“What!” Raphaëlle leaped out of bed, throwing on her dressing gown. She tried the heavy oaken door, and sure enough, it was locked from the outside. Margot, fully dressed in starch linen wimple and scapular, was bustling around like a trapped bumblebee.
“We cannot get out to empty the chamber pots!” she frantically complained.
Raphaëlle pounded the door with her fists, but no one opened it. “What can this mean?!” she cried.
“We are prisoners, Mademoiselle,” sobbed Jehanette.
“Here! Help me dress! Quickly!” ordered Raphaëlle. Luckily, there was enough water in the pitcher from the night before so she could wash her face. She had just thrown on a wool gown of flax blue when there came the sound of a key turning in the lock. Her uncle marched in. His wide, handsome face was stern, while his eyes nervously twitched.
“Raphaëlle, I lament to hear that you refuse to marry my son. You forget that you are betrothed; you have already given your word.”
“My lord uncle,” said Raphaëlle, her unwavering gaze meeting his unsteady one, “I was betrothed under false pretenses. I cannot marry someone who believes that matrimony is an abomination.”
The Baron’s nostrils flared in anger. “Then, Mademoiselle, you shall remain confined to your chamber until you change your mind and give your consent once more. No one will come in or out of this room except Bertrande, accompanied by Sir Alain.”
Bertrande emerged from behind the baron, carrying a trencher laden with food. After delivering the food, she dutifully emptied the chamber pots, to Margot’s profound relief. As she entered and departed, Sir Alain could be seen on his stoic vigil in the passage outside the door. Eventually, she returned to take away the empty crocks and trenchers.
“What has happened?” whispered Raphaëlle to the younger girl.
“Lady Esclarmonde is angry with you,” murmured Bertrande in reply. “She and my father talked long into the night. She said you must stay locked up for years and beaten, if necessary, until you agree to marry Raymond.”
Sir Alain fidgeted and cleared his throat impatiently outside the door. Bertrande hurried away with the dirty crockery. “What shall I do?” Raphaëlle queried aloud. “I will miss the pilgrimage when it leaves tomorrow night. I must devise a means of escape.” But Margot and Jehanette were both too distressed to reply.
The day and following night passed in interludes of pleading prayer and careful thought. Morning dawned once more, and as she gazed out the window an idea came to her. The window was low enough to the ground so that she could climb out if she tied her bed linens together to form a makeshift rope. The courtyard, however, was always teeming with guards, and the moon would be full that night. The hours of the second day of captivity dragged by. She busied herself with psalter and embroidery, trying to quell the rising agitation of her innermost self at the thought of being a prisoner.
An idea came to her like a spark from a flint. “I will write to Sir Jacques d’Orly. He will recognize my father’s seal, for my father was a famous knight and a renowned crusader.” She spoke her thought aloud.
“Now how will you get the message to him, with all of us imprisoned here, and no one coming and going, but Bertrande?” sighed Margot.
“I will slip a message to Bertrande when she brings our supper,” exclaimed Raphaëlle, scrambling for ink and parchment.
“Bertrande cannot read, and you are not allowed to speak to her. Oh, la la, you will cause more trouble for yourself, Mademoiselle,” commented Margot, shaking her head. But Raphaëlle was already composing her missive.
To Monsieur Jacques d’Orly.
In the Name of God, greetings!
I, Raphaëlle-Marie-Madeleine-Foy de Miramande, being a daughter of the Holy Roman Catholic Church and loyal subject of Our Sovereign Lord King Louis IX, salute you, most noble and puissant knight. I am being held against my will in the Château de Mirambel because of my refusal to honor the marriage contract binding me to the heretic Raymond de Marcadeau, the son of my mother’s brother, the Baron Pierre du Tourmalet de Marcadeau. I beg you, my lord, to come to my aid. Follow the pious and simple maiden bearing this letter with great stealth and she will guide you to a hidden passage that leads into the castle. Long live King Louis!
Your obedient handmaid,
Raphaëlle de Miramande
She sealed the letter with hot wax, in which she pressed her father’s signet ring. Soon Bertrande was setting down the trencher of bread and wine. When she returned, Raphaëlle slipped the folded parchment under the linen cloth on the trencher, whispering as Bertrande bent over. “Take this message to Sir Jacques. Use the tunnel, if you must.” Bertrande, wide-eyed and breathless, hastily withdrew.
