The Fire and the Light

by Glen Craney

  Convulsing in death, Baroche muttered, “Blachernae.”

  Guilhelm signed the brother to his salvation. He looked toward the looming citadel that sat in the far northwest corner of the city. The isolated fortress stood at the opposite end from the Boucoleon Palace and the Hagia Sophia.

  Why Blachernae?

  Blachernae Palace, the fortified summer residence of the Emperor, appeared abandoned. Only the gurgle of a distant fountain broke the eerie silence in this magnificent edifice of red brick and granite, designed as an escape into a world indifferent to the travails of mortals. Guilhelm passed through the gold-gilt gates and walked from opulent apartment to apartment, all interconnected by labyrinthine galleries lavished with crystal chandeliers, arras-hung walls, tesserae ceilings, and marbled mosaics. A bowl of ripe pomegranates sat on a table. He tasted one to savor its sweet juices.

  A distant patter of footsteps reverberated down the polished floors.

  He quickly skulked behind a fluted colonnade with a hand on his sword. The echoing steps, light and swift, became louder. Had the Warings returned to defend the palace? No, the feet sounded too feminine and softly sandaled. Royal eunuchs, most likely. Even with their loss of manhood, eunuchs could be dastardly creatures, for they were trained to foil assassins with the use of their hands alone. He might take a couple of them down, but if they shot upon him like wasps, his armor would be his coffin. His only hope lay in their deeply inculcated fear of Franks. The emperors had warned them that the foreigners from the West would debauch them in heinous ways. With a fortifying breath, he raised his sword quietly and leapt into the hall.

  Crouched and at the ready, he rounded his eyes wide as platters and contorted his face in the most fearsome mask of devilry that he could summon. He blinked in astonishment. Were those pomegranates laced with a narcotic poison to foil intruders? Or was he losing his mind before giving up his spirit?

  Before him stood a menagerie of bizarre animals, as surprised to see him as he was to confront them. The motley herd was led by a pony striped in black and white. At its side was a miniature elephant with a horn protruding from the center of its forehead like a unicorn. Hovering above all of these cross-bred beasts of Satan stood a frightful creature with a neck as long as a jousting lance and legs so slender and fragile that they seemed incapable of holding up the torso. Another quadruped possessed the head of a deer atop the body of a giant rabbit; the most unsettling of its aspects was the succubi twin of itself that it carried in a pouch hanging under its stomach. Below the undergird of these monstrosities paraded a gaggle of queer birds with fanning feathers that held dozens of unblinking blue eyes.

  His reverie at the Emperor’s escaped collection of exotic animals was interrupted by a woman’s scream from a far chamber. The spooked creatures erupted and scurried past him in a stampede. He recovered from the near-trampling and followed the screams to a chapel. He rammed open its burnished doors.

  A crusader had his hand clasped over the mouth of a comely blonde lady and was preparing to ravish her. The lusting Frank pinned his frightened captive against the altar and sliced away the tressings of her bodice.

  Guilhelm calculated that he could not rescue the woman without risking her throat being cut. “Perhaps you should take her to another chamber.”

  Desperate for his intervention, the lady sank in despair.

  The Frank laughed demonically and dug another lascivious bite into the lady’s pale neck. “What difference where I have her?”

  “The Virgin looks down upon you,” said Guilhelm.

  The Frank glanced up at an icon of the Blessed Mother on the balustrade. With a curse of annoyance, he dragged his conquest down the aisle and into an antechamber. Having escaped the Virgin’s judging glare, he renewed his assault on the lady by shredding her blouse to expose her alabaster shoulders. He found Guilhelm still watching him. “Why don’t you go find your own?”

  Guilhelm’s vows forbade the taking of a life within an arm’s reach of a holy sanctum. He had to lure the man a few steps closer. “I passed the Emperor’s bedchamber down the hall. Think of the story you could tell.”

  The Frank traced the point of his blade across the lady’s breast, drawing a slender line of blood. “When I’m done with her, I’m going to cut off your balls and hang them from your ears. Think of the story you’ll tell.”

  “Have you forgotten you’re a Christian?” Guilhelm slid his sword across the marbled floor and raised his hands in a gesture of pacific intent to coax the knight nearer. “Are you all cock and no blade?”

  The Frank threw the lady aside and charged at him. “Damn your wagging tongue! I’ll have your name before I carve you up!”

  When the crusader crossed the chapel’s threshold, Guilhelm whipped the dagger from under his hauberk and skewered the man in the gut. Eyes bulging, the Frank buckled to his knees. Guilhelm twisted the blade as he whispered into the crusader’s ear, “Since you asked so graciously, the name is Montanhagol the Templar. Where you now go, they will know it well. I’ve dispatched many a deserving resident to its heated lodging.”

