The Night's Dark Shade

by Elena Maria Vidal

  After several hours, the iron cage swayed as Raphaëlle realized she was being hoisted upwards. The Baron, Sir Alain and Sir Gérard hauled the cage over the wall and opened it. She fell into her uncle’s arms. He held her tight. “I am sorry for this,” he murmured. “But it is out of my control. You shall sleep in your chamber tonight, and have some food.”

  Raphaëlle tried to walk but her legs were so wobbly they could not hold her so her uncle picked her up and carried her to her chamber. She was vaguely conscious of Bertrande weeping as she fell asleep in her bed. When Raphaëlle woke up it was dawn, and the Baroness was standing over her, swathed in her usual black robes. In the receding darkness her white face shone with a harsh light.

  “You have brought this upon yourself, you know. If you will only renounce Jacques d’Orly and go through a form of marriage with my son, then you will be free.” She sat on the bed, and started to run her fingers through Raphaëlle’s hair. “You could leave Mirambel, and go anywhere you wanted. You could go into a papist monastery of nuns if that is where your heart lies.”

  Raphaëlle shuddered at the touch of the Perfecta’s cold fingers. “Madame,” she said, feeling weak and as if her words were coming from a distance. “I refuse to make any decisions when placed under duress, for then my choice would not be free.”

  “I understand,” said the Baroness in the sweetest tones. “It is because of your rigid papist beliefs. You made vows before a priest and so you are afraid to break them. That is because your religion is one of fear. Our beliefs are much more flexible. We do not believe in taking oaths, and so there is no fear of breaking faith. We are free. You will be free, too, if only you would embrace the true Christianity.”

  Raphaëlle sat up and shook the Perfecta’s fingers out of her hair. “You take my freedom away in order to force me to be free? If you do not believe in making an oath and keeping your word, how can I trust you? My father always said that if a man’s word is no good, then he is no good. Indeed, I do not trust you, Madame.” Her legs were not so numb anymore; she began to climb out of bed. She wished the Baroness would leave so she could use the chamber pot. Meanwhile, Bertrande arrived with a trencher of bread, wine and cheese.

  “I will leave you to think of what I have said. You will have plenty of time for thinking in the cage today,” said Lady Esclarmonde. “The varlets will be coming for you soon, so make haste.” She turned towards the door.

  Raphaëlle found she was able to stand up straight. “Very well, Madame. But my religion is not one of fear. It is one of love. Good day to you.”

  Esclarmonde emitted a shrill laugh. “Love? So it is out of love that you Catholics burn people at the stake? You are as naïve as you are stupid!”

  “I cannot answer for the deeds of other Catholics,” replied Raphaëlle. “As for the civil law which condemns people to such a cruel death, it has nothing to do with the doctrines of Christ and the Church. Human law can err; the Church is made up of sinners seeking redemption. I wish that the course of violence was not chosen, for preaching and good works are more effective; I have seen it for myself. Oh, but if you Cathars controlled the civil authority, then you would do the same to us. Of that, I have no doubt.” Lady Esclarmonde said nothing, but merely scowled as Raphaëlle was escorted by the varlets back to her cage.

  The next few days seemed to her a blur. The wind to which she was exposed was often so piercing she thought she would die of it. She remembered to slip her rosarium chaplet into her sleeve so that she could pray it while in the cage; it helped to focus her thoughts, calm her nerves, and keep her from panicking. She thought of how she had promised Queen Blanche that she would marry in order to protect her people, and of how her aunt the abbess refused to let her enter the monastery. She had spent her life trying to do what was best for other people, and being pilloried in a cage, thirsty, hungry, aching, cold and dirty, was where it had gotten her. Once she looked down and saw Raymond standing underneath. He called up to her.

  “Ah, cousin, but we know what it is that you really want! You could make it so easy for yourself! You are as stupid as any papist could be!” He laughed and strolled away. She felt no anger towards him, only pity.

