The Night's Dark Shade

by Elena Maria Vidal

  “Be assured that it shall be as he desires.” It infuriated her that such intimate matters had become so widely known. How could he say such things? With difficulty she survived the duration of the visit with the Avreyons. She smiled and laughed automatically, although a knife had rent her soul. It was apparent to her that the man she had loved to the edge of madness, for whom she had almost sacrificed her virtue, was a coward as well as a liar. And yet, if she had secretly given herself to him in the garden there would probably be no talk at all. The price of virtue could be high indeed.

  “He is base, so base,” she wept to herself when alone. To be a liar was to be the lowest of the low, her father had always assured her, for to distort the truth was to forfeit honor. How could she have loved such a man? And yet she would have given almost anything for a glimpse of him. “Am I losing my reason? God, help me!” she whispered into the trembling darkness. She wished Esterelle were there to advise her.

  A few days after Lady Béatrice and her family rode off to Compostela, a messenger brought a letter for Raphaëlle bearing the double seal of the Sieur d’Orly.

  “Dear Madame,” she read, after breaking the seal with shaking hands.

  Sad and unfortunate rumors have reached my ears, rumors which tarnish the honor of our house in general and your reputation in particular. I will return to the château within the month, and upon my return I will charge you to respond to certain accusations leveled against you. I send you this letter so that you might examine your conscience in the sight of God and prepare to answer me in piety and truth.

  I remain your husband and lord,

  Jacques d'Orly

  Raphaëlle pondered his words in the days that followed, as she awaited his return. She saw clearly now what she had done. She had been so hounded by death and loss that her mind had taken refuge in a world of passion, where only she and Martin existed. She had been saved from destruction by mercy alone. She frequently sought the solace of the lower orchard, where she thought, prayed, wept, and wracked her brain as to the source of the calumnies. The branches of the tree creaked and sighed in the breeze which fanned the drowsy warmth of early September. It was the feast of the Nativity of the Virgin; the villagers were having a dance in the evening. Raphaëlle was expected to preside at the banquet in front of the church. She wished she could avoid the festivity.

  “It will soon be time to get ready for the feast, Madame,” reminded Jehanette.

  “I just want to sleep, and never see anyone again,” Raphaëlle mumbled, as she drifted into a doze. In the midst of sleep, she walked with Esterelle in the orchard. She heard Esterelle's voice, although her lips did not move.

  “There is a mystery here. Be at peace!”

  “Be at peace!” The voice echoed through her slumber.

  “Lady Raphaëlle!” A voice was calling her. She groggily sat up. The voice was Jehanette’s and it was full of fear. She saw that they were surrounded by men, two of whom had grabbed Jehanette and Bertrande, placing their hands over their mouths. Raphaëlle leaped to her feet, as she saw Raymond in front of her. He was all in black, like a Good Man. She doubted if he had received the consolamentum, for then he would not be going about with soldiers. She tried to call for help, but strong arms grabbed her from behind.

  “Come, this way,” someone said. It was her uncle, the Baron. He slapped his hand over her mouth and dragged her away. On the far side on the orchard, there was a narrow door in the wall. It was opened, and led outside the castle.

  “Lady Esclarmonde informed us of this secret entrance, which she knew of from her Cathar friends,” he told her. “We have been stalking the castle for days, waiting for you to venture near the wall.” There were horses and mules saddled nearby. Raphaëlle recognized her own horse, Zephyr, whom she had left behind at the Château de Mirambel. Zephyr neighed in welcome.

  “Uncle, where are you taking us?” she demanded. “I am a married woman. My husband will be outraged.”

  “Ah, but we know that your husband is far away, and so is your friend, Martin de Revel-Saissac. And it is rumored that Orly wishes to have you annulled. Even if he does not, I will petition to have the marriage annulled, on the grounds that you were forced to violate your original marriage contract to my son Raymond.”

  “No, no!” cried Raphaëlle. “I was not forced! I am married to Sir Jacques! This is unlawful! Help!” She was silenced by Raymond’s slap. Then she saw him hold a knife to Jehanette’s throat.

  “I will slice this wench right open if you cry for help again! Now be silent, or I will ask my father to give her over to the men!” Raphaëlle did not say another word. Jehanette was white with terror. She glanced at Bertrande, who did not take her eyes off the Baron, and looked almost glad to see him, in spite of her fear.

