The Passion of Dolssa

by Julie Berry

  He shivered. Why had she said that? Did she know? Perhaps others also knew about his lying to Mamà, that very morning, about the dropped basket of eggs?

  He headed out of town toward the one-eyed cat’s house. The heat of the day bore down upon him. Imagine, building a fire to execute a sinner on such a day as this! Was he wrong, he considered, to have made a promise to a wicked person? Should he try to forget it, and stay far away from where sinners made their dwelling? But he’d promised. Breaking promises was lying. That must be why she’d given that strange warning. But which was the greater sin? To lie, or to help a heretic?

  Somehow, in spite of the heat, a nightingale found the will to sing. Fernando sat down under a shady tree to hear the tune, and wondered what to do next.

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  Ages given for the year 1241, unless otherwise noted.

  PRINCIPALS

  Dolssa de Stigata, eighteen: a young noblewoman raised in the city of Tolosa

  Botille Flasucra, seventeen: a peasant girl, tavern wench, and matchmaker in the seaside village (vila) of Bajas

  Friar Lucien de Saint-Honore, twenty-five: a traveling friar of the newly founded Dominican Order of Friars-Preachers, from the Dominican convent in Tolosa

  BOTILLE’S FAMILY

  Plazensa Flasucra, twenty-one: Botille’s older sister, head tavern wench and brewer at the Three Pigeons

  Sazia Flasucra, fifteen: Botille’s younger sister, of a fortune-telling and prognosticating persuasion

  Jobau, fifties: a drunkard, and Sazia’s father, who makes his home with the three sisters

  CHURCHMEN

  Prior Pons de Saint-Gilles, middle-aged: head of the Order of Friars-Preachers in Tolosa, supervising the daily living, preaching, and inquisitorial activities of a group of Dominican brothers

  Bishop Raimon de Fauga de Miramont, middle-aged: Dominican friar and bishop of Tolosa, originally from the city of Miramont

  Dominus Bernard, forties: parish priest of the Church of Sant Martin, Bajas

  Friar Arnaut d’Avinhonet, fifty-four at the time of his writing; a Dominican historian working in the archives of the Convent du Jacobins in Tolosa in 1290

  TOLOSANS OF RANK

  Count Raimon VII, forty-four: the count of Tolosa, with lands extending far throughout the region; the most powerful and influential lord in Provensa, in spite of heavy losses suffered when Pope Innocent III declared a holy crusade against his father, Raimon VI, and excommunicated him for harboring heretics

  Senhor Hugo de Miramont, thirty-eight: a knight from Miramont who makes his home in Tolosa and serves as man-at-arms for Count Raimon VII

  VILLAGERS OF RANK IN BAJAS

  Senhor Guilhem de Bajas, late twenties: Lord of Bajas, and of its castrum, or grand fortified house

  Na Pieret di Fabri, sixties: noble in origin, the childless widow of a prosperous vintner, owner of many of the vineyard plots in the countryside surrounding Bajas

  Symo, twenty-two: Na Pieret’s nephew, originally from San Cucufati

  Gui, twenty-one: Symo’s brother and Na Pieret’s nephew, also from San Cucufati

  Lop, forties: the bayle (bailiff), an officer to Senhor Guilhem

  PEASANT VILLAGERS

  Martin de Boroc, thirty: a fisherman, husband to Lisette, and father to Ava

  Lisette, twenty-five: daughter of the goat-cheese man, wife to Martin de Boroc, and mother to Ava

  Ava, two: Martin and Lisette’s daughter

  Paul Crestian, fifties: Lisette’s papà, the goat-cheese man

  Joan de Prato, thirty-one: farmer, husband to Felipa, and father

  Felipa de Prato, twenty-eight: wife to Joan and mother to two young children

  Astruga, nineteen: an unmarried young woman in search of a husband, known for her beauty

  Sapdalina, twenty-two: another unmarried young woman in search of a husband, a skilled seamstress

  Focho de Capa, fifties: a musician, jack-of-all-trades, and master of revels at village celebrations

  Azimar de Carlipac, forty-six: a shipbuilder

  Amielh Vidal, thirty-three: raises and sells, among other things, ducks

  Litgier, twenty-seven: a fisherman

  Plastolf de Condomio, seventies: the oldest man in the village

  Jacme, Andrio, and Itier, twenties: unmarried peasant farmhands to Na Pieret di Fabri