  After week of spending her days in the cage, she once again awoke one early morning to find Lady Esclarmonde standing over her. Her legs and back ached constantly, even after half a night’s rest. “Are you not tired of this game, Raphaëlle?” she murmured, almost caressingly. “For that is what it is, a game.”

  “A game? I suppose it is a game for someone like you, watching other people suffer,” replied Raphaëlle, sitting upright and moving away before Esclarmonde could touch her.

  “The game is all your own, my child. You do not fool anyone, except for yourself. You persist in being faithful to a man whom you do not love and who does not love you. Everyone knows who possesses your heart.” “I do not know what you mean,” whispered Raphaëlle.

  “Do not lie to me. You love Sir Martin, and he loves you. If you submit to a form of marriage with my son, then you could go away with Martin. He will be here, soon. He will take you away to his castle on the Golfe du Lion.” She sat on the bed and, leaning over, took Raphaëlle’s hand. “Why do you refuse all happiness for the sake of laws made by man? God is not so cruel to impose such misery as you impose upon yourself.”

  Raphaëlle snatched her hand away. She had lost weight being in the cage day after day; her skin was tanned by sun and wind, her limbs weakened. Her hair was tangled and dirty. She doubted that any man would ever find her attractive again; she was beyond caring. “Martin de Revel-Saissac has already betrayed and compromised me, Madame.”

  “Do not be so hard on Martin,” chuckled the Perfecta. “It was I and the other remaining Cathars in the region who made certain the rumor was spread that you had compromised yourself with him. I sent a letter to him myself, full of stories I have gathered from my spies. Martin was only defending himself from slander. He is smitten with you, and always has been.”

  “But he did say things to me that were inappropriate; he did calumniate me,” retorted Raphaëlle. “I would never go anywhere with him. If I lose my honor and virtue, it will not be on his account. Besides, I no longer believe anything that you say.”

  “Then back into your cage!” seethed Esclarmonde. “Sir Martin will be arriving soon, and will see you there and what a fair sight you will be!”

  “I care not,” retorted Raphaëlle. “Madame, every day you keep me in that cage you only push me closer to Christ my Savior, Who is the only One I trust in this world. It is an honor and a glory and a joy to be tortured for Christ. Because my faith is what threatens you most…and so you make me suffer.”

  Esclarmonde smacked her. “How you remind me of my sister Esterelle in your pigheadedness! When my husband got her with child, I told her I could rid her of it early on, but she refused. When she was six months gone, I put powerful herbs in her food that made her expel the child. It was born alive and whimpering, so I strangled it when no one was looking!”

  “You murdered a baby!” gasped Raphaëlle. “That is abominable! How can you live with yourself?”

  “I can,” retorted the Perfecta. “I liberated a soul that would have known only misery in this wretched world which the devil created. But silly Esterelle could not bear it; she was a weak woman, and ran away.”

  “She never mentioned it to me, but how it must have pained her to lose her child in such a manner.”

  “She should have seen it was for the child’s good.” Esclarmonde’s grey eyes sparkled, almost as if with pleasure. “I tried to get rid of Bertrande, too, but she managed to survive, and was carried full term, although she is a bit touched in the head. Have you ever noticed that there are no cripples or idiots in the village? It is because I have tried to be present at every birth, and I have poisoned the ones who were not fit, or given them the consolamentum and made their parents starve them to death. It is better for everyone to be delivered from dealing with such infirmities, esp
ecially it is better for the souls of the children who will be born again in other bodies, or else delivered from this world through the baptism of light. And I have helped many girls and women rid themselves of unwanted children.”

  “Did they tell you they did not want them?” asked Raphaëlle.

  “Not always,” said Esclarmonde. “Usually it was the husband, or lover, or father of the girl who wanted the baby to be removed. There have been many cases of male relatives impregnating the women and girls of their family, which we Good Christians see as no worse than any other carnal act, as long as the child is gotten rid of.”