  “I hope, Uncle, that you are proud of your son. He has killed Esterelle his own aunt.” The Baron’s silence was heavy with shock and horror.

  “Raymond, what have you to say to this charge?”

  “She saw me and was about to call for help. I had to do it,” he whimpered.

  “I hope that your precious stone was worth the blood of such a noble and holy woman,” said Raphaëlle.

  “Silence, girl!” snapped the Baron, his eyes ablaze with tears. She then recalled that he had once been fond of Esterelle. “Stone! What stone! I sent Raymond to scout the castle, not to steal anything or kill anyone!”

  “I stole nothing! It is she who stole from us! As for the jewel, I do not have it! I did not find it, although I looked everywhere! She has it hidden somewhere.” He pointed at Raphaëlle, who pondered what his game might be.

  “We will look into the business of the jewel later,” declared the Baron. “It was Esclarmonde’s idea to pay Raoul and his brigands to attack the village. I had not intended for Esterelle to be killed. I had not even known that she was there.”

  “It was at Esterelle’s funeral that the brigands attacked,” Raphaëlle told him. “I might have known that her own relatives were behind it. I hope that you are ashamed of yourself in her regard, Uncle.”

  “I need no one to tell me about the weight of shame that I bear in Esterelle’s regard,” said the Baron, as he retreated into silence.

  They rode for many days and many nights through the mountains, until the Château de Mirambel once again came into view. Raphaëlle wondered how Margot had been getting on but she dared not ask. She was now convinced that Raymond had somehow managed to infiltrate the castle and steal the jewel before murdering Esterelle. The party entered the château. Raphaëlle was taken to her chamber, where a quivering Margot flew into her arms.

  “Oh, Margot, Margot!” She had not realized until that moment how much she had missed the old nurse.

  “Oh, my poor little one! What a mercy! What a mercy you were not killed! But oh, oh! What a fuss there has been here. They knew right off that you were gone. It was Master Raymond’s doing! Monsieur le Baron demanded that we unlock the door. We did and Master Raymond came rushing in, shrieking. He slapped our faces. The Baron ordered Jehanette to be beaten with a stick.”

  “Oh, no!” moaned Raphaëlle. Jehanette had never mentioned being beaten. “What happened then?”

  “She disappeared. We soon discovered that the Franks had kidnapped her. I was spared only because of my age. The Lady Esclarmonde came in and questioned me. And….”

  The entrance of Raphaëlle’s uncle cut her off. His expression was one of a lazy, peaceable man who had at last reached the limits of provocation.

  “I have not yet discovered how you procured the key to this chamber last autumn. It was that sly, Auvergnaise serving maid of yours, I suppose.” Raphaëlle opened her mouth to protest, but he raised his hand. “Silence! It will not happen again. You should be beaten in like manner. You forget that I am your legal guardian, and it is my right to dispose of you and your property as I deem fit. You shall remain here while we procure the annulment. And then you shall marry my son!” And with that, he stalked from the room.


  Raphaëlle was growing heavy with sleep when the baroness swept in. Lady Esclarmonde embraced Raphaëlle, gently tucking a tendril of hair which had fallen across her face from beneath her wimple, and placing it behind the girl’s ear. Raphaëlle felt Esclarmonde’s finger tremble as if she harbored a level of agitation which she could barely contain.

  “What happened to the stone?” purred the Perfecta, her eyes glinting. “You did take it, did you not?”

  “Yes, Madame,” said Raphaëlle. “I took it to replace my dowry.”

  “Where is it?” The lady's words were tonelessly composed.

  “It...it was in my chamber at my husband’s castle,” said Raphaëlle. “But it has vanished. I thought your son took it.…” The words caught in her throat, frozen with fear at the strained countenance of Lady Esclarmonde, who obviously sought to control emotions that extended beyond the normal. Suddenly, the baroness burst into a wail of incomprehensible babbling, beating her breast.

  “You will pay for this,” she hissed before running from the chamber.

  As for Raphaëlle, she began to pray. She was so deep into the mysteries of the beads that she did not realize that Bertrande had crept in until she felt a gentle hand stroking her matted hair back from her forehead.

  “Oh, Bertrande, I hope you are not beaten for getting me the key.”

