The Passion of Dolssa

by Julie Berry

  “I pray you, man of God,” I begged. “Have mercy. We showed you pity last night. We saved your life, as the blessed Samaritan did, when you were left for dead.”

  A confused look passed over Friar Lucien’s face. He raised a trembling hand to his forehead. “We?” he repeated. “We?”

  I did not dare answer. God in heaven, did he remember Dolssa?

  Friar Lucien towered over me now, yet he came closer still.

  “Did you . . .” He bent over to speak to me words no one else would hear. “Did you summon the heretic to pray over me?”

  His wild eyes burned into mine. Sea breezes ruffled his fringe of hair, and sweat shone on his brow.

  I shook my head. An instant too late.

  “You did.” His fingers shook. “You let her touch me. Her cursed hands were upon my flesh!”

  In all that crowded beach, it was only we two.

  And then I understood. He feared me. He knew who had healed him. He remembered now. And he knew I could tell it. How the heretic had infected him with her poison touch.

  If I were willing to betray Dolssa.

  Prior Pons appeared at Friar Lucien’s side. Lucien backed away from me, stumbling in the sand in his haste.

  “The toza lies!” he cried. “The heretic lives. Find her!”

  While Prior Pons tried to soothe Friar Lucien, the jowly bishop of Tolosa conferred in low tones with Senhor Guilhem, who argued heatedly with him. Finally the bishop spoke.

  “People of Bajas, your lord Guilhem has pled for you tonight. You will all do a heavy penance for your sins and errors, but your lives and homes will be spared. You must renounce heresy and those who spread it. You will watch as the Lord’s avenging fire burns these four, who were clearly all confederates in this deception. And you must lead us to the place where Dolssa de Stigata lies hidden. People of Bajas, do you accept the mercy offered you?”

  No one moved. Then Astruga and Joan de Prato came forward, knelt, made the sign of the cross, and added a log to the fire. Focho de Capa came forward and did the same. Garcia the elder came with his son, leaving his wife weeping behind him. Dominus Bernard took a pathetic stick. With tears streaming down her cheeks, unwilling to look at us, Na Pieret walked forward and took a piece of wood, supported by Gui and Sapdalina on either side.

  Symo groaned behind me. I reached for his rough hand and wrapped my fingers around it.

  There was one crumb of comfort to be found. I did not see the de Borocs anywhere. I prayed they had slipped away in the gathering dark to hide on Martin’s boat. May it carry them far from here, to safety. May Saura find an escape of her own, whether her husband and son join her or not.

  Bishop Raimon nodded in triumph as each person bowed before him. “Now, bring us the heretic,” he said, then pointed to us. “These four shall join her in hell.”

  Rossinhol, el seu repaire

  M’iras ma domna vezer,

  E digas li·l mieu afaire

  Et ilh diga·t del sieu ver.

  Nightingale, oh, ease my cares.

  Swift to my lady’s side, take wing.

  Bring back word of how she fares,

  Tell her my heart-sick suffering.

  —Peire d’Alvernhe,

  twelfth-century trobador

  HUGO

  nce out of sight of the gathering at the beach, Hugo de Miramont ran. He didn’t know where. He only knew what direction he’d seen the cat go. Uphill, toward the countryside. He didn’t know where the cat’s journey had ended. But moments were all that were left now. Unless the tavern wenches had moved the girl out of his reach.

  There was only a little light left in the sky. Speed, stealth, and cunning must lead him to his prey. It had to be tonight. It had to be now.

  He scanned the horizon as he mounted the vineyard slope. All was murkiness now the landscape and woods, and far below, the dark, brooding sweep of the sea. From a limb he could not see, a nightingale’s song pierced the gloaming. Hugo stopped and calmed his breathing, then strained his senses for a sign, for a sound, a whisper.

  A shadow moved. He turned and waited. It moved again. Toward him. He crouched along a leafy grapevine and watched it approach.

  It was her. Triumph. A miracle. He waited until she was almost there, then rose to block her path.

  She startled, then stepped back. “Oh,” she said. “Oh.”