  Garcia the elder, fifty: a trusted and experienced servant on Na Pieret di Fabri’s farm

  Garcia the younger, fourteen: Garcia the elder’s only son

  Saura, forty: Garcia the elder’s wife, the mother of Garcia the younger

  Peire, thirty-three: a fisherman, Rixenda’s husband

  Rixenda, twenty-nine: a fishwife, Peire’s wife

  AUTHOR’S HISTORICAL NOTE

  The Passion of Dolssa is fiction, but the historical setting is real. Some characters are borrowed from history: Count Raimon VII, Bishop Raimon de Fauga, and Prior Pons de Saint-Gilles (I took some liberty with the dates of his tenure). Dolssa de Stigata’s story is based on the lives of several medieval female mystics, set against one of medieval Europe’s most violent and disturbing conflicts.

  Faith, Femininity, and Mysticism in the Middle Ages

  In the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, a movement emerged within Roman Catholic Christendom to imtitate Christ by living in simple poverty as Jesus and his apostles did. Monasteries reformed, and new orders of monks and friars formed, most notably, the Franciscans, founded by St. Francis of Assisi, and the Dominican Order of Friars-Preachers, or the Dominicans, founded by St. Dominic de Guzmán. Both orders rejected life in wealthy monasteries and devoted themselves to traveling and preaching.

  Christian writers including Bernard of Clairvaux began to describe Jesus in terms of his compassion, empathy, humility, and suffering, as opposed to, say, his role as Judge, or Captain of the Hosts (armies) of Heaven. This was a Jesus anyone could admire and imitate—especially women. Bernard also wrote extensively in praise of the Virgin Mary. This was new. Mary as Christ’s pure and loving mother made a much more hopeful feminine role model for women to embrace than sinful Eve, Delilah, or Jezebel.

  These changes, coupled with increased literacy and Bible reading, brought women flocking to religious lives, taking vows in convents or forming private religious houses. Many sought to know Jesus through prayer and meditation, seeking visions and visitations. Some claimed to receive them. Complete union with the divine was their goal, and it involved a path of sacrifice and self-denial. Such seekers, male or female, are called mystics.

  Clare of Assisi, Catherine of Siena, Theresa of Avila, Mechthild of Magdeburg, Marguerite Porete, and Julian of Norwich are among the medieval women mystics upon whom Dolssa is based. These women lived startling lives, attracting followers and reportedly performing miracles. They practiced seclusion or acts of charity. Most insisted on lives of chastity, wanting no husband but Jesus. This was a bold, defiant choice in a society that offered women few prospects other than marriage. They took the idea of Jesus as their husband or lover quite seriously; in fact, many spoke of Jesus in passionate, sexual terms that would make modern readers blush.

  Those mystics who could write seemed compelled to record their experiences, but for a woman to claim divine inspiration and publish her visions could be seen as usurping authority belonging to the Church. Some were embraced by the Church and sainted after their deaths. Others were executed.

  Names and Places

  Specific local religious controversies plagued the lands between the Garonne and Rhône Rivers during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Now present-day southern France, the region was called Provincia (“the countryside”) by Latin churchmen, and stretched well beyond what we now call “Provence.” The region’s famous troubadour poets called it Provensa, which I use in the novel, though most people thought of themselves more as belonging to their town or city (or its lord) than to a broader region.

  After these lands became part of the kingdom of France in
1271, they were known as Languedoc, after langue d’Oc—the language (tongue) of Oc. (“Oc” was their word for “yes.”) The region was ruled by counts and lords, large and small; the most powerful were the counts of Toulouse.

  Cortezia, the Friends of God, and Heresy

  In the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, Church intellectuals became alarmed about heresy, and the dangerous influence of false beliefs on the faithful.

  Any unorthodox, unsanctioned religious idea or practice is a heresy; a person professing such beliefs is labeled a heretic. Heretics exist within their own faith; for example, Muslims and Jews can’t be considered Christian heretics. Wherever religious innovators appear, some are embraced as welcome new voices, but others are seen as dangerous to the faithful, particularly ones that challenge the authority or conduct of the leaders. Francis of Assisi’s humble poverty and charity earned him sainthood; Peter Valdez’s earned him excommunication. Peter’s followers vocally criticized the clergy; Francis’s did not.

