by Glen Craney
The astounded audience turned toward her unlikely selection.
For the first time, the Marquessa saw the Templar standing behind the others. Dubious of the choice, she asked, “Sir, will you accept the charge?”
The crusader shot a quick glance over his shoulder, making certain that a path to the door was cleared. “I am a contender for faith alone.”
“In this domain, a man of arms serves both God and Courtesy.”
Folques dismissed the proffered opponent with scowl of hauteur. “My lady, I implore you to choose an advocate from my profession. The monk is illiterate. It is beneath my station to contend with one so poorly armed in the agon of verse.”
Before Esclarmonde could rescind the cruel appointment, the Templar marched up and removed his gloves defiantly, making no attempt to hide his contempt for the syrupy Marseille popinjay. “Am I permitted the use of Latin?”
“You will be at a disadvantage,” warned the Marquessa. “The language of scholars is bereft of sentiment. But the Code permits it.” When the Templar did not waver from his request, the matriarch reluctantly relinquished the dais—but not before scathing Esclarmonde with a chastising glare.
Shaken by the confrontation that she had spawned, Esclarmonde reluctantly took the high seat facing the assembly. Below her, Folques warmed his voice while stealing glances at the suspicious bishops. The Templar had more reason than any to be nervous, given his lack of experience in such a venue, but he stood stoically, a fixed planet in a tempest of agitated anticipation. He stared down the swishing troubadour who orbited him like a dazzling comet.
The sun had eased into early evening, benighting the hall in a trail of occult shadows. When the audience came to order, Folques beckoned his retinue of lute and harp players, then bent to one knee and sang:
Since Love so wishes to honor me
As to let me bear you in my heart,
I beg of you to keep it from the flames,
Since I fear for you much more than for myself.
And since, Lady, my heart has you within,
If it is harmed, you, inside, will be harmed as well ...
Esclarmonde shuddered from the effects of the troubadour’s mellifluous voice. If he moved the audience with such force, the Templar stood no chance. She was roiled by confused emotions, riven as to which man she would have prevail.
Do with my body what you will, but keep
My heart as if it were your dwelling place.
Since each day you’re more lovely and charming,
I curse the eyes with which I gaze on you,
For their subtle contemplation can never be
To my advantage but only cause me pain.
Yet in the end I know I’ll be more helped
Than wounded, my lady, for I should think
That you’d get little joy from killing me,
Since the pain would be yours as well.
Lady, I cannot fully tell you of my loyal heart,
Out of fear of seeming foolish, but I hope
Your wisdom will perceive the words unspoken.
Folques lowered his chin to his chest in a dramatic coda. He had conjured up a magnificent performance, excelling all of the renowned troubadours who had preceded him in this hallowed court. Triumphant, he arose like an unfurling swan and swept his hand to offer the position.
The Templar removed his sword from its side harness with a chilling sangfroid and placed it on the dais. Tousled shocks of lichen-blond hair unfurled to his shoulders as he lowered his mesh coif. The musicians moved to his side, but he motioned them away. He looked up at the Virgin and, eyes shuttered, whispered a prayer, “Lady of Heaven, use me as thine instrument.” After nearly a minute of meditation, he looked directly at Esclarmonde and chanted:
I am of low birth, untrained in the art of verse,
Nor have I studied the ways of women.
But I have dedicated my life to the Virgin,
Who resides at the right hand of the Lord
And has never failed to protect me in battle.
I can offer you, my Lady, little else but the promise that,
Should you ever be in need of a defender,
You may call upon the services of one
Who has fought a path to the rock where
The Holy Mother knelt before her dying Son.
Not even a cough broke the punishing silence. The audience seemed to be waiting for something more, another stanza perhaps—until a sharp crack of embers startled them from their stupor, drawing gasps and muffled sniffles. Someone dropped a goblet; its rattling clank echoed across the flagstones.
Esclarmonde cast her gaze down.
The Templar retreated a step, convinced that he had offended her.