“Ah, my child, now you are in trouble,” wailed Margot. “That girl is a half-wit. The least that will happen is that she will stumble and break her neck in that tunnel. Or the Franks will make sport of her. She is not the sort who is safe out and about by herself. God have mercy on the poor little thing.”
Raphaëlle went to the window and watched the rising moon. Surely the pilgrims were already on their way over the mountains. She sighed, and decided to prepare for bed and sleep, when Jehanette, who was tending the fire, gasped: “Look!” Raphaëlle turned around in enough time to see someone sliding a large key under the door. She picked it up and inserted it into the lock. Sure enough, it was the key to her chamber! Bertrande must have gotten hold of it somehow. She would escape on her own, without the help of Sir Jacques. “Come, I must away at once!” she cried. Jehanette handed her a mantle and hood. Raphaëlle girded herself with a dagger and small purse, the latter filled with coins. She embraced Margot, who held her fast.
“Do not forget to bring a candle,” said the old nurse, weeping. Raphaëlle took a candle from the mantelpiece. She noticed Jehanette was putting on a shawl as if to accompany her.
“No, Jehanette! It is too dangerous for two. I wish you to stay behind with Margot. I entrust myself to God.” Jehanette wailed in response. Raphaëlle hugged her, unlocked the door and slipped from the room. “Lock the door behind me!” were her last words to them. She sped down the passage in the direction of the staircase that led to the crypt. She hesitated at the sight of sentries, pacing through the shadows. She walked calmly and nonchalantly, and so they paid her no heed. Igniting her candle from a torch in a wall sconce, she bent to enter the low door, which was located in the wall beneath the chapel. Carefully she descended the steep curving stair, holding up the sweeping back hem of her gown with one hand, and the candle in the other. Reaching the bottom, she crept hesitantly through a high arch into the crypt.
Beyond the sphere of candlelight she could barely detect carven effigies and memorial plaques upon the tombs. There were obviously countless generations of the Marcadeau family buried around her. She wondered when they had become Cathars. Before she could read any of the inscriptions and dates, the sound of footsteps echoed on the stair which she had just traversed. She saw the glow of approaching torches. Blowing out her candle, she threw herself on the floor behind a sarcophagus. She slowly peeked around the edge, and discerned four shadowy forms, bearing torches. They were Lady Esclarmonde, the two Perfecti and Raymond.
She heard them conversing, so softly she caught only a phrase or two. “I have hidden it in the tunnel. No one will find it there,” she thought she heard Lady Esclarmonde say. The baroness knelt before a stone altar along the wall, above which was suspended an oil lamp. She appeared to touch it in three places; it then slid aside, revealing a gaping hole of blackness. Each of the four crawled into the opening, bearing their torches, leaving Raphaëlle behind in the almost unmitigated darkness of the crypt.
Raphaëlle waited for what seemed endless hours. She became aware of the sounds of scurrying, fluttering and squeaking, as she realized to her horror that she was not alone, but in the company of mice, bats and possibly rats. She twitched from time to time, imagining that something was crawling on her. “Why, there might even be snakes down here
,” she thought. Finally, Lady Esclarmonde and Raymond reappeared out of the hole, their torches held out in front of them. Esclarmonde touched the altar again on the same three letters and it slid back into place. At that moment, a small, furry creature ran across Raphaëlle’s hand. She stifled a scream. “What was that?!” exclaimed Raymond, holding his torch aloft.
“It was only a bat, my son,” said Esclarmonde, soothingly. “Come, let us leave this place.” Raphaëlle could hear their footsteps mounting the staircase, and the sound of a distant door opening and closing. With a sigh of relief, she got to her feet, shaking and brushing herself off. She hurried over to the altar and lit her candle from the oil lamp, grateful for the sole source of light in the dwellings of the dead. On the front of the ancient altar were the deeply carved words: FIAT VOLUNTAS TUA. “Thy Will be done.” She pushed on the first letter of each word; the altar moved aside as if it were on wheels. Cold air from the tunnel hit her face. Bending down, she cautiously crawled into it.