  Christian theologians in the rapidly growing universities were especially concerned about heresy. They studied arguments written by early Church Fathers against third and fourth century heresies and grew convinced that the same false doctrines had leapt across a thousand years and as many miles, with Satan’s help, to poison Christendom. And Provincia, they were certain, was a hotbed of heresy.

  Provincia’s language was distinct from its neighbors’, and so were its local customs. Its traditions centered around cortezia, meaning courtliness or courtesy (though it reaches far beyond polite manners). Cortezia dictated certain rituals for greeting, bowing to, helping, and giving gifts to others, according to the onor (honor and/or wealth) of all involved. A person might be called a good man (bon ome) or good woman (bona femna) for being noble or rich, landowning or influential, but a life of known holiness could also merit the label. These holy men and women were known collectively as the friends of God (amicx de Dieu). They lived in every village, dressed and ate simply, and performed certain prayers, greetings, and rituals to cultivate and spread their holiness. Specific practices and beliefs varied locally, but the holy good men and women were widely respected, routinely asked for their prayers and blessings. They weren’t a church; they embodied a way of seeking everyday holiness that was specific to Provincia.

  The friends of God saw themselves as pious Christians, but to Catholic clergy passing through Provincia, they looked like a secret organized religion, and an offshoot of ancient heresies. Ignorance of another culture undoubtedly contributed to these suspicions. Also, the friends of God’s humble ways, with little appearance of hierarchy or priesthood, differed sharply from Catholicism. The Church was already concerned about critics who protested its wealth and ostentation, and wary of groups that protested them via alternate lifestyles. The respect in which the good men and women were held suggested that holiness could be found in one’s neighborhood, without a priest’s help, despite the Church’s claim to be the only valid source of sacraments essential for salvation. Furthermore, as mentioned, Church clerics’ university training predisposed them to believe ancient, sinister heresies threatened the Church already. The friends of God, therefore, were the demons they’d been searching for.

  The Murder of Peire of Castelnau and the Start of the Albigensian Crusade

  Dominic de Guzmán visited Provincia in 1204 and was horrified. He founded his Order of Friars-Preachers in Toulouse in 1215 specifically to combat heresy. Pope Innocent III, meanwhile, pressured Raimon VI, count of Toulouse, to purge his lands of heretics. He sent a legate, or papal ambassador, to meet with Raimon in January 1208. When discussions ended badly, the legate, Peire of Castelnau, left. The next morning a squire charged into Peire’s camp and skewered him with a lance by the Rhône River.

  Historians believe Raimon never ordered Peire of Castelnau’s death, and think the assassin was from Raimon’s court, acting stupidly and alone, hoping to impress his lord. But Peire’s murder was all the provocation Innocent III needed to proclaim a crusade into Raimon VI’s lands in 1209.

  It was the first holy war where Christians were guaranteed salvation for killing other Christians.

  Soldiers “bearing the sign of the cross” were promised salvation, spoils of war, and debt relief. Compared to a Jerusalem crusade, a march into the sunny south looked easy. By summer 1209, tens of thousands of “pilgrims” had gathered near Lyon to journey down the Rhône into Count Raimon’s lands.

  The first great battle at Béziers was a heartbreaking massacre. Thousands of servant boys tagging along with the crusaders charged the city, climbing walls and sneaking through drains, killing everyone they met, until French knights finally joined them. The boys in their fury heaped corpses on street corners and torched them. The city became an inferno, burning to the ground, incinerating anyone who survived the initial slaughter. Arnauld Amalric, abbot of Cîteaux, papal legate and leader of the crusade, supposedly said, when asked how the crusaders could tell who was a heretic and who was not: “Kill them all! Truly God will know his own.” (Soon after the September 11, 2001, attacks, I saw the same idea repeated almost verbatim on a bumper sticker regarding Muslims, and how to tell which were terrorists.)

  The crusade, now called the “Albigensian Crusade” after a nickname northern Frenchmen used for southerners, raged for twenty years. Soldiers ravaged Provincia each summer, butchering and mutilating entire towns of people who wouldn’t surrender. Provençals battled bravely, and both sides suffered tremendous losses. The war’s grim conclusion, with the Treaty of Paris in 1229, established terms that eventually annexed the county of Toulouse into the kingdom of France.

