The Night's Dark Shade

by Elena Maria Vidal

  “I have been questioning this woman all morning. She has admitted and confessed to a great deal. Simonette, tell Lady Raphaëlle everything you told me.” Raphaëlle dismissed Jehanette; she put her hand comfortingly on Simonette's shoulder, as the former concubine began to whimper again.

  “What is it, Simonette?” she asked.

  “Forgive me, Madame, but I have done you great harm!” wailed Simonette. “I...I was against you from the beginning!” The unctuous manner had vanished; there was nothing before her but a groveling, frightened peasant. “I was against you...because of Sir Martin!”

  “Sir Martin?”

  “Yes! I wanted him for my Bertrande. If she could have gotten with child by him, it would have put her up a notch! It was her only chance to get ahead! He was starting to look her way... he wrote a song for her...but after you came, he looked at her no more, at least, not in the same way.”

  “How is that my fault?” asked Raphaëlle, disgusted and bewildered. “Because he was so taken with you!” Simonette sputtered. “Your entire being filled his eyes! I could see it, the way he looked at you! I could hear it in his voice, when he spoke in your presence or when he talked about you. There was warmth that was never there before! When you were around, he saw no one else, although he pretended the contrary. But I saw, because I watched! It was I who slipped the key under your door last fall. I wanted so much for you to go away. I helped the Baroness spread the rumor of your unfaithfulness. I hoped you would be sent to a nunnery. Forgive me!” Raphaëlle was aghast, as she turned hot, cold, and warm all at once, amazed that she had been so hated, simply because she had been so loved.

  “Simonette, because Lady Raphaëlle is the one whom you have so grievously offended, I place your fate in her hands,” declared Jacques. Raphaëlle gave him a helpless glance; his eyes gleamed into hers with confidence.

  Raphaëlle drew a deep breath. “Simonette, does not your aged mother run the wine shop in the village?”

  “Yes, Madame, she does,” replied Simonette.

  “I think it would be fitting if you went to live with her, to assist her in her infirmity, and take over the shop when she passes away. You will leave the castle by sunset. Bertrande will stay with us, but she may visit you often.” Simonette kissed the hem of Raphaëlle's gown and withdrew, covered with tears.

  “Well done,” said Jacques. “And now I must deal with Sir Martin. He awaits me in the courtyard. He refuses to apologize, so I am compelled to fight him.”

  “Oh, no. Please. No!” begged Raphaëlle. “Do not shed any more blood, especially not on my account!”

  He strode away. She followed him. In the courtyard, the Frankish knights were lined up on one side, and the Knights Hospitaller on the other. Raphaëlle stood in the middle of the stair, her flowing white sleeves and veil fluttering in the breeze. Neither Jacques nor Martin looked her way. Bertrande and Jehanette rushed to her side; the other servants flooded the courtyard as well. Lady Esclarmonde’s and the Baron’s ashes had been removed, but there was still the blackened stake, as well as the lingering stench.

  The two knights saluted each other, and then began to circle, with broadswords drawn. Jacques struck first; he was not as tall as Martin, but he was much angrier. Martin deflected the blow with his shield, and the sound rang throughout the castle. Raphaëlle gasped as Martin swung his sword so quickly it almost took off Jacques’ head, as Jacques ducked; his helm would have protected his head anyway, but perhaps not. Jacques whacked his sword into Martin’s side. The mail was torn without cutting into the flesh. Martin’s sword crashed upon Jacques’ helm but Jacques moved aside rapidly enough that it did him no harm. They continued, hammer and tongs. Martin was the stronger warrior, but Jacques moved like quicksilver. Raphaëlle’s heart pounded; she wished she had stayed upstairs until it was over.

  Suddenly, Martin struck Jacques’ shield arm with such force, it fell limp. Jacques dodged forward head first, his sword piercing the mail on Martin’s leg. It was the first blood. Both injured, they continued to fight, although Jacques could no longer defend himself with his shield. He tossed it aside with a clatter, and relied on his speed to avert the blows of the taller man. He whirled around Martin so quickly, lunging forward so that the sword rent Martin’s chest. Martin staggered and fell. He did not rise. A pool of blood spread around him. The Hospitallers carried him away.