  A bubble of blood gurgled up from the corner of the dying man’s mouth. He looked up in disbelief at Guilhelm’s unmarked tunic as if protesting that some law of required identity had been breached.

  Released, the lady covered her nakedness with her torn blouse and studied Guilhelm intently. “So, there is a rose among the Latin thorns.”

  Guilhelm was surprised to hear a Greek woman speak fluent French.

  “I am Mary Margaret of Hungary.”

  Stunned, Guilhelm bent a knee to give courtesy to the wife of the Emperor. “My lady, why have you been left here unattended?”

  “The Warings have sold their loyalty to the usurper. They blinded my husband and strangled my son.”

  “I must escort you to safety at once.”

  “I would only be hunted down and married off again.” She waited as if expecting something more from him. “You said you were a Templar. Do you not have an indication for me?”

  “An indication?” he asked, perplexed.

  The Empress placed a finger to her attacker’s jugular to make certain he was dead. Reassured, she circled Guilhelm and tried to make sense of his apparent lack of knowledge about her mission. “I have been in clandestine communication with your superiors. A meeting was to take place in this chapel. A sign was agreed upon. Are you not the one sent?”

  “I was ordered here by a brother who met his Maker this day.”

  The Empress lowered her head in prayer for Baroche’s soul. “Did he reveal to you his purpose in coming to Constantinople?”

  “Only that he sought to save possessions of great value.”

  The Empress debated whether she could trust him. The Venetians were notorious for subterfuge. The Doge may have assassinated her Templar contact and sent an imposter in his stead. Yet she had no choice. The Franks would soon be swarming the citadel in the thousands. She led Guilhelm into the chapel and barred its doors, then drew a key from her bodice and retracted a curtain that hung behind the altar. From its recesses she brought forth a glass-encased reliquary that was half the size of a shield. The ancient container rested on a slender stone cask annealed and blackened by age.

  Guilhelm was dropped to his knees by an ineffable force. Under the reliquary’s pane was a fragile cloth that held the image of a bearded man. The sepia lines of its features seemed burned into the linen and its eyes were closed in repose after suffering some unspeakable torture. Guilhelm felt compelled to shield his gaze. “What is this countenance that bears down on me?”

  “The Mandylion Shroud. It rests on the Keramion, the cup that held Our Lord’s blood.”

  Guilhelm had heard stories in Jerusalem about the precious syndoine that had been wrapped around Our Lord after His death and resurrection. “I was told the holy cloth was kept in Santa Sophia for all to see.”

  “Your fellow Latins are wrangling over that forgery as we speak.”

  “I’m no
t worthy to be in its presence.”

  “You are, or you would not have been led here.” She delivered the relics into his possession. “Take them. Before Rome’s agents discover them here.”

  “Take them where?”

  The Empress stared into his eyes as if reading his soul. “You are a Templar sworn to celibacy. And yet there is a woman in your heart.”

  Guilhelm felt more exposed than if he had been stripped naked. “How do you know this?”

  “You must return to her at once. The lady requires your aid. She will take my place as guardian of these precious remembrances of Our Lord’s Light.”

  Alarums sounded outside the palace followed by the familiar smell of pillaging smoke. The Franks had arrived and were searching for loot.

  The Empress rushed Guilhelm through a side portal and down a hidden staircase. “There is little time.”

  “But your safety—”

  “Is in God’s hands. As my life’s purpose is now in yours.” She led him to a faux door that opened to a descending tunnel. “The cisterns lead to the port of Eleutherius.” She removed a signet ring from her finger and handed it to him. “Display this to the harbor commander. He will provide you safe passage.”

  Two steps down into the passageway, Guilhelm turned back. “The brother also spoke of a manuscript.”

  “The scroll was taken from here years ago. If you are meant to find it, the Mandylion and the Cup will lead you to it. Together, the relics and the scroll unlock a hidden truth that must be preserved at all cost.” She placed her palm to his forehead in a blessing. “May God go with you.”

  ... Lord, sometimes you urge us on toward the Kingdom of Heaven, but at other times you turn us away. Sometimes you encourage us, draw us toward faith, and promise life, but at other times you throw us out ...

  - The Secret Book of James

  XIV

  Gascony

  January 1205

  Jourdaine arose naked from the bed and stood staring at the spent embers in the hearth. After several minutes of debate, he said without turning, “I will have an annulment. The petition will be sponsored by the Bishop of Bordeaux and sent to Rome with your affidavit of acceptance.”

  Was he testing her? Esclarmonde chose to feign dismay, fearful that any display of hope might cause him to retract his decision. “On what grounds?”

  “Grounds? Has your head turned as useless as your womb?”

  “I have acceded to your desires.”

  “With all of the fervency of a tenant paying arrears. You avoid taking pleasure in the act to deny me a son.”