  “I did not get the key for you, Mademoiselle. I am never allowed anywhere near the keys.”

  “Then who…?” “I do not know. Perhaps... well, I really, truly do not know. All the servants think Jehanette did it.”

  “Of course she did not! She was locked in here with me. But, oh, Bertrande, have you discovered what became of Abbé Paul after he was shot by the brigands?” asked Raphaëlle.

  “Yes. The robbers left him for dead, and later some men from the village found him. Only his arm was injured, and he recovered.”

  “May God be praised!” said Raphaëlle.

  “I heard my father talking,” continued Bertrande. “He said we are sure to be attacked – our château, that is, will be attacked, by Monsieur d’Orly and the Franks…probably in the spring.”

  Raphaëlle nodded in agreement.

  “Of course, my husband will come,” she said, although in her heart she wondered. It was soon a grey autumnal dusk; the damp chill of the fading season pervaded every nook of the chamber, except for the heart of the fire itself. Margot was snoozing by the hearth. She thought of Esterelle. “No one is a prisoner who has freedom within,” she had once said. Surely Jacques would come. Meanwhile, it would be a long winter. The mountains would be impassible. But in the spring he would come. He would surely come, and save her.

  Chapter 16: The Siege

  Raphaëlle sat by the window of her bedchamber upon the stool which Margot once used, mending her stockings. A stray breeze swirled around her like the memory of a caress. The rattle of keys heralded the entrance of Bertrande, bearing bread, turnips and sour wine from the dregs of the barrel. Sir Alain, grim and observant, stood in the passage outside the door. The grip of winter endured long into March; it was not until Passiontide that the earth began to warm and revive beneath the vernal sun. It had seemed a perpetual Advent and Lent for Raphaëlle; she was not permitted to leave her chamber, not even at Christmas. She was never allowed to hear Mass; Abbé Paul was still forbidden access to the château. She never saw Jehanette, and often wondered how she was getting on. At Christmas, she and Margot sang hymns and carols, drinking mulled wine from the nurse’s own recipe. On Epiphany, the aged servant contrived to make some marzipan; never before had Raphaëlle so relished such simple pleasures. There followed months of biting coldness and snow, when her fingers became too numb to embroider. Bertrande brought food and wood thrice daily, but was not permitted to linger, except on Sundays, when she passed on scraps of news. Melancholy began to set in. It was as if she had always dwelt in that chamber and never had any other life. Margot insisted that Raphaëlle stride briskly back and forth every day, while telling her beads or saying the hours. Other girls her age were married and raising families, or else in monasteries, but she was neither matron nor nun – just a prisoner. After Candlemas, Margot fell ill, when a cold, accompanied by a fever, turned into pneumonia. She grew worse in spite of Raphaëlle’s careful nursing, lapsing into a delirium, during which she called out for Raphaëlle’s mother and the children who had died. As Bertrande helped tend the trembling little figure, her face was grave. “I will send for Abbé Paul,” she announced on Quinquagesima Sunday, leaving the chamber.

  In a short while, she returned. “Lady Esclarmonde will not allow the priest to enter the gates,” said Bertrande.

  “Shall Margot die without the last Sacraments?!” cried Raphaëlle. “We must pray God to supply, Madame,” replied the girl. Bertrande accompanied her in an all-night vigil by Margot’s side, praying the rosarium chaplet and singing hymns, as Raphaëlle held the withered, weak hand, once so busy and capable. In the early morning, when a few lone birds were singing as heralds of spring, Margot peacefully breathed forth her soul, clutching to her heart the relic of Sainte Marguerite and a small wooden cross. Raphaëlle sobbed as Margot’s tiny corpse was carried away. Her uncle stood by. “Please, Uncle, let me be present at the burial. Margot was my nurse, and your sister’s as well, and yours. She is one of the family.”

  “No, you cannot leave your chamber,” said the Baron. “I will see that Margot has a proper burial. Abbé Paul will say a Mass for her as well. I promise.” He would not look her in the eye. “I wish you had chosen to marry my son. Why will you not cooperate? Harsher measures will soon be taken against you. You have brought it all upon yourself through your stubbornness.”

  “What do you mean, Uncle? What is going to happen?” He did not reply but stalked from the room, slamming the heavy door.