  Raphaëlle ran to her husband. He was covered with blood and sweat. “Your honor is avenged, Madame.”

  The Frankish surgeon began to examine his arm. “It is broken, we will need a blacksmith.” Jacques was taken to Raphaëlle’s chamber, where his arm was set and bound. Sir Gaston the Hospitaller appeared in the doorway. He bowed.

  “Madame, with my lord’s consent, Sir Martin wishes to see you. He is dying.”

  Jacques nodded his dark eyes full of empathy and regret. Raphaëlle followed Sir Gaston. He turned and handed her a gold and scarlet cord, the one she had given Martin in the rose garden. “He wishes that this be returned to you, Madame. He wore it always beneath his armor.” The kirtle was doubly scarlet, being drenched in Martin’s blood. She touched it gingerly; her fingers trembled. Sir Gaston escorted her to the castle barracks where Sir Martin had been taken. He was lying on a cot, still clothed in his bloody surcoat and chain mail, his face as white as the bed linens. Beside him was Friar André.

  Martin gazed at her for a long moment before his broken words came forth. “My heart…has been pierced by your husband’s sword. I have…confessed to Friar André. Now…I must ask your forgiveness. I have dishonored myself as a knight…and as a man; I have dishonored my vocation…I have dishonored you…Forgive me, Raphaëlle.”

  “I do forgive you, Sir Martin.” She knelt at his side and took his hand. It was icy.

  “And…and…I have loved you, Raphaëlle. Beyond words, beyond reason. I thought… that my slander would bring us both to our senses. It has not… it has only brought grief. It is best now that I …depart. I hope that I have expiated my sin by my death, and by losing you forever…for losing the life we could have had together. I bid you… pray for my soul. Farewell, my love.” He let forth a deep sigh, as his soul fled. She rested her cheek upon his hand, and remained so as his flesh grew colder and colder. Eventually, Friar André and Sir Gaston helped her to disengage herself, and walked her, stumbling and unseeing, back to Jacques. He put his good arm around her as she sobbed into his shoulder.

  Raphaëlle later did not recall the days which followed Martin’s death. She was only conscious of her husband being at hand. Once when the night was far spent, she awoke. Jacques was sleeping beside her. The bed curtains were drawn. She froze; there were footsteps. Someone was moving stealthily about the chamber. Perhaps it was Jehanette, or even the knave Robert. Without a sound, she drew aside the curtain enough so she could peer beyond. The pale light of earliest dawn mingled with the gleam of the lamp glimmering before the icon of Saint Raphael. She could see the pile of chests and bundles – Jacques’ belongings, not yet unpacked from his journey. Someone was rummaging amongst them, a Shadow, black as the night. He held aloft in one hand something green and glittering – the Grail Stone, taken from the jewel casket. Raphaëlle gasped, and the creature turned towards her. To her horror, she beheld her cousin Raymond. His black robe was scorched and his long hair partly singed. One side of his face and head was as dimpled and bubbly as melted wax. His one sound eye sparkled with sheer hatred as it landed upon her.

  “Papist whore!” he hissed.

  Raphaëlle screamed. Jacques bolted up. “What is it?” he asked. Raphaëlle tore back the curtain and gestured towards Raymond with wordless dread. Like lightning, Jacques reached for his sword. There was only so much he could do with his other arm in a sling. Bertrande and Jehanette, hearing the commotion, came stumbling from the adjoining parlor. They shrieked when they saw Raymond, who leapt forward. With his handless arm, he placed Bertrande in a stranglehold. After depositing the jewel inside the pouch at his waist, he drew forth a
dagger, holding it across the young girl's throat, as if about to slit it. The guards clamored outside the door, which was locked from within.

  “Let me pass!” shouted Raymond to Jacques. “Let me pass or she will be dead! I will kill her as I killed Esterelle!” He moved towards the door. “Tell the guards to leave. Tell them that all is well!” Jacques shouted directions to the guards, bidding them to return to their posts.

  “How did you get in here?” he asked Raymond.

  “I took my mother's keys before the castle fell,” sneered Raymond. “I have them still!”

  “How is it that you survived?” asked Raphaëlle, the coverlet pulled up around her neck.