  “Dolssa de Stigata,” said Hugo, “you may not remember me, but I—”

  “I do,” said she. “You’re my kinsman. From Papà’s funeral. You came and heard me preach. Then stood by and watched as they burned Mamà.”

  She remembered him well. He wished she hadn’t. “But I—”

  “It’s all right,” she told him. “I understand their power, and I understand fear.” She paused. “I can forgive you, now.”

  Hugo seized her arms. “I don’t need forgiveness,” he said. “Come with me. This way.”

  “No need for force,” she cried, then composed herself. “I will follow you. My Lord told me you were coming.”

  Hugo halted. “He did?”

  She nodded. “To bring me to the flames.”

  Hugo paused to listen for other feet. “Then it wasn’t me he spoke of,” he said. “And we must hurry.”

  “What do you mean?”

  What to do? He knelt down before the young woman, pulled something from a pouch, and held it toward her.

  In the twilight, Dolssa was forced to touch, more than see, what he held. He’d bought the fruits from a farmer in Bajas just the day before. Her fingertips brushed the velvet skin of two soft apricots.

  “Oh.”

  Her fingers rested upon the fruit, and upon Hugo’s skin. He caught his breath as the feel of her touch filled his body. Her scent was lavender and linen and the warmth of candlelight.

  “Fly with me,” he whispered. “Maiden most pure. I can carry you far from danger.”

  Her wide eyes beheld him in the darkness. Like lamps, they captured the glow of the rising crescent moon. Hope filled his breast. Every rushing breath fired him with strength and courage. She was here. Safe. He’d found her. If she would come with him, he could conquer all enemies. If she would be his, their souls together would enter paradise.

  “All this time,” she said softly, “you . . .”

  He nodded. His body was on fire with her closeness.

  “All this time.” All the miles, all the hours, watching, waiting, hunting, pretending. God had heard his prayers and brought him to this moment. Here, with her, before their foes could find them.

  Church bells rang from the distant tower of Sant Martin. What could they mean?

  “Good Senhor,” Dolssa said gently, “my Lord delivered me from the flames in Tolosa, to bring me to this place and time, for purposes I don’t know. My time has come. He has called me to rise from my hiding place and face my enemies.”

  No, no! Above all other foes, must he persuade her, too, to value her life?

  “Donzȩlla Dolssa,” he whispered. “It was I who cut you free that night.”

  He heard the intake of her breath. Her confusion and disappointment filled the air between them.

  He had dismayed her. Beast, to boast in this way!

  “Surely delivering you was the will of God,” he went on, “as much as it was the deepest wish of my heart.” He bowed his head. “I could only save one of you. This was the choice she would have wanted me to make.”

  They paused to hear voices ascending the hill, and with them, torches. In the distance, the glow of a large fire began to glimmer through the trees.

  “I’ve watched you grow,” he pleaded. “Years before you were aware of me. Your father spoke often of you to me, and I grew to love you before I’d even seen the young woman you became. I’ve heard you teach. I see what light surrounds you. Holy maiden, you do not know what you are to me.”

  He longed to embrace her, but dared not move.

  She gazed back at him. “What do you want?”

  “Only your ha
ppiness,” he said, “and safety. I can take you to Anglatèrra, where I have an estate. I can take you to the ends of the earth.”

  Her eyes closed. She struggled.

  He whispered. “Don’t be afraid.”

  “Afraid?”

  “Of me.” He took a deep breath. “It is no use for me to pretend,” Hugo’s words rushed out, “that I would not wish for a chance to offer you my heart. But whether you would have me or no, I swear to you, maiden, that I would give my life to serve you, and to defend your right to live as you choose.”

  Her lips parted. She turned aside slightly, and spoke. “Is this your will?”

  She wasn’t talking to him.

  Lights approached. Hugo didn’t fear them as much as he feared the answer Dolssa might receive. To have her safe in his reach at last, and fail . . . It couldn’t be borne.

  Dolssa took Hugo’s hand and pulled him to his feet. “Tell me,” she said, “how do my friends fare tonight? The sisters from the tavern. Are they in danger?”