  “I see.” Raphaëlle realized that she had never fully understood what was wrong with Lady Esclarmonde until now. Esclarmonde bragged on. “And as for those clever men and women who do not wish to conceive at all, they can always come to me and I will give them herbs, and various methods from the ancients which prevent conception. So we have had no unwanted children here, and people are free to live and love as they choose. You see that ours is truly a religion of compassion, more convenient to human nature. For what we do with our bodies really does not matter in the long run, as long as our souls receive the baptism of light at the end.”

  “But it does matter,” said Raphaëlle. “What we do with our bodies can send us to heaven or hell. To hell, if we sin and do not repent before God. God made our bodies to serve Him and others, not for self-indulgence.”

  “There is no hell,” declared Esclarmonde.

  “There is.” Raphaëlle pulled herself to her feet. “Yours is a religion based upon murder and license, taking one’s pleasure at the expense of the innocent and vulnerable. No wonder Esterelle ran away. I will sit in that cage forever before I do anything that you want me to do, because if it is something that you want, Madame, then it could only be wicked. Please put me in my cage and spare me the sight of you!”

  Esclarmonde snarled, grabbing Raphaëlle by the hair. She dragged her towards the battlements and the cage.

  “Oh, Jesus, be with me!” whispered Raphaëlle. As she was lowered again over the wall, she realized that very little mattered to her but being faithful. “In a dark place, I have found peace,” Raphaëlle murmured to herself, or perhaps to her angel guardian, whom she felt lingered at hand, as she clung to her prayer beads. She offered all she suffered to her Lord through His Mother. She did not understand why she had been called to endure such torment, both physical and mental, but the thought of Christ on the Cross calmed her spirit. If the innocent Son of God could die in agony for her redemption and that of the world, then she could suffer for love of Him. As the sun rose she looked below and saw Bertrande standing beneath her in the courtyard, her hair catching the rays like a burnished halo.

  “Bertrande, what day is it?” she called down.

  “It is the Third Sunday of Easter. Father offered the Mass for you yesterday.”

  “Give him my thanks!”

  “But there is something I must tell you!” exclaimed Bertrande. “There is an army in sight! It is the Franks! They are marching on us! All the peasants will be taking refuge in the courtyard!” Raphaëlle hoped that Jacques must be there, and that he would save her, even if he had annulled their marriage. Would Sir Martin be there as well? The thought of seeing him caused her greater inner pain than months spent in the cage could ever do. The peasants began to arrive, with carts full of provisions and possessions. Soon the courtyard was thick with life. Geese honked, and pigs ran around loose, chased by the children. The noises and smells, both human and animal, revivified Raphaëlle. She watched the children as they played, or were deloused by their mothers. They would stop and stare up at her up in the cage, and one small boy threw a pebble at her, but Sir Alain chased him away.

  “What of the army, Sir Alain?” she asked.

  “A force of three thousand Franks has surrounded the castle hill. We are besieged.”

  That evening, as she was hauled up the wall and half dragged, half carried into her chamber, Bertrande brought her some food.

  “I have seen them!” cried Bertrande, excitedly. “There are hundreds of banners! But they trampled the newly planted fields! Their commander is Monsieur d’Orly. He sent heralds to my father, asking him to release you at once and to hand over all the Cathars that live here, but my father has refused! And Sir Martin is coming, too. Not with the army, though.”

  Raphaëlle was thoughtful. “But…if they have trampled the crops, then the people shall starve!”

  “Oh, no,” said Bertrande, confidently. “My father has extra grain stored in the castle. We have plenty of chickens, geese and pigs. And the shepherds and cowherds have taken the sheep and cattle high into the mountains, so all will not be lost. Besides, there are fruit trees within the castle walls, and the gardens.”

  “Yes, but is there enough for all? I think not. And the fruits and vegetables will not be ready for some months. The livestock, too, must be fed, especially if they are eventually to be eaten,” declared Raphaëlle. Sitting in the cage the next day, the spring breezes stirring her hair, she gazed at the sky, as remote and tantalizing as the hope of freedom. What was it like to be young, and happy? She had forgotten. In the courtyard below she heard children crying, and two women quarrelling. Tempers were running high. She wondered if Jacques remembered about the tunnel. She had told him of it once. Certainly, he must have scouts looking for it at the base of the mountain. But the opening was so well hidden, they might never find it. The sun was going down. Raphaëlle was hauled up over the side of the wall. Sir Alain and Bertrande helped her to her room.