  “Simonette found me in the rubble and hid me and cared for me, for my father's sake. I will become a Good Man, and will take this sacred stone to the Good Men at the fortress of Montségur. Let me pass or Bertrande is dead.” He drew the blade closer against Bertrande's neck. The young girl did not flinch, but stared at Raphaëlle like a paralyzed rabbit.

  “Oh, Jacques, let him go with his wretched, evil stone!” Raphaëlle cried to her husband.

  “Open the door,” Jacques said to Jehanette, who hastened to do so. Raymond backed out, dragging Bertrande with him. Jacques followed in his dressing gown, sword in hand.

  “Stay there!” he called to Raphaëlle as he left the bedchamber. She hurriedly threw on her own dressing gown and a mantle as well, and then sat down to wait with Jehanette, each gripping the other’s hands. The dawn was breaking. They heard shouts and the blast of a horn.

  The sun was risen when Jacques returned with Bertrande, both unharmed. Raphaëlle took a trembling Bertrande into her arms. “I pursued him all the way to the door of the crypt. He bade me come no further, or he threatened to do injury to the maiden,” panted Jacques, more from anger than weariness. “They descended into the crypt. I waited but a few moments, then followed, and found Bertrande alone among the tombs. Raymond had left by the hidden passage. I was not equipped to chase him through the passage, but have roused the garrison. My men will be waiting for him on the other side, and will search the forest, in case he has already come out.” He flung down his sword with a clang, obviously quite annoyed that Raymond and the jewel had escaped him. Raphaëlle went to Jacques, kissing his cheeks.

  “Thank you for saving Bertrande,” she said, softly. He only smiled in reply, and reddened, as if her pleasure was for him a matter of both confusion and delight.

  Sir Martin was gone forever from the world. She would never see him again. She did not realize how deep the distress of it permeated her being until the middle of one night, when she was awakened by her heart palpitating and skipping about so wildly that she thought she was dying. She made an act of contrition, and woke her husband. He anxiously sent for Friar André, who was acquainted with medicine. She described her symptoms to him.

  “Rest, my child,” he commanded. “Stay in bed and tell your beads. Drink lots of milk and cream. Sprinkle essence of lavender upon your pillow, and rub it into your temples.”

  Raphaëlle spent the next fortnight in a near-invalid state. She longed to go out, for there was so much to do. There were gardens to tend and people who needed her help. Jacques spent his leisure time sitting beside her, reading to her, or holding her hand. The villagers, hearing of her illness, sent up plenty of fresh milk and cream, until Raphaëlle feared that she was getting too plump. As for Bertrande, Sir Martin’s passing made her sick, too, in addition to the shock of her father’s death, Esclarmonde’s burning, and Raymond's attack. She had flutterings and dizziness similar to Raphaëlle’s, and spent most of her time curled up at the foot of Raphaëlle’s bed, where they were both tended by Jehanette. Jehanette was soon to marry the knave Robert. Her ministrations, therefore, were compassionate yet blissfully detached. Raphaëlle and Bertrande, however, were united in their mutual grief.

  “I loved him. I loved him so much,” moaned Bertrande to the ceiling one quiet afternoon, as she lay at Raphaëlle's feet. “I do not want to marry anyone, if I cannot marry Sir Martin. I think that I want to be like Lady Esterelle, and live in her cave in the Vallée des Dracs”

  “Perhaps when you are older,” murmured Raphaëlle, likewise gazing upward. “Maybe you can first work at the hospital at Bécède, and learn to care for the sick. My husband can build a hermitage for you adjoining the hospital. Then, at least, you will not be in the woods alone. Raymond is still at large, remember. They have not been able to find him anywhere.”

  “They will not find him,” replied Bertrande. “He is gone with his prize, gone to join the other Cathars at Montségur, high in the mountains. He will not be returning.”

  “How do you know? Did you have another dream?”

  “No, Madame. I know because I know him. Because...he is my brother.”

  “Yes, I keep forgetting,” murmured Raphaëlle. They lay quietly again for several hours, dozing and thinking, until one of them felt moved to speak, or until Jacques or Jehanette entered. Raphaëlle wondered over all that had occurred in the last year and a half. Too many had died – Margot, Esterelle, Lady Esclarmonde, the Baron Pierre, and Martin. Life altered so quickly. She had come to feel tenderness for Jacques, whom she once thought she could never love. Nevertheless, she realized how wounded she was by the desire for a love that could not be. As she drank from the bitter chalice, her bodily strength returned; the tremors of her heart ceased.

