The Night's Dark Shade

by Elena Maria Vidal

  “I do not think it wise to let him in, Madame.”

  “Oh, please, do not let Raymond come in!” begged Bertrande, obviously more fearful of Raymond than she was of the Franks. “Help me! Save me! They are coming!” beseeched Raymond, plaintively.

  “He is our kinsman,” declared Raphaëlle. “We cannot let him be cut to pieces.” She took the key from Bertrande and unlocked the door. As soon as she opened it, Raymond leaned forward, grabbed her by the hair, and dragged her from the oriel. He struck her face with so much force she lost her footing. She screamed. He hauled her down a dim passage and then up the dark winding stair of the south tower. She found herself in a round, dim chamber with a four poster bed. The walls were covered with murals of nude men and women in a variety of poses. Raphaëlle struggled to get away. Raymond smacked her across the mouth.

  “Silence!” And he ripped open the front of her gown.

  “No!” She was only able to mouth the word, so consumed she was with dread, as he flung her upon the bed. She began kicking him with all her might.

  “Be still!” he shouted, striking her again. From other parts of the castle came the sounds of battle and death. No one could hear her; no one would help her.

  In the distance were shouts of “Surrender! Lay down your arms!” from a variety of voices, one of which she recognized as being her uncle’s. There were also the screams of women.

  “You should look to your mother!” she shouted at Raymond, who was trying to keep her pinned down. “If they find her, they will kill her!”

  Before Raymond could reply, they heard someone calling Raphaëlle’s name. It was Jacques.

  “Jacques, I am here!” she cried as loudly as she could. The door of the chamber was kicked open, and in leaped Jacques brandishing a bloodstained sword.

  “Unhand that lady!” he commanded, his eyes blazing like dark coals. “How dare you lay hands upon my wife! I gave orders that no woman was to be ravished.” He glanced around at the murals with unveiled disgust. “But you – you are one of the heretics!” he growled at Raymond. Raymond jumped up and grabbed a candelabrum that was next to the bed. As he was about to hurl it, Jacques dodged. His sword flashed and fell, cutting off Raymond's hand at the wrist, as the candelabra clattered to the floor. “Take that, you bugger-boy!” cried the Frank. Raymond fled howling from the chamber, leaving a stream of blood in his wake.

  Jacques took her into his arms.

  “Are you injured, my love?” he asked.

  “No…no. I…” She could not speak for trembling. He unclasped his scarlet mantle and draped it around her.

  “Come,” he said. “You have nothing more to fear.” He guided her from the passage, down the winding tower stair, and onto the battlements. Flames rose from the courtyard. Raymond was dashing along the ramparts, clasping his maimed arm to his chest, his black robes flapping in the wind. Another Frankish knight took a swing at him. Raymond whirled to avoid the blow, tripped and fell over the merlons into the burning huts beneath. His final scream ripped through the smoke of the battle like a newly expelled demon. Raphaëlle hid her face in her hands.

  “Put out those fires!” Jacques called down to his men, who hastened to bring buckets of water. The fighting had ceased. The defenders of the Château de Mirambel were throwing down their arms in a pile in the center of the courtyard. The dawn was breaking behind the mountains as the stars receded into the west. Jacques gave orders for the royal pennants and banners, as well as his own, to be raised from the turrets of the castle. He raised his sword and shouted to the Baron, who had just surrendered his weapons.

  “I, Jacques d'Orly, do hereby take this castle in the name of our sovereign lord King Louis IX of France. You, Pierre du Tourmalet, Baron de Marcadeau, forfeit your lands, for you have harbored heretics within these walls. You have mistreated a lady and liege of the King, the Vicomtesse de Miramande. You will be scourged and imprisoned.” Lady Esclarmonde was standing in a corner of the courtyard, surrounded by a handful of her Cathar women. Jacques called down to them.

  “All of you who are heretics known as the Cathari or Albigeois, I beg you, in the King's name, to abjure your errors. Those who repent will be shown clemency. We will send you to the Bishop of Tarbes where you will formally abjure, and undergo instruction in the Catholic religion under the auspices of ecclesiastical authorities. Those who do not renounce their errors will suffer death by fire.” Lady Esclarmonde stepped forward.