  “Monsieur le Baron has said that you will not be put in the cage again once the fighting starts,” Sir Alain told her. “You could be killed by a stray arrow, Madame. He demands that you remain confined to your chamber, however.”

  “Thank you, Sir Alain.” In spite of her exhaustion, and relief at being liberated from the cage, she was unable to sleep. What if the Franks did burst in through the tunnel? Had she done the right thing to tell Jacques of it? What if they were all massacred by the Franks? It had happened before, Frankish soldiers murdering Catholics along with the Cathars.

  “Oh, God, have mercy! Holy Virgin, deliver us!” she entreated over and over again. There was silence, except for the birds singing their evensong, and the boisterous racket that even hungry peasants are capable of making. She decided not to undress that night, but curled up on top of her damask coverlet. Wrapped in the shadows of night, she forgot her anguish, until the night waned, and she was awakened by screams.

  Chapter 17: The Immolation

  Raphaëlle bolted from her bed at the sound of the shrieks. The echo and clash of swords pierced the obscurity. From her window she could discern knights and men-at-arms fighting at the gates, as the courtyard filled with a steady stream of Franks, crying, “Montjoie Saint-Denis!” Women, children, and the elderly crouched against the walls. In the torchlight she noticed her uncle, the Baron, locked in combat with Jacques, the black falcon emblazoned on his red surcoat and shield. They lunged and swung at each other as in a macabre dance; her uncle's stalwart strength pitted against the short, wiry knight, who leaped and darted about like quicksilver. Behind her came the rattle of keys, as Bertrande whirled into the chamber, frenzied by tears and terror. Jehanette slipped in after her.

  “Oh, Jehanette!” she cried, embracing the round, freckled cheeks.

  “The Franks have broken into the Castle!” panted Bertrande. “They are on the outside and the inside now!”

  “Our men are hemmed in, caught between the walls of defense,” announced Jehanette. “The castle is taken, or will be within the hour.”

  “It is my fault!” wailed Bertrande. “I told Sir Jacques of the hidden passage.”

  “No, Bertrande,” said Raphaëlle. “It is all my doing. I told you to tell him.”

  Bertrande pursed her lips, as her great amber eyes welled with tears. “This day will see the end of my family.” Then she screamed. “My father! My father!” She pointed out
the window to where the Baron strove with the nimble Jacques.

  “Hush,” ordered Raphaëlle. “Your father is a skilled swordsman. But he forged this anathema for himself long ago.”

  Simonette entered. “I came to make certain Madame is unharmed. The soldiers from the north are swarming the château. How did they get in? Everyone wonders! They have broken through the lower walls and are climbing the hill. Our men are unable to fight them because of the enemies within!”

  Smoke began to flood the courtyard, for the makeshift huts had caught fire, and they could no longer see the baron. Simonette slammed the shutters shut, yet smoke seeped and curled into the chamber. There were hideous shrieks below.

  “Come, we must take leave of this chamber!” coughed Raphaëlle. “Let us go to my secret place!” suggested Bertrande in a choking voice. Covering their noses and mouths with their scapulars, they dashed into the gallery. From the stairwell came the ringing of swords. They hurried their way down the twists and turns of the passage until they arrived at Bertrande’s oriel. With the door locked behind them, they breathed in the illusory atmosphere of security. Raphaëlle peered out the tiny window.

  “Look! A troop of horsemen in black was riding from the north.”

  “It is Sir Martin and his knights!” cried Bertrande, looking out over Raphaëlle's shoulder. “I knew he would come!” Before they could rejoice overmuch at the sighting, they were disturbed by the sound of Raymond's voice on the other side of the locked door.

  “Help me! Hide me! They will kill me!” he pleaded.

  Raphaëlle started towards the door. Jehanette grasped her arm.