  Raphaëlle began to have trouble sleeping, and would lie awake for hours. Often she would hear the eerie Gnostic chanting coming from the whitewashed chapel. Bertrande said Lady Esclarmonde’s fasting had intensified, for the Cathars were preparing for a feast called Bema, which coincided with Easter. Raphaëlle in her solitude was so intensely grieved that afterwards she hardly remembered that particular Lent. She fasted on bread and water, and was alone except for Bertrande, who sometimes did not make sense, getting her dream life confused with reality. She babbled about Sir Martin’s arrival, believing it to be imminent. Raphaëlle wondered if she would go mad. She had heard of people going mad in prison.

  At last, it was Passiontide. The snow had melted almost overnight, except upon the tops of the mountains, which Raphaëlle could glimpse from her window. She celebrated the Sacred Triduum with Bertrande, since Jehanette was still not allowed to come to her. Easter morning broke with a surge of unexpected joy, and Raphaëlle found herself singing O Filii, O Filiae with tears of felicity.

  On Easter Sunday afternoon, the Baroness came in. Her face was whiter than ever Raphaëlle remembered. “Come with me, Raphaëlle,” she ordered. Sir Alain and Sir Gérard were behind her. The expressions on their faces showed both guilt and distress. Raphaëlle began to feel afraid. She held herself straighter, so as not to betray a flicker of trepidation. The Baroness took her down the corridor to a door which opened upon the battlements immediately above the courtyard. There stood a narrow oblong cage, slightly less than Raphaëlle’s height. There was a long heavy chain attached to the very top; it resembled a giant, gruesome bird cage. The other end of the chain was wrapped around a winch with pulleys. The barred, iron door of the contraption was opened wide. “Get inside,” commanded Esclarmonde.

  “I most certainly will not,” retorted Raphaëlle, as coolly as possible. “This cage is a punishment for the most heinous criminals. It is an outrage for me to be threatened with this instrument of torture. Where is my uncle?”

  Esclarmonde shook her head. “Madame, the Baron agrees that putting you in the cage is the only way to persuade you to cooperate with us. We have tried to be gentle with you. Sir Knights, put the Lady Rapha
ëlle into the cage. At once.”

  Sir Alain and Sir Gérard would not move. “Madame la Baronne,” said Sir Gérard. “We beg you to reconsider. We cannot participate in such treatment of a lady whom Monsieur le Baron once made us swear to protect.”

  Esclarmonde turned upon them with cold fury. “Do as I say at once! This castle is mine. Mine! I am the authority here! I have the ultimate say as to what happens, not the Baron. Oaths are nothing but empty words according to the doctrines of the Good Christians. Who are you papist scum to question a true believer, a Good Woman!?”

  “Oh, never mind!” exclaimed Raphaëlle, marching forward and climbing into the cage. “Please, Lady Esclarmonde, do with me what you will, but leave these knights in peace.” She could not keep the slight tremor from her voice. There were some varlets standing nearby, whom Raphaëlle guessed were Cathar believers, judging from the chuckling with which they slammed the door of the cage shut upon her. Lady Esclarmonde turned the key in the lock. Sir Alain and Sir Gérard had disappeared. The varlets, three sturdy men from the village, picked up the cage and lifted it through a gap between the merlons. She clung to the bars, as she felt herself about to be dangled over the side of the wall. She began to tremble. “Holy Mother of God, help me!” she whispered. She heard the creaking and scraping of the chain on the winch as the cage was lowered so that it was suspended above the courtyard. “Oh, help me! God help me!” It required all her strength to keep from shrieking. People began to gather in the courtyard to stare at her. There were a few snickers but most gazed with quiet pity. Raphaëlle tried with all her might to stifle her sobs; she had been told never to show weakness in the presence of the common folk. Meanwhile, it began to rain, then to pour. All in the courtyard sought shelter, except for the sentries by the gate, and those on the battlements above, but they seemed to be making a point not to look her way. In a few moments she was drenched. Her legs were getting tired of standing and trying to balance on the narrow bars. She tried to sit down but her feet kept slipping through the bars and it was with difficulty that she extricated them. Finally, she was able to sit back on her haunches and bury her face in her arms. Darkness had fallen and she was hungry and shivering. Her limbs ached.