  “I am Esclarmonde de Marcadeau,” she called up to him. “I will never abjure. I am ready for the fire.” Her ladies wept and kissed her hands.

  Jacques turned towards Raphaëlle. “Madame, I will escort you to your quarters, where you can be attended by your women.”

  “Yes, my lord,” she faintly replied. They first went to find Simonette, Bertrande, and Jehanette, who were still huddled in the oriel, and immensely glad to see Raphaëlle unharmed. Jacques saw them back to Raphaëlle’s chamber, and then excused himself for the purpose of looking after the dead and the wounded.

  After an hour or so of fitful rest, Raphaëlle went to the window. The April sun illuminated with garish intensity the blood-drenched paving stones, the charred huts, and the livid bodies of the fallen. In the very center, a scaffold was being prepared. Simonette and Bertrande were gone. Only Jehanette snored on a pallet nearby. In a moment, Simonette entered, with a tall Knight Hospitaller at her side.

  “Sir Martin!” Raphaëlle exclaimed, turning away in disgust. “Why have you come here?”

  “Raphaëlle!” he said with cold vehemence. His black surcoat was covered with dust and blood. “I was ordered to intervene by my Grand Master. I am here out of duty and obedience alone.” She could hardly bring herself to look at him, recalling his slander.

  “Sir Martin has offered to act as an intermediary for us with the Franks,” explained Simonette. “The dead have been gathered up; the wounded are being tended in the great hall.”

  “What of my uncle and my aunt and... and Raymond?” asked Raphaëlle.

  “Lady Esclarmonde is to be burnt at noon,” said Martin. His voice was firm and unwavering, while his eyes welled with compassion. “The stake is even now being erected. The other Cathar Believers have submitted. Like Baron Pierre, they are presently incarcerated. As for Master Raymond, he perished in the conflagration. His corpse has not yet been found.”

  Raphaëlle froze as he spoke. “It amazes me how someone can be executed without due process of the law!”

  “In times of war, ordinary laws are often suspended,” declared Sir Martin. “But the church authorities are working on the formulation of a system of questions for discerning the presence of heresy, to prevent such arbitrary executions and to ensure that the innocent will not be harmed. Those who are merely wavering on the brink may be reclaimed. Alas, it is too late for Lady Esclarmonde.”

  “I must go to her,” said Simonette, hastening away.

  Jacques entered. “Sir Martin, I have business with you that must be resolved as soon as the heretics are out of the way. Tell your superior that I am grateful for your intervention, although it was not really necessary. In the past you have meddled with my wife, attempting to seduce her, while slandering her good name.” He turned to Raphaëlle. “Madame, I do not wish you to be present at the execution.”

  Bertrande whirled in, followed by Sir Alain. Her delicate features were contorted with tears. She threw herself at Sir Martin's feet, hugging his knees. “Oh, Sir Martin, save my father! They are going to scourge him! Even now they are leading him out to the courtyard, and they want everyone to watch! Oh, help him!”

  Sir Martin tenderly stroked Bertrande's head, and then raised her to her feet, patting her shoulder.

  “There, there little Bertrande. Alas, nothing can be done, my dear. Come, I will stand with you and your mother. Let us go.” Without another word they all departed, leaving Raphaëlle alone with Jacques.

  “Raphaëlle!” His voice was broken. He gently took her hands. She raised her eyes
to his and in consternation saw that they were shining upon her with affection and remorse.

  “I stopped to talk with Abbé Paul on my way to the château. He asked me… if I love you.” “Do you love me, Jacques?” she asked. “Yes,” he sighed, enfolding her into his arms, kissing her cheeks and hair. “I told him ‘yes’. ‘Then do not punish her,’ the Abbé said. He quoted to me from the Canticle of Canticles: “A bundle of myrrh is my beloved to me... thou hast wounded my heart, my sister, my spouse, thou hast wounded my heart with one of thine eyes, and with one hair of thy neck.” There is bitterness and pain in true love, the Abbé explained which must be suffered and overcome, in order for the love to blossom and endure.” She buried her face in his chest, relishing the security of his arms.

  “I have been in love with Sir Martin,” she whispered. “Forgive me. Nothing happened between us.”

