LXXXIX
‘HUSBAND.’
Anselm turned, surprised. ‘I am no longer your husband,’ he said to Elionor.
‘Yes, of course, I have no right to call you that.’ But she took his hand and held it anyway. ‘Dieu vos benesiga, Anselm. May God bless you and may you come to a good end, in their religion or ours.’
Anselm tried to snatch his hand away but she held on.
‘You were a good husband and I thank you for all your kindnesses. I am sorry I disappointed you at the end. But this is goodbye now. We shall never see each other here again. Though in heaven perhaps, for that is where I shall be presently.’ She turned to Fabricia, embraced her. ‘Goodbye, my heart.’ Father Vital was accepting the obeisance of dozens of crezens. Fabricia realized what was about to happen. ‘No, Mama. Please, don’t let them do this to you.’
‘I have no choice. It’s all right, I am prepared. You don’t really think they will let us go, do you?’
Gilles de Soissons galloped into the citadel, his knights and chevaliers with him, his white destrier tossing its head, fighting the reins. The crowd fell back to avoid being trampled. Father Ortiz followed behind, holding aloft a tall copper cross.
The foot soldiers rushed in behind them and pushed through the crowd with their pikes and lances. The bons òmes were conspicuous targets and did not resist their arrest. In moments the soldiers had them fettered and were shoving them towards the gates.
The mercenaries and Raimon’s knights and men-at-arms were quickly disarmed. Their weapons were tossed into a pile in the middle of the courtyard.
‘What are you doing?’ Raimon shouted. He pointed at Ortiz. ‘You promised us all safe passage!’
‘You said all here were Christians!’ He pointed towards the bons òmes. ‘So who are they? You lied to me also!’
‘This is treachery!’
‘An oath is only allowable between fellow Christians. And these devils . . .’ He pointed at the manacled Cathars now being ushered through the gates. ‘. . . these are not Christians.’ Father Ortiz wheeled his horse around. ‘I shall make a thorough investigation of all here for the good of your eternal souls. Anyone who has endangered his spirit with heresy should make full and frank confession to me and in return will be welcomed back to the Holy Church and receive lenient treatment. Every one of you will make your oath of fealty to Christ and afterwards we shall be merciful, though you have taken arms against us, and sheltered these godless abominations you call bons òmes. On this condition you will be allowed to leave here unmolested!’
Elionor had tripped as she was being shoved through the gate. As she went down one of the soldiers brought his pike down hard between her shoulders. She screamed out in pain. Anselm roared and shoved his way through the crowd. At seeing this giant approach, the soldier took a step back, but Gilles had anticipated him and manoeuvred his horse into his path. He felled him without hesitation with the flat of his sword. Everyone else was herded to the other side of the square, to await interrogation.
*
The bons òmes were led away through the gate, guarded by the crusader foot soldiers. Simon led them out on a grey cob. A pyre of faggots, straw and pitch had already been prepared. The Cathars were quickly bound together with iron chains.
When it was done, the heretics were herded into the centre of the bonfire. Simon saw that there was a woman among them. He had not expected to be burning women.
They were given the opportunity to recant and return to Christ, but it was formality only. One of the soldiers set a brand to the straw. Simon started to read aloud from his book of prayers, raising his voice over the crackling of the pitch. The woman started to scream. He swallowed hard, his mouth dry. He realized he would have to shout his prayers over their death agonies. Several tried to escape the flames, despite their heavy chains, and were tossed back into the conflagration by the soldiers with their pikes.
Oh God, forgive me.
A bitter wind caught the fire and for a moment he saw the woman and her companions writhing with their clothes alight. Then the wind gusted in the other direction and they were all blanketed in choking black smoke. Even the soldiers were forced to retreat.
He held his hand in front of his face to protect himself from the heat. His cob was stamping the ground, agitated by the flames. He chanted a few more words to the glory of God and then his resolve failed him.
He wanted to cover his ears against the screams but he knew the soldiers were watching him. He tried to remain composed, but the screaming went on and on and on. He could not believe how long it took for a human being to burn. Why could they not die, why must they shriek like this?
It was the first time he had ever attended a burning, had never smelled scorched flesh or heard human fat sizzle into the fire. He had never watched a man’s foot split open with the heat and the bones pop into the fire.
But finally it was done, praise be to our Lord Jesus Christ. He stared at the blackened bodies roasting among the flames and held a cloak over his mouth and nose so that the soldiers would not see him vomit.
Afterwards the men-at-arms raked over the glowing ashes. They dragged the blackened corpses from the pyre with long sticks and broke up the bones with metal bars, for the law said that nothing of the heretic’s body could remain behind to pollute the earth. The crumbled ash and bone would later be tossed in the river for their final dispersion.
He closed his book of prayer and turned away. He felt polluted. I shall never be clean again.
XC
FATHER ORTIZ SAT on a high-backed chair in the gatehouse. A large wooden table had been carried from the donjon for his purpose and his leg rested on a stool. He seemed to be in pain. Beside him, a notary sat with quill and knife and parchment, head bowed, ready to make a record of the interrogation, as regulations required.