She realized that she was at the top of a great stair, rough hewn and steep, and that she was able to stand erect. She began to descend with extreme care, for there was no railing, and not even a wall to lean on, at least not one that she could see. To trip would mean tumbling into an abyss; with awkwardness she contrived to hold up her skirts with her free arm. Tense and exhausted, Raphaëlle began to think that she would be going down the stair forever, when she suddenly reached the bottom and found herself in a primordial tunnel in the bowels of the castle hill. She crept forward, holding her candle high, protecting it from subterranean gusts of air. Never had she experienced such total solitude and sense of her own helplessness. “There is a reason for everything, and there is a reason why I am all by myself in this pit, but only Almighty God knows what that reason is,” she said to herself. “Oh, no!”
To her horror, she saw that the tunnel divided into two paths. Esterelle had said nothing about the place being a labyrinth! Which way should she go? One trail ascended slightly, while the other plunged steeply downward. She thought she would try the latter path first, since it did not seem reasonable that she would be going upward again. She started down; the air immediately felt very cold and damp. In less than a twinkling, it was as if her feet were yanked from under as she slipped on some slime. She landed in a shallow pool, drenching her entire backside. Her one thought was of keeping her candle lit; she hardly felt the sharp pain in her other arm as it broke her fall.
She held the candle as high as she could, and in the lugubrious air the light was captured by something green and brilliant. What was it? Raphaëlle clamored to her feet, covered with slime, wondering if the green sparkle had been her imagination, the result of her fall. She blinkingly inspected the side of the cavern which canopied the pool, in the place where she thought she had seen the phenomenon. Awe filled her, for there, in a natural crevice in the rock, was nestled an emerald the size of a pomegranate. Raphaëlle reached for it with a gasp, remembering Bertrande’s dream. She wondered if it were part of the Cathar treasure, and whether or not she was justified in taking it. “Surely it is worth the value of my dowry, which my uncle holds, and refuses to relinquish. I will need revenue to survive in the future, besides the paltry sum in my purse.” She deposited the stone in a pouch in the lining of her mantle. With difficulty she clambered up the slippery slope of the pool and returned to where the path divided.
“Well, at least now I know which is the way out,” she said aloud to herself. Then it occurred to her that she was in pain. Her left arm was swelling and almost useless. Yet she needed it to hold up her sodden skirts, or else walking would be an impossibility. She managed to sling her gown over her right arm, which was also holding the candle. She started to take the path that ascended. After a few steps she froze in horror. An echo of footsteps was in the depths of the cave behind her. Looking over her shoulder, she saw a gaunt figure, bearing a torch. It was Raymond. “You!” he shouted as he caught sight of her. There was some hundred yards between them, which gave Raphaëlle the advantage she needed. Clenching her teeth in defiance of her aching arm, she ran with all her might. The tunnel narrowed dramatically, twisting into several sharp turns. She came up against a wall of stone. The candle flickered, and was extinguished. As Raphaëlle’s eyes became accustomed to the absence of light, she realized it was not totally dark, for silver moonlight was glimmering through a gap in the rock. It was the exit from the tunnel. The crevice was so narrow she had to slip through sideways. Moonlight hit her full in the face. She was standing in a meadow at the base of the castle hill.
She ran across the meadow towards the forest. As she approached the shelter of the trees, she glanced back and saw Raymond emerging from the cave, his torch illumining his white face. She was uncertain whether or not he could see her; he was, however, able to follow the path she had made through the grass.
Plunging into the wood, Raphaëlle zigzagged among the trees, hoping to make her trail more difficult to follow. She was quite winded, for it took twice her usual strength to run with wet clothes and a throbbing arm. She noticed a pine tree with low, sloping branches and began to climb it as best she could. She sat cradled in its branches, trying to mold her body against the trunk, as she hid amongst the entwining bows. She could hear Raymond tramping through the forest. She hardly dared to breathe as he drew closer to her hiding place. He was no more than ten yards away when he halted, turned, and departed in the direction of the castle. Perhaps he was going for help; perhaps he did not like being alone in the woods at night.
Raphaëlle gingerly and painfully climbed down from the tree. She was grateful that she was not far from the Vallée des Dracs. She trudged along the periphery of the wood until she came to the path that Bertrande had showed her two mornings ago. The moon was high overhead; the sycamores gleamed white and silver in its radiance. Abbé Paul awaited her.