  “It is I who must ask your forgiveness. I should not have thrust you so often into his company. But I was asked by Queen Blanche and by the Lord Imbert to keep an eye on Sir Martin, to invite him to supper, in order to discern his stance on religious and political matters. But I should have been more wary of him in your regard. You do not know this, but the lady I once loved, who married my elder brother, eventually took her own life because of an entanglement with Sir Martin. It shook me to the core of my being.” He turned to the wall for a moment, as if he did not want her to see his face. Then he spun towards her again, his tanned visage quivering with passion and resolve. “He took advantage of your youth, your innocence, and your vulnerable situation. I believe that he intended to seduce you, therefore I will challenge him to trial by combat. He must fight me or else apologize for his conduct.”

  “Oh, no! Jacques, one of you might be injured ... or killed.”

  “Hear me!” He gently raised her face to his, his eyes glinting like onyxes. “He refuses to apologize. He claims his behavior was always correct. Furthermore, he says he has in his possession a compromising letter from you, which he will publicize if we pursue justice. I believe he is bluffing!”

  Raphaëlle’s heart palpitated mournfully at the thought of her letter to Sir Martin falling into the wrong hands. “Oh, no!” she groaned. “But, my lord, do you still plan to seek a decree of nullity?” “What?” he exclaimed with genuine consternation.

  “Bertrande said Robert overheard you speaking of it with one of your lieutenants – that you sought to have our marriage annulled,” she explained.

  “Never!” cried Jacques. “That Bertrande….Where does she get these things? Ah, but I remember, I may have mumbled such words once when I was angry. Robert must have overheard my nonsense. I am sorry for it.”

  Raphaëlle hesitated a moment, then took another plunge. “Oh, my lord, I must tell you! A great jewel has been stolen!” She told him of the emerald which she had found and hidden. “It was worth the value of my dowry. There was an intruder in the night... it is gone! But Raymond says he did not take it, although he killed Esterelle while searching for it. Esterelle said it was a thing of evil, and perhaps she was right!”

  “No, Raphaëlle, the jewel is not gone. I knew you were hiding it, and took it with me to Auvergne. It is with me now. You spoke truly, my dear, when you said it was worth the value of your dowry! Surely it is worth the value of the Château de Mirambel and all the lands and manors attached to it. As for the intruder, the attacks and your capture, it is my fault. Can you ever forgive me for leaving you alone to face so many dangers?” She answered by flinging her arms around his neck, pulling his face down to hers, and kissing him. He responded with ardor. “Forgive me,” he said, as he drew back for breath. “Forgive me for my former treatment of you, for my coldness of manner and word. When I first saw you, I thought you to be the fairest and most desirable maiden that I had ever seen. I saw at once that you were a great lady in virtue, learning, and noble character. I did not consider myself to be worthy of your love, so I did not even try to win it. And yet, I have always loved you, from the very first glance.” Without waiting for a reply, he bowed over her hand, walked rapidly from the room, and descended to the courtyard.

  From her window she saw him standing on the lower steps leading to the guest hall with Simonette, Bertrande, Sir Alain, Sir Gérard, the men-at-arms of the château, as well as about thirty Knights Hospitaller. Lining the courtyard and amassed on the walls above were Frankish knights, archers, and foot soldiers. Jacques stood on the highest step. At his side was Friar André, the Dominican, who had come with the Frankish army. In the center of the courtyard was the stake, surrounded by bundles of twigs. Close to it was a pile of Cathar books, banners, crystals from the north tower and the chapel.

  Lady Esclarmonde was led forth from the direction of the stables clad in a rough, shapeless tunic of sackcloth, hands bound behind her back with a rope; her black head bare and cropped. She appeared to be in a sort of trance, probably induced by one of her potions, oblivious of all around her, as she sang in her high, thin voice.

  Since I went forth into darkness

  I was given water to drink.

  I bear up beneath a burden

  Which is not my own.

  I am in the midst of my enemies,

  The beasts surrounding me;

  The burden which I bear is

  of the powers and principalities.…

  Two Frankish knights held the Baron. He stood tall, but visibly flinched when he saw his wife in her demeaned state. Lady Esclarmonde bestowed not a single glance upon him, but continued to sing.

  They burned me in their wrath

  They rose up against me.