A few coals had been transported from the fire in the great hall and set in a brazier close to Father Ortiz’s chair: a futile gesture, for it was so cold his breath hung in the air in small white clouds. Some tallow candles had been set on the table, and the melting wax leaked on to the wood, the burning fat giving off a foul smell. Not as foul as the stench that wafted from outside the walls.
He had been content up to this point to routinely accept the oaths of fidelity from the soldiers and the citizens of Montaillet, even though it pained him to do so. But when Anselm Bérenger was shoved in front of him his demeanour changed.
‘Do you accept the Holy Church as your means of salvation?’ he asked him, as he had asked almost a hundred others that morning.
‘I do.’
‘Do you believe that God alone made the world?’
‘I do.’
‘Do you believe that Jesus was incarnate and through his sacrifice you have been saved?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Do you believe the bread and wine consecrated by the priest are his body and blood?’
‘As you say.’
He finished the list of prepared questions. Anselm expected now to be allowed to pass through the gate. But Father Ortiz was not yet done with him. ‘You have never bowed down to a Cathar priest?’
‘I have not.’
‘Your wife was hereticated though, was she not?’
‘She was.’
‘And you tried to save her this morning when she went to proper justice?’
‘I am a good Catholic, I go to mass every Sunday and I eat meat and make my confession to the priest. I am no heretic.’
Father Ortiz sighed and nodded. The soldiers shoved Anselm through the gate with the others. A red-haired woman was next.
‘Your name?’
‘Fabricia Bérenger.’
‘Ah, Fabricia Bérenger! You are the heretic’s daughter?’
Fabricia saw her father watching from the other side of the gate, a hunted, haunted look in his eyes. I am all he has left now, she thought. He lives for me.
‘As you say.’
‘I have heard of you. Your reputation reach
ed Toulouse, did you know that? Show me your hands.’ Fabricia stepped forward and held out her hands, palms up. Father Ortiz examined the scars.
‘You are the sorceress who claims to heal people with the touch of your hands?’
‘I have never claimed such a gift,’ she said. But then she staggered and fell against the table.
‘What is wrong with you?’ Father Ortiz said.
There was a crazed look in the woman’s eyes. It sent a chill through him. Dear Heaven! She is possessed.
‘Diego Ortiz,’ she said. ‘God knows you, and He knows your mind. You will die surrounded by angels before the feast of Saint John the Apostle. You will pass from this earth screaming in pain and fear and there is nothing that can save you.’
She heard her father shout in anguish from the other side of the gate. Father Ortiz jumped to his feet and summoned two of his guards. ‘She is condemned by her own words. Lock her away! We shall examine her later.’
XCI
THE JAIL WHERE they threw her had been carved out of the bedrock; the entrance was through a trapdoor from the main prison above. She had been kept in solitude and darkness.
The gaoler, Ganach, unbarred the trapdoor and Simon went down a rope ladder into the pit. Simon waited at the foot of the steps while his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness.
He held up the candle the gaoler had given him. For three days she had been restricted to stale water and a little mouldy bread and already the effects of this stringent diet were plain. Her skin was as translucent as wet linen, and there were dark bruises around her eyes. Her hair was matted and filthy.
He tried to remember what it had been like to sin with her, but the memory vanished each time he reached for it, like smoke. ‘What a place we have come to,’ he murmured.
She did not stir, not even to look at him.
‘Do you remember? Your father wished me to persuade you against entering the cloister. I could not believe my eyes when I saw you here today.’ The fat from the candle sizzled as the wick guttered in a draught. ‘I have often thought of you.’
When she spoke her voice seemed to come from far away. ‘I saw you singing hymns while they burned my mother.’
‘I had no hand in that.’
‘You are a devil of the worst kind because you tell yourself you are so good and so holy. The Spanish mercenaries who fought with us I understood, they kill for money and they rape when they can and make no bones about it. They don’t pretend to be God’s right-hand man. They are not . . . sentimental.’
Simon swayed on his feet. ‘It grieves me to hear you say such things.’
‘I say it for my own benefit, Father. I do not believe for one moment it will penetrate your own armour of sanctity. I can still smell the smoke of my mother’s pyre, but I suppose you, being a priest, have grown accustomed to the taint of charred flesh. It is like incense to you.’
He took a deep breath and recited the speech he had rehearsed before coming here. ‘I have come here to ask your forgiveness, Fabricia Bérenger, for what took place in Toulouse. What we once shared was lust, not love, and what I did, what you brought me to, dishonoured us both. It has blighted my soul in the face of God and brought your family to this place. We have wallowed in filth and must spend the rest of our lives cleansing ourselves.’
‘I know you would like me to share the blame for what happened, but the truth is, I was powerless to stop it. I believe it is a measure of your own pollution that this one act of lust still disturbs you while you torture other human beings to death without qualm and think yourself pious for it. Please leave me now. They have only fed me a little stale bread and water and it is barely enough. I do not want to bring it up, it is all that sustains me until the morrow.’