Folques kept his back to the audience with his head bowed in the artifice of humility. He could not deny himself a congratulatory smile. Just as he had predicted, the monk’s unskilled maundering had insulted all in attendance. Sure-footed, he prepared to come forward to accept the judgment—
The assembly shot to their feet in frenzied applause.
Folques milked the triumphant moment. Nodding at the popular confirmation, he rehearsed a few words for a victory speech. A second round of applause grew louder. The audience had no doubt witnessed Esclarmonde’s confirmation. He allowed the adulation to continue a few beats more—timing was the art superlative of his profession, after all—and then he turned with an akimbo pose to acknowledge the accolades.
The assembly’s collective gaze was trained beyond him.
They are cheering the monk.
Staggered by the incomprehensible sentiment, Folques silently begged Esclarmonde to countermand the popular verdict.
Only then was Esclarmonde assessed with the true cost of the dalliances in which she had so cavalierly engaged during the past weeks. The Marquessa had been prescient in her admonitions; there was indeed a vital purpose for these Rules of Love. Esclarmonde now understood, too late, that the capricious glance or wanton touch could prove more lethal than the sharpest weapon. If a woman held the power to lift a man to Heaven, she could also cast him into Hell. She had not been in love with the troubadour. She had craved his attentions and the fame that accompanied them. Ashamed, she turned her eyes from Folques in rejection.
Voice cracking, Folques allowed, “My lady is freed of the offer.”
With that concession, the troubadour managed an unsteady bow and walked from the hall through a gauntlet of judging glares. He paused only once—to memorize the face of the Templar who had eclipsed his reputation.
I seem like a stranger to them because I come from another race.
- Jesus Christ, Odes of Solomon
II
The Tarascon Forest
May 1194
The first day of spring hunting was always a cause for celebration, but this year’s outing promised to be particularly delightful. The weather had turned temperate and the mountain air was redolent with the heady fragrances of lavender and marjoram. Warmed by the midday sun, the girls unclasped their riding cloaks and spread a blanket atop their favorite point of vantage, a mushroom-shaped stone in an herbage clearing that held a panoramic view of the Pyrenees.
Corba meticulously arranged the delicacies that she had packed for their picnic: Toast with almond sauce, currant dumplings, and hippocras sweetened with cinnamon. She had also baked a special cake of eggshells, sea salt, and barley. St. Mark’s Eve was the traditional date for divining the future, a window into time when ladies could learn the true heart of their lovers. If Raymond came to her side this afternoon and upturned the pastry, she would have confirmation that he was to be her destined husband. After arranging the settings to her satisfaction, she asked, “Will you take jam or honey?”
Esclarmonde had not heard the question, preoccupied as she was with watching her brother’s lathered hounds flush a buck from the brush. She silently willed the frightened animal into a thicket of pines that bordered the river gorge. If the buck reached the chalk esc
arpments, it might stand a fair chance of prolonging the chase.
“Esclarmonde!” demanded Corba. “Jam or honey?”
Esclarmonde edged up to her hands and knees, tensing with anticipation. The spooked buck zigzagged and disappeared down the cliffs, causing Roger to bite off a litany of curses. She laughed at her brother’s ineptitude. The embankment was too steep for the horses to take on directly and the men would have to circle to the end of the gorge and wind their way down into the riverbed. When at last the hunters disappeared over the slope, she leapt to her feet and dragged Corba down the rock, scattering the basket and food.
“Have you taken leave of your senses?” cried Corba.
Esclarmonde led Corba on a breathless run across the brow of the hill and down a path overgrown with bramble. It had taken all of her talent for deception to convince Roger to allow them to accompany the hunt. He had relented only after concluding that they would be less likely to get into trouble under his watch. Little did he know that she secretly promoted these excursions to escape his smothering supervision. If the buck made it to the river, she would have at most an hour of freedom. She was not about to allow Corba’s plodding to cause her to miss the adventure that she had so cleverly contrived. After several false turns, she followed the circling jackdaws and retracted the familiar tangle of briars that covered the entrance to Lombrives cave.