  “The Albigensian Crusade ushered genocide into the West,” writes historian Mark Pegg, “by linking divine salvation to mass murder, by making slaughter as loving an act as [Christ’s] sacrifice on the cross . . . A crusader not only cleansed his soul by cutting the throat of a pestilential baker from Toulouse, he cleansed the very soul of Christendom” (A Most Holy War, page 188).

  Inquisition as an Innovative Solution

  Cleansing the soul of Christendom remained an unfinished task after the crusade. The friends of God and their sympathizers still lived in hiding. Inquisition arose as a way to smoke them out. The Dominican Order was commanded by Pope Gregory IX to carry out this work. The friars pursued their task with zeal.

  Anyone who had ever associated with the amicx de Dieu faced likely punishment. Excommunication meant eternal damnation, and it wasn’t the inquisitors’ only tool. A common sentence was wearing two large yellow crosses on one’s clothes for life. This might seem benign, but it visibly marked those to be shunned in Christendom. Pope Innocent III had already proclaimed in 1215 that Jews and Muslims must dress differently from Christians. (Not unlike during World War II, when Germany required Jews to wear yellow stars on their clothing.) Branding people as alien and dangerous barred them from society, friendship, employment, and trade, as though they were infectiously ill. In the eyes of inquisitors, as “doctors of souls,” heresy was indeed a disease, a spreading contagion.

  The inquisitions “into heretical depravity” sliced through communal loyalties. When persecution became a way of life, fear made neighbors betray neighbors, and turned kin against kin. Cortezia dissolved forever, giving way to suspicion.

  Inquisitors could only issue religious punishments. (In 1252 they were granted permission to use torture to obtain confessions—a privilege also granted to civil courts). Inquisitors never burned anyone. They recommended civil sentences, then “relaxed” the guilty into the custody of lords and their bailiffs (bayles), who carried out the punishments. These lords, still smarting from the wounds of war, had no wish to offend the Church by indulging heretics. Most cooperated.

  Inquisitors wrote manuals, trained others, and kept detailed records. They were nothing if not efficient in the “business of the faith.” In some cases their inquisitions saved lives. In a post-crusade climate where lords were frantic to avoid the stain of heresy, which cou
ld cost them their lands, some lords became reckless butchers. The inquisitors brought a form of due process to the sentencing.

  While crusading clergy were often ruthless and bloodthirsty, most churchmen believed they performed a necessary service for God. Some inquisitors rejoiced in destroying heretics; others mourned them as lost souls. Nevertheless, historical records show a clear pattern of the charge of heresy being wielded disproportionately against those who stood in the way of the pope’s or the monarch’s ambitions; against those who criticized inquisitors; or against those with treasures worth confiscating. It was an effective tool for silencing and looting an enemy, and it remained so for centuries in Europe.

  It is this tension among faith, violence, and self-interest that I struggled with most in my portrayal of churchmen. While their deeds may have been monstrous, it is too simplistic to portray them as monsters. Humans have the greatest capacity for evil not when they act alone but in committees, bureaucracies, and boardrooms, carrying out agendas they can justify as their painful duty for the greater good.

  The Myth of the Cathars

  Search anywhere for information about the Albigensian Crusade, or heretics from southern France, and you’ll find them called “Cathars”—in encyclopedias, tourist literature, even academic works. A full description of Catharism’s doctrines and hierarchy will follow, claiming a centralized structure, a missionary program for obtaining converts, and a vocal objective of toppling the faith of Rome.

  There never was an organized church of Cathars. Historical descriptions of so-called Cathars were written decades later, almost all by Italian Dominican inquisitors. No friend of God in Provincia was called a Cathar, least of all by the “heretics” themselves.

  It’s not just the name that’s wrong. The entire story surrounding them as a unified and organized religion, with coherent beliefs and a mission to destroy Catholic Christianity, is pure fantasy.

  The label “Cathar” is found in the fourth century in the writings of St. Augustine and the Council of Nicea. No link exists between fourth-century Cathars and the good men and women of Provincia. Where thirteenth-century Church intellectuals saw similar ideas, they presumed shared origins. So they described the amicx de Dieu in language that sometimes copied verbatim Augustine’s descriptions of his Cathars.