  Hugo’s heart broke.

  She must ask him that.

  Just one lie.

  The trusting spirit at his side rested her arm upon his. Somewhere near was one who loved her even more than Hugo could, and whose eyes could read his heart.

  He had come this far, so far to taste the bitter gall of defeat.

  So be it, then. If he would keep his vow to serve her, then deliverance must belong to her beloved now.

  “They are in danger, Donzȩlla,” he said. “When I left, the bishop had learned you were yet alive, and that the sisters had lied to conceal you.”

  She threaded her arm more tightly through his. “Then you must lead me to them,” she said. “Would you do me the courtesy of bringing me there yourself, instead of this mob that’s so keen to find me?”

  Hugo’s jaw set in a grim line. “With pleasure.”

  Though that, God knew, was another lie.

  BOTILLE

  he bishop’s sentence echoed in my ears. I melted into the arms of my dear ones.

  Before they came and took us, one moment, and one embrace more, for my Plazi, my Sazia, my darling srres.

  And Symo.

  He wrapped his arms around me.

  “Never mind, Botille.” He spoke into my ear, and kissed it gently. “I knew from the first you’d be the death of me.”

  I pulled away to look into his eyes, but he wouldn’t let me. He turned his face away, while his words sank down into my skin. Symo? Stubborn, surly Symo. Always vexing, always helping. Always there.

  Mon Dieu.

  What I might have felt, after the shock of it? All that might have been, there wasn’t time to know. He held me tight, and I wet his shirt with tears, until Lop returned with his load of wood, and rough hands pulled us apart.

  How quickly does a fire fanned and fed by friends grow tall.

  Dieu, bless Dolssa, and Jobau. Bless Mimi, my little cat.

  And kill us quickly, for I can’t abide the thought of fire.

  The sky slipped from lilac to purple to blue to black. The fire grew higher and higher.

  The churchmen sang,

  Accende lumen sensibus,

  infunde amorem cordibus,

  infirma nostri corporis,

  virtute firmans perpeti.

  It meant something like:

  Lighten our senses,

  fill our hearts with love.

  Make our weak bodies

  forever strong.

  A voice I knew from a lifetime ago sang out from beyond the darkness.

  “Hey ho, hey hum, see the churchmen come. And whom shall they slaughter today?”

  My srres and I stared at one another.

  A figure wandered into the firelight. Hobbled right up to the bishop and spat upon him. A servant cuffed his jaw, but the figure only laughed, spraying the clerics with some of the brew in the jug he carried.

  It was none other than our Jobau.

  “Take the babe, take your wife, and run for your life from the men who love to pray.”

  “Who is this offensive creature?” demanded a bristling Bishop Raimon.

  “What’s the fire for, boys?” Jobau took a swig. “Hot enough to wake even a damned soul like me. I look out the door, and see everyone gathered around a blaze, and I say to myself, ‘Oho, either it’s a party, or the holy men have come to town.’” He wandered over to Bishop Raimon. “I’m a drunk,” he told him, “since you asked. The vilest sinner in all Provensa. Death to the king of Fransa! And you men”—another drink—“are the murderers who made me this way. What do you think of that?”

  The bishop beckoned to Lop. “Get this refuse out of here, and flog him.”

  “Not”—Jobau took a swig—“until I tell you a story.”

  “Drag him away!” cried the bishop. But Jobau—the bizarre wonderment of this reeking, shriveled man cursing at the bishop—had already hooked the curious ears of the soldiers. They could wait a few minutes.

  “I’ll tell you the story”—there was an edge to Jobau’s voice—“of a young man in Fransa who loved the Church and dreamed of adventure. He wanted to take up his cross. Just like Jhesus. He answered the call to go on crusade and drive filthy heretics from the count of Tolosa’s lands. Worse than infidels, the heretics were. More dangerous than Mohammedans.”

  “Bayle,” ordered the bishop. “Remove him.” But Lop was held sway under Jobau’s spell.

  “So this young man left his mother and father and joined an army marching south. Tens of thousands of us there were, singing songs and dreaming of our mansions in heaven.