“My child,” said the priest, mournfully. “The pilgrimage has started without you. But they have not gone far. Come, we should be able to catch them!”
Raphaëlle said nothing about her injured arm. Indeed, she was too exhausted to speak at all, but followed the Abbé. Everything was becoming a blur, as they walked through the wood for almost an hour, as the moon left the pinnacle of the sky, and began to slip towards the west. It was behind them, as they finally reached the edge of the Marcadeau lands, and found the mountain trail. Then sounded the dreaded whiz of an arrow. Abbé Paul fell, pierced in his arm.
“Run, my child!” he called to her. Raphaëlle saw men in black masks leaping from the trees. They were the brigands of Raoul de Cambasque, whom she spied only a bow shot away, blocking the trail ahead of her. She began to run in the opposite direction, but then felt strong arms go around her. It was Raoul. “Got you now!” said the bandit.
“Ouch!” she cried, as he crushed her aching arm. The pain almost caused her to faint. “I am injured. Have pity!” Raoul’s hold loosened slightly, as he flung her over his shoulder and started towards the mountains. “Please let me go! Please!”
“Never!” spat Raoul. “Did anyone show mercy to my wife when she begged for mercy? Or to my daughters! No, their pleas went unheeded!”
“Hurting me will not help them!” gasped Raphaëlle.
“No, but it will make me feel better!” shouted the brigand.
“And…what would your wife say to that? Would she be happy with you?” He was silent. “What would she say if she could see you right now?”
Raoul flung her to the ground. “She would say, ‘Stop it, Raoul, you big oaf!’” He put his hands on his head and wailed loud enough to rend the clouds. She did not know how she would find the strength to run, but run she did. Plunging through some dense foliage to her left, she expected at any moment to feel the sting of an arrow, or the grip of unfriendly hands. The trees gave way all of a sudden; she half-crawled, half-scampered through some thick bushes until the earth dipped steeply and abruptly. She was on the bank of the river. She had no choice but to try to cross it, or drown
in the attempt.
“Drowning is not the worst fate,” she said to herself. Raphaëlle slid down the bank and waded a few feet into the water. It did not seem too deep or too swift. She chanced a few more steps, until the instant when the bottom dropped out from beneath her. A rapid undercurrent began pulling her along. Even if she had known how to swim, her injured arm would have prevented her, yet her skirts billowed out in the water, causing her to stay afloat. She heard the shouts of brigands on the shore behind her, but she was hidden amid the fluctuating shadows and reflections of the torrent. All her energy was focused on keeping her head above water, and keeping herself from being dashed against the rocks. The river flowed from some mountain source, already in the grip of winter. Her limbs were soon numbed in the icy water.
“O God, I am going to die!” she whispered into the night. She made an act of contrition, for her head was swirling; if she fainted, she would surely drown. She had no idea how far the rushing stream had carried her, or where she was in relation to the castle. She realized that she was no longer in motion, for her now-sodden skirt was caught on a branch of a submerged tree. She noticed that nearby were several flat, smooth rocks not far from the bank. Extricating herself, she splashed over to them. Summoning the dregs of her strength, she pulled herself onto the closest rock. Then all vitality deserted her and she lay very still, as her mind reeled into blackness.
Chapter 9: The Forest
Raphaëlle awoke in pain greater than any she had yet experienced. “I must be dead and in Purgatory,” she muttered. “No, you are alive, and on earth,” came a woman’s voice. Raphaëlle opened her eyes. Her vision was blurred, and her forehead burned. She nevertheless detected firelight dancing on the rough ceiling of a cave. A face leaned over her. It was Esterelle. “Drink this,” ordered the anchoress. “It is an infusion of valerian, and will help you to sleep while I tend your arm. You are safe. Close your eyes, and sleep.” As Esterelle spoke, she gently lifted Raphaëlle’s head enough so that she could swallow a hot, herbal brew. She slept so soundly that when she awoke a day later she could not recall any of her dreams. Esterelle was adding logs to the fire. Raphaëlle’s arm was bound in strips of linen and a poultice of boneset. Her hair felt matted with perspiration. She must have had quite a fever. “How are you feeling?” asked Esterelle, coming over to the pallet where Raphaëlle was blanketed by goatskins. “I am weak, and my arm throbs, but I am much better. How did you find me?”
The Night's Dark Shade Page 9