There was nothing else to be said. He went back up the ladder and called for Ganach. As he left he heard the trapdoor slam shut behind him.
*
He emerged from the donjon into the citadel, grateful for the cold, clean air. He braced himself against a pillar and breathed deeply. The last person he wanted to see was Gilles de Soissons. The great lord collared him as if he was some flunkey.
‘I need to talk to you, Father. Can we go some place privately?’
‘What is this about, seigneur?’
‘I need your spiritual counsel. Not here, people are watching. Fetch your stole and come to my quarters.’
*
Gilles had taken the former seneschal’s private quarters for his own. He threw his muddy boots on the silk coverlet on the bed. Simon noted that he had used a fine silver ewer as a chamber pot, possibly to show his contempt for all things Provençal.
But the moment the door closed and they were alone, Gilles fell to knees and held his hands out for the stole. He kissed it and Simon placed it around his neck. ‘You wish to make confession?’
‘Father Jorda, is it true that by serving this crusade faithfully I have obtained remission for all my sins? I have fought more than the required forty days. This is true, yes?’
‘You have been most valiant in the field and His Holiness has said that all who serve the crusade shall obtain remission for their sins.’
‘What about future sins?’
‘I am not sure these were spoken of.’
‘But you are certain that I am hereby absolved of . . . everything?’
‘Is there something you wish to tell me? If you unburden yourself you may receive peace in this world as well as the next.’
‘My youngest brother is a priest also, did you know that, Father? Like you, my family had too many brothers. He carried the burden for being the last of us. I have not seen him for many years, but they tell me he is devout and godly, like you.’
‘Is this what you wanted to tell me? We need not have had such a conversation in private.’
‘I only tell you this so you might understand me better. You think me a hard man, do you not? But I am only what you would have been, should you have left the womb before your brothers. You do see that?’
‘I should never have been like you.’
‘I was right then, you have judged me. But I am not such a bad fellow. Your Holy Father in Rome would think so: I have crusaded in the Holy Land and now I am here doing his bidding once more.’
‘What is it that you wish to confess?’
‘It is a question I have regarding the great service I have done in God’s name. Will you reassure me, then, that if I kill a heretic, it is a good thing? It is not murder because a heretic’s soul is worth nothing.’ Gilles’s face was pink, and he was sweating profusely. ‘It is not a sin to kill any unbeliever. That is right, isn’t it? No matter what age they are?’
‘What troubles you, seigneur?’
‘I have such dreams! And no matter how many heretics I torch or strike down, the dream comes back, night after night.’
‘What dream?’
‘This is not my first crusade, Father. I served under the banner of Christ in the Holy Land, many years ago. We raided a village, one night; there were Saracens, women and children. There was an infant, it still had its birth grease on it. I . . .’
*
‘You killed the child?’ Simon said.
‘It would have grown up to be a Saracen warrior! The hand that reaches for the breast will one day hold a sword. But . . .’
‘But?’
‘But I can still hear it screaming on still nights. Why is this so, Father? I am innocent of any wrongdoing; I do not need to confess it for it is not a sin. This is what Father Ortiz told me. So why do I still dream of it?’
‘Perhaps if I grant you absolution and give you penance, this dream will stop.’
‘Why should I do penance for something I did for the love of God?’
Simon did not know how to answer him. He put his hand on Gilles’s head. ‘I absolve you of all sin, in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.’ He made the sign of the cross and hurried from the chamber.
But I am only what you would have been, should yo
u have left the womb before your brothers. You do see that?
No, I am not like him, he thought. That man is a brute and everything he does, he does for himself. He uses piety as an excuse when what he serves is his own craving for aggrandizement. How could he possibly make such a comparison?
Yet he could still smell the pyre. The stink of it had seeped into his skin. It was on his clothes and in his hair, the ash and grease of Elionor Bérenger and the others. Have they not screamed in my sleep these past nights, as the child screams for Gilles de Soissons?
But I am not like him. Everything I do, I do for God. Have I not shown this in the terrible sacrifice that I made to be more holy?
He put his hands over his ears. The heretics were still screaming in the flames. He had to find a way to make them stop.
XCII
THERE WAS AN alcove behind the choir in the church. It had once been the shrine of a saint. The bons òmes had whitewashed it during their brief time of possession. Father Ortiz had reconsecrated it, and fixed a plain wooden crucifix there, affording a private place for contemplation of the divine while the church was brought back to its former glory.
Simon went there and fell to his knees, hidden from the stares of the pilgrims and ruffians who had taken shelter in the nave. But their unholy hubbub intruded on his thoughts as he fumbled for the words of prayer.
All he could think of was: Forgive me.
He had thought she would no longer have power over him, imagined that he might still admire her beauty but only in the way he found pleasure in contemplation of the angels painted in the vault of the cathedral of Saint-Étienne. He did not think he might still desire her, not as she was, filthy and dispirited and in rags. That was indeed too cruel a joke.
He had been with her for just a few minutes and his heart was black once more.
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