  “But do you know what happened?”

  “No one heeds you, foul creature!” cried Lucien de Saint-Honore.

  Everyone did.

  “Besièrs happened.” Jobau’s voice lashed like Lop’s whip. “We wiped it off the map. We didn’t leave a rat’s aze alive in all Besièrs. Not even a curly-haired baby girl. All gone. Burnt up like bacon that falls in the fire. That’s holy war.”

  Never had I heard this tale before. My own Jobau’s life, and I never knew.

  “And on from there, and on, throughout the south, for years. Every town that would surrender to Simon de Montfort, ‘God’s own prince,’ we would spare the town and kill the bons omes and bonas femnas. Sear them with hot irons. Toss them alive into flaming pyres. Chop off their ears and noses. Throw them in wells. Strip them, stone them. That’s what we did in the good vilas. In the bad vilas, we got to kill everyone.”

  “What’s he doing?” Sazia whispered.

  Jobau was determined to have his say. “Did you ever trip on the bodies of young boys, with their guts ripped open and gushing out, you men of God? That’s holy war. Did any of you fight it?”

  He searched their expressionless faces. He dropped his jug in the sand and cackled. Then he approached Bishop Raimon. All his mirth was gone now.

  “You murderers, you killed God for me. You kill everything. And you never need to lift a sword to do it. You just lift your god, and poor souls run to do your killing for you.”

  His entire audience listened, as if in a trance.

  “One day I just walked away. I could never go back to Fransa as the murderer I’d become. So I wandered around the south, the enemy’s terrain, for years. I saw nobody harming anybody’s faith but you. I drank in search of sleep without dreaming, but the dreams of what I’d done found me all the same.

  “I ended up in Carcassona. I lived with a woman and her two daughters. We had a child together. The woman brewed ale to keep me from dying too quickly on wine. But she died first. After some trouble with debts and fights, the tozas and I ended up here in Bajas.

  “And one day a donzȩlla showed up at the tavern with the true God in her fingertips. She healed my baby girl. And you can’t bear it.

  “So kill us. Kill us all. Kill my daughters, kill me, kill and kill and kill until all that’s left is to kill each other. And when you do, the bon Dieu, if he’s really there, will be your judge.”

>   The villagers stared at Jobau. A month ago, had Jobau told this tale in the tavern, he’d have met with cheers. Now no one dared to make a sound.

  The fire crackled. Bishop Raimon trembled with fury. He leveled a quivering finger at Jobau.

  “Seize this blasphemer,” he cried, “and bind him with his wicked daughters.”

  Jobau laughed. He laughed as two soldiers seized him by the arms and dragged him away from the clerics, toward us.

  The pyre raged in its full heat. It scorched us, but not, I knew, as it soon would.

  What would it be like to die? When the torment and the pain were through, would my soul go to God? Or be trapped, doomed, damned in an exile of darkness and pain?

  Lord God whom Dolssa loves, I prayed, receive our souls unto you.

  “The fire is ready,” said Lop.

  “Take the beauty first,” said the bishop. “Take them one by one. Leave the lying, talkative one for last, so she may watch them all.”

  They dragged Plazi toward the fire.

  I opened my mouth to scream, to plead, to bargain one last time for her life. But something made me stop. A voice, a feeling that silenced me.

  I turned. We all turned. What made us all turn, there in that inferno of noise and heat?

  Standing in our midst was Dolssa.

  She came, to help us. Nothing forced her to come. Now we would all die together.

  Unless her beloved had one more miracle.

  The men clutching Plazensa’s arms let go.

  “Release them.” Dolssa faced the bishop and the friars. They stared at her.

  She glowed, not from the firelight, but as if lit from within. I wondered if she were already a ghost.

  “Let them go,” said she, “and I yield myself to you.”

  The churchmen looked at one another.

  Friar Lucien’s face had gone gray at the sight of her. He said, “We don’t need you to yield. We have them, and we have you.”

  Dolssa’s voice was calm but piercing. “Let them go,” she said once more. “My beloved has protected me thus far, and he will protect me forever. You have no power over me but what he grants you.”