  Matter and her sons divided me

  amongst them,

  They burnt me in their fire.

  They gave me a bitter likeness.

  Lady Esclarmonde approached the stake. Friar André hastened towards her, holding out a crucifix. “Madame, I beg you, please…” he said, but the Perfecta paused her song long enough to spit on the cross. Raphaëlle recoiled, while gripping the windowsill as one transfixed. The black-masked executioner assisted Lady Esclarmonde in mounting the bundles of faggots heaped upon the scaffold. He bound her to the stake, winding the rope around her waist and neck and crisscrossing around her breast. She chanted all the while, in the manner of casting a spell, rather than imploring God’s aid.

  The strangers with whom I mixed

  Me they knew not.

  I was life to them

  But they were death to me.

  They wore me as a garment upon them.

  The executioner held aloft the torch. “Esclarmonde de Marcadeau!” Jacques d'Orly shouted. “Do you renounce your errors and abjure your heretical beliefs?! If so, you will be spared.” Esclarmonde ignored him, as her thin voice became eerily shrill.

  I am in everything.

  I bear the skies.

  I am the foundation.

  I support the earths.

  I am the light that shines forth

  That gives joy to the souls.

  Jacques nodded to the executioner, who lit the wood at the foot of the stake. The flames crackled and flared. He likewise set afire the pile of books and crystals, after dousing it with oil. Lady Esclarmonde sang with louder delirium:

  I am the life of the world;

  I am the milk that is in all trees.

  I am the sweet water that is

  beneath the sons of matter.

  The Baron writhed and strained against his captors until he shook them off. He bounded across the courtyard before any of the Frankish knights could seize him. He climbed the pyre and leaped through the steadily mounting flames to his wife, whom he clasped around the knees. Bows twanged from the archers on the walls. Two arrows pierced him in the back. His body fell limp, still clasping Esclarmonde’s feet. She regarded him not, but sang with excruciating fierceness, as the flames surrounded them both.

  Lo, the darkness I have subdued;

  Lo, the fire of the fountains I have extinguished.

  O soul, raise your eyes
to the height.

  Now go abroad the Ship of Light,

  Receive your garland of love,

  Return to your kingdom,

  And rejoice with all the Aeons.

  She paused to cough as her shrieks replaced the Gnostic incantation. Perspiration could be seen glittering on her brow, as her twisted, blistering face for a few moments longer showed above the wall of fire, and then was hidden forever. Soon her screams echoed throughout the castle and the valley. Simonette shuddered and clutched Bertrande, whose mouth was open in a wide, soundless “o.” Sir Martin kept both of them from running forward. The odor of burning flesh made Raphaëlle's stomach turn over several times. She left the window to vomit in her chamber pot. “Holy Mary, have pity.” She realized someone was standing beside her. It was Sir Alain, bow in hand, with an arrow aimed at Esclarmonde at the stake. He let the arrow fly and the screaming ceased.

  “Sir Jacques told me to give her the coup de grâce, so that she would not suffer long.”

  “Thank you, Sir Alain,” said Raphaëlle. “She did me harm, but I could not bear to hear her agony for another moment. Oh, but excuse me….”

  Raphaëlle vomited again, as the stench became unbearable. From the dying Perfecta came a final groan that was lost amidst the crackling flames and the muffled weeping of Simonette, Bertrande and the servants. Raphaëlle blinked, for through the smoky haze she thought she saw Esterelle standing firmly to the edge of the bonfire, face to face with her scorched sister. The apparition stretched out her arms as if trying to reach beyond the fire. The phantom remained immobile, as the inferno consumed the Baron and his lady. Raphaëlle lay upon the floor, convulsed with trembling. Jehanette helped her to the bed. She buried her senses in the lavender of the pillows. Her last thought before sliding into a stupor was of the vision of Esterelle before the stake, transfixed by a woe that surpassed the most profound demonstrations of human grief.

  Chapter 18: The Duel

  The next morning, still dazed by horror, Raphaëlle donned white mourning for her mother’s brother. As Jehanette was helping her to arrange her white veil, Jacques entered with Simonette. The latter was dishevelled, her fair face swollen from weeping. Jacques nudged her forward, and she fell on her knees at Raphaëlle's feet.