Corba’s eyes bulged in protest. “No!”
“I’ll go alone.”
Corba feared the wild beasts in these woods even more than the creatures that inhabited Lombrives’s vast antediluvian world of chasms and grottes. She kicked the ground in anger at being taken hostage by trickery. “Only as far as the first chamber.”
Esclarmonde found the sack of flints and tinder that she had buried after their last excursion. After several striking attempts, she lit the torch.
“What is it you expect to find in there?” asked Corba.
Esclarmonde waved the flame at her. “The Devil’s tail.”
“Stop it!”
Esclarmonde placated her balky friend with a calculated hug. “It’s the only diversion we enjoy. Please?”
“Your silk bliaut,” demanded Corba. “At next month’s court.”
“You cannot possibly fit into—” When Corba launched upon a determined retreat, Esclarmonde relented grudgingly. “One night!”
With the bargain struck, she coaxed Corba a few steps deeper into the dark recesses, far enough to dispense with the bribes. After several minutes of groping along the narrow walls, they came to an almond-shaped rotunda that was large enough to hold St. Volusien’s Church. The chamber’s slimy floor was pocked with depressions that held pools of dripping water. Several galleries branched out from its perimeter. In the center of the chamber stood a giant stalagmite with its core carved out to form a perching seat.
Esclarmonde climbed atop the stalagmite and sat on its niche. Four years ago, her father had brought her here for the first time to visit the abode of the woman who gave a name to these mountains. “This was Pyrene’s throne. Formed from her frozen tears. She died of grief when Hercules cast her aside.”
“Lesson finished,” said Corba. “Now let’s get out of here.”
In a musing mood, Esclarmonde nestled deeper into the arch. She pulled out the penknife kept in her belt purse and began carving words into the stalagmite’s crystallized facing. “Do you think I’ll ever see him again?”
“You’ll end up worse than Pyrene if you keep talking about that monk,” scolded Corba. “Must you always want what you can’t have?”
“Templars can leave the Order.”
“In a coffin! Beside, he wouldn’t make a decent husband. All he knows is fighting. And have you forgotten that he dismissed you as a trifling filly?”
In the days since their encounter at the court two weeks ago, Esclarmonde had fantasized about surrendering to the Templar’s embrace. “He may be reticent in showing affection, but he knows how to reach a woman’s heart. That is more than—”
“Be quiet!” Corba searched the cavern. “Someone could hear you!”
“Yes, the entire kingdom of cave knights and damsels are listening to my every word.” Esclarmonde stood atop the imaginary dais to address her subjects. “Hear ye one and all, I pronounce my love for the Templar Montanhagol. I shall turn him into a troubadour and—” Something dissonant in the corner of the chamber crossed her line of vision: A ladder reached to an upper ledge.
Corba read her mind. “I forbid you!”
Esclarmonde couldn’t recall seeing the crude construction of poles on her last visit. Armed with the torch, she leapt down and began scaling the rungs. Corba had no choice but to follow. Halfway up, she slipped and groped for Esclarmonde’s foot, nearly dragging her down. Esclarmonde firmed her hold and pulled Corba to the ledge. She waved the flame for more light.
A herd of mammoths, reindeer, and hyenas rushed at the girls.
Esclarmonde stifled a shriek. After regaining her breath, she inched closer and found that the walls were covered with paintings in charcoal and red ochre. Smudged by centuries of smoke, the drawings depicted animals being expelled from what looked like a giant birth canal. She came nearer and stepped on something brittle and serrated.
Human skulls and bones.
The girls were too frightened to make a sound. The ossified remains of ten bodies were embedded into the limestone floor. Their bones radiated out like the spokes of a wheel and their heads met at the hub. A slab set upon two large stones held a skull whose jaws were stretched open in a final torment. On the wall was carved a cross with one vertical line and three horizontal bars, each longer than the one above it. Nearby, a stone lamp sizzled with grease fat.
