did I not?” reminded Martin. “He has been exceedingly weak in his dealings with Lady Esclarmonde. He allows himself to be completely ruled by her.”

  “She is a Cathar, too,” commented Raphaëlle. “I can tell.”

  “A Cathar, indeed!” exclaimed Martin. “Lady Esclarmonde is a Perfecta, one of the leaders of the sect, the only ones who are bound to refrain from carnal relations and flesh meat. She has received what they call the consolamentum, the ‘baptism of light’ which sets them apart from the rest. She stopped living as the baron’s wife shortly after Master Raymond was born. Pierre did not stand in her way, but turned to other women for consolation. Simonette la Belle has been his concubine for years, and has borne him a child. But before her, there was Esterelle.”

  “Who was Esterelle?”

  “Esterelle was the twin sister of Esclarmonde. Your uncle seduced her when his wife began to pursue her ‘calling.’ When the
baron fell in love with Simonette, he abandoned Esterelle, who had just brought forth a stillborn child. Overcome with sorrow and shame, Esterelle ran away on a night of wind and thunder. She disappeared without a trace, except that her kirtle was found close to the spot which the peasants call the Vallée des Dracs. The faery folk, it is said, are always in search of human mothers to nurse their pixie offspring. It is believed by many in the neighborhood that Esterelle dwells among the faeries even to this day, for often a stray woodsman claims to have glimpsed her, gathering herbs by moonlight. To her family, however, she is regarded as dead.”

  “What an incredible story… and what a sad one!” sighed Raphaëlle. “It is all the more clear to me that I must leave this place. I must go before something terrible happens to me! I want to return to my home!” Covering her face with her hands, she openly sobbed.

  Martin put his arms around her. Impulsively, she clung to him, burying her face against his chest, so that the beating of his heart mingled with the shuddering of her frame. His hands became lost in her tangled hair, as he drew her even closer than she could have imagined possible. Her mind seemed to discard its cares in a rush of exultation; the tears ceased to flow. As if by some wordless command she slowly tilted back her head, but before their eyes could meet, his mouth landed upon her own. She had never before been kissed by a man; the fleeting embraces of her former betrothed bore no comparison. His fingers wandered gently across her shoulder, and her conscience awoke. She flung herself backwards and slapped him.

  “You hypocrite!” she cried, trying to wipe away the taste of his kiss. “They are heretics here, but you are a hypocrite! I am practically a wife and you – you are practically a monk. It is your duty to protect and guide me but you – you are a seducer as well!”

  Martin’s countenance fell; he appeared horrified with himself. “Forgive me…please…forgive me, Mademoiselle,” he sputtered. “A thousand apologies! You… you bring to mind someone quite beloved to me, whom God took from this world. Forgive me! It will not happen again!”