  She enjoyed her husband’s company more and more and when he was away, she found herself longing for his return. In the depths of night, she liked to awake in the warm tension of Jacques’ arms, amid the keen flood of joy that comes when one is loved, and known, and loved deeper still.

  “We are going to Auvergne for the summer,” he announced as he awoke one morning. “I shall leave Sir Gérard here as my castellan. You have been too long away from your home.”

  “My home is with you,” she replied, but she exulted in the thought of seeing the Château de Miramande once more. Jacques had told her of the submission of Comte Raymond of Toulouse to the King of France. On Holy Thursday, the erstwhile, pro-heretic Comte had come in penitential garb to Notre-Dame de Paris, where he was disciplined before the altar. The Treaty of Meaux had been signed the same day, promising the hand of Comte Raymond’s daughter and heiress Lady Jeanne to King Louis’ brother, Alphonse. Meanwhile, the Hospitallers kept the body of the wily old Comte de Toulouse, who was still being refused burial due to his adherence to the Cathar cause, although he had died reconciled to the Church. The walls of Toulouse were to be demolished, and in July the Comte de Foix, a notorious Cathar supporter, was to make his formal act of submission to the crown.

  “We shall go to Paris for St. John’s Day. Queen Blanche has received my reports favorably. She has heard of your hospital, and desires that you wait upon her again. King Louis is also well pleased, and wants us to be present at the royal court. You are to become a great lady.”

  “I believe that I am also to become great with child. By Epiphany, God willing, you will have a son or daughter to present to the King as well.” She spoke with a broad smile, which turned to laughter as she observed him blush.

  “Then you shall ride over the mountains in a litter, borne by steady mules. I will take no chances.” After Mass on Trinity Sunday, 1229, they set forth from the Château de Mirambel, gleaming in the morning sun amid its six mountains and seven valleys. All the glory of spring was upon the Pyrenees, shrouded by the purplish mist of fading dawn. With a large escort and Jacques riding at her side, Raphaëlle remembered the fear of a year and a half ago in contrast with her present safety. Jehanette rode alongside on a mule, near her husband the knave Robert.

  Bertrande sat with her among the cushions of the litter. The younger girl's amber eyes eagerly drank in the new vistas, as the castle receded into the distance. Jacques did not think it wise to leave Bertrande behind to be a possible victim of her mother's connivances. Furthermore, Sir Alain, who rode close at hand, had asked permission to court Bertra
nde, hoping to marry her in the summer. She was silent with wonder as Jacques and Raphaëlle talked.

  They passed in silence the spot where the robbers had attacked Raphaëlle and her party so long ago. It was the place where she had first seen Sir Martin. She would never forget him as he was on that day, bold and fearless, as he risked his life in order to save her. She prayed that he had come before the throne of God as a defender of the helpless. Around her waist, against her skin, she had bound the red and gold cord, her bridal kirtle which she had given to Martin and which was stained with his blood. She had entwined and sewn dried roses into the kirtle, roses with many thorns. The thorns would prick her throughout the day, reminding her to pray, and to beg the mercy of God.

  News had recently come to them that Raymond was indeed at Montségur, one of the last Cather strongholds. “It is good that the jewel was taken from us,” Jacques conceded. Raphaëlle had long since explained to him the dark origins of the Cathar relic. “It caused nothing but trouble. Esterelle died because of it and Bertrande was almost killed.”

  “It is the token of the fallen angel, who sought to be like God,” mused Raphaëlle. “How comely it was; how deceptive its appearance! Who should guess that a thing of such beauty could be so evil?” As they ascended the narrow pass, the valley sank behind them until it disappeared amid the mountains, bright with the fresh green of the trees. The spring wind which swept over the travelers was not chill but warm with the promise of summer, burgeoning with the newness of life.

  ~ The End ~

  BIBLIOGRAPHY

  Aberth, John. From the Brink of the Apocalypse: Confronting Famine, War, Plague and Death in the Later Middle Ages. New York: Routledge, 2001

  Antony, C.M. In St. Dominic’s Country. London: Longmans, Green and Co., 1912.