“I want to get out of here,” cried Corba. “Now!”
Cat-like eyes rimmed in red pierced the darkness. Hobbling into the dim light came a frail old man with flowing white hair and temples webbed with fine purple lines like those of a drained cadaver. His lean face possessed a sharp patrician nose, tremulous gray lips, and sallow skin that hinted at the eastern regions of the world. He wore a frayed black robe tied at the waist with a link belt of alternating silver circles and squares. Armed with a root staff for support, he could have passed for a resurrected Merlin.
Hands reached out from behind the girls and covered their mouths.
The old man raised a finger to his lips to beg their silence. From the shadows emerged a dozen men and women, emaciated and clad in ratty black robes. Their bare feet were bloodied and ulcerated, and their haggard faces, pinched with rheumy eyes and jutting cheekbones, were so pale from lack of sun that they resembled the chalked masks worn in theatricals to evoke the underworld. A smattering of coughs grew into a chorus of diseased hacking. For a fleeting moment, Esclarmonde thought she saw a flash of golden light around their heads similar to the halos she had seen painted on icons.
The old man lowered himself to his knees and ran his palsied hand across the calcified bones. “The Romans walled up the entrances to starve them.”
“My brother is the Count of Foix!” Esclarmonde affected as much false bravado as she could muster. “If you harm us, you’ll be sorry!”
The man remained transfixed on the bones. “The Druids knew the secrets.”
“What secrets?” Esclarmonde demanded.
Eyes welling, the man shook his head in heavy sadness. “This is the fate of those who seek to preserve the sacred mysteries.” He looked up and studied Esclarmonde from head to foot, but also seemed to look past her, boring into another realm of her being. He suddenly brightened and held his hands over her head in a form of benediction. “Behold the Light of the World.”
The old man’s accomplices dropped to their knees in homage.
Esclarmonde exchanged an amazed glance with Corba. How did this man know her name and its meaning?
“You shall help lead our people to the Kingdom,” he said.
Esclarmonde’s body tingled with a pulsing heat. Dizzied, she lost her b
alance and nearly stumbled from a deep sense of terror. She could not tell how or why, but she knew that something had shifted in the instant that it had taken the old man to make that pronouncement. Corba gazed quizzically at her as if she too had sensed the transformation.
“I am Guilbert de Castres. Bishop of the Cathars.”
Corba screamed and crawled for the ladder. “Heretics! They’ll eat us alive!”
Esclarmonde captured Corba’s arm to keep her close. The priests had warned them never to come in contact with these agents of Satan who preyed about in the mountains. Cathars—so named because they claimed to purify themselves with occult rituals that offered necromantic catharsis—came down at night and trolled the villages for weaklings to consume in their demonic orgies. Young girls were particularly susceptible to their snares.
“Don’t be afraid.” Castres offered his upturned palms in a sign of peace. “We harm none of God’s creatures.”
Among these huddling wretches was a waif with bloodless skin and straight black hair, shorn haphazardly. Timid as a field mouse, she lurked behind the others and maintained a keen watch on Esclarmonde with patina-filmed eyes glazed from malnourishment. Castres smiled paternally and motioned her forward. She was gauze-like in her ethereal presence; an angel would have had more substance. She was clearly cherished by her fellow refugees, who watched her every move with evident pride. She kissed Esclarmonde on the cheek in a gesture that seemed a form of ritual, then hurried back to her comrades.
“Phillipa studies to become one of our priestesses,” said Castres.
“A nun?” asked Esclarmonde.
“We call our female initiates ‘perfectas,’” said Castres. “Pure Ladies. They conduct our rites with the same authority possessed by men.”
Esclarmonde found it suspicious that these heretics allowed females to lead their worship. No doubt it was one of their tricks of temptation. In more of a challenge than a question, she asked, “You ordain women?”