  She had long since become accustomed to his penchant for latching upon new superstitions to explain her failings, but this latest claim was so preposterous that in the heat of outrage she unwittingly abandoned her plan to lure him into carrying out the threat. “You cannot believe that inanity!”

  “The physicians say that the Almighty gave women rapacious lust so they would strive to be filled with the perfection of man.”

  “Leeches and coffin robbers! What do they know about women?”

  “Bruys of Toulouse once opened the entrails of a childless hag. Her canal had become shriveled because of her incessant frowning.”

  Esclarmonde leapt from the bed to confront him. “Perhaps if that blood-letter had split his own gut, he too would fail to peal with laughter. Your priests tell us it is a sin to take pleasure. Now your doctors tell us it is an impediment. What are we to do but ignore—” She caught herself, too late.

  The flame’s inconstant light glinted in Jourdaine’s malefic eyes. “Limp rag! I’ll soon be rid of that wagging tongue!”

  She braced for the blow, even wished for it. One last beating would be a small price to seal his impetuous demand to end their marriage. But this time he held back his fist. Why does he not strike? She thrust out her chin to taunt him. “Take your leave from me, then! You’ve cost me the best years of my life!” When he merely grinned, she realized that she had just forfeited what small advantage she had held in the negotiation. Even Jourdaine was clever enough to know that most women, no matter how wretched their lot, would cling to a marriage rather than face the ignominy of being turned out on the charge of a fruitless womb. He was prepared to offer her concessions, but she had revealed her willingness to agree to the annulment too soon.

  “Sign Montsegur to me,” he said, “and you will be free to go.”

  “That land was my dowry! By law I am entitled to retain it!”

  “Consider it recompense for the misery you’ve caused me.”

  “You will not steal that mount!”

  He drove her into the wall. “Scheming wench! You accuse me of thievery?” He pinned her to the floor and forced the quill into her hand.

  Crushed under his weight, her mind flooded with visions of home. She could live with Phillipa and the Marquessa, never again to be a victim to his violence. All that was required was this one stroke. She tried to focus her eyes on the terms of dissolution—and flung the quill across the room. Enraged, he drove a fist into her stomach. Something inside her broke apart. The blows came so fast that she was certain this would be the end. “I’ll deny it’s mine!”

  He forced her to scratch out a line. “Don’t you see that de Montfort has witnessed your signing?” He play-acted as if his old comrade was testifying. “What say you, Simon? Did she not rush to pack her bags?” Satisfied with her signature’s look of authenticity, he fell back into the bed and guttered the candle. “Fetch me some wine from the cellar. We’ll toast our parting.”

  Esclarmonde spat blood as she crawled away in the darkness. She was fearful of what he would do to her if she passed out. She groped for the hinges—the door creaked open of its own accord. She tried to look up to find the source of the movement, but she was overcome by the sickening blackness.

  A trencher clanked on the table next to the bed.

  “You move quickly enough with a little encouragement.” Jourdaine took a hearty swig. His eyes widened from a hellish stench. He spewed the contents of the trencher and stumbled across the room to light a taper.

  The chamber pot was overturned.

  “Poisoning shrew!” He kicked at the darkness with offal drooling down his chin and found her sprawled near the door. He was about to finish her with a stomp to the head when an apparition appeared above the hearth:

  The Face of Our Lord Jesus Christ looked down upon him.

  The Holy Countenance, shimmering in shades of blue and red, approached him with eyes closed in harsh judgment. Jourdaine fell back upon his haunches, but the avenging ghost continued to stalk him. “Call it off!” Jourdaine pressed his hands together in desperate supplication—until a sharpness nicked his throat. “St. Michael spare me! I’ve fought the infidel!” The tip of a sword came under his Adam’s apple. In the dim light, he saw a red cross—followed by a second face more menacing than the first. He lunged at his old nemesis, but the blade aborted his attack. He was lifted and driven toward the spectre that had been levitating—the necromantic face was encased in glass. He spat at Guilhelm. “I was told you lay under a heap of Greek stones.”

  “It was a near enough thing,” said Guilhelm. “But God grants all who take the Cross one boon before leaving this world. He has fulfilled half of mine this night. My next meeting with de Montfort will make it complete.” He stifled Jourdaine’s attempt to call his guard with a sharp turn of the blade. “He’s out searching for your horses.”

  Jourdaine’s neck was strained to its limit. “Take her and be gone!”

  “I see you’ve been practicing your martial skills since last we met.” Guilhelm offered his raised jaw as a target. “Have at me.”

  The sword thwarted Jourdaine’s advance. “Fight me fairly!”

  “Fairly? Like you fought her?”

  Jourdaine’s throat was streaked with blood. “You’re gutting me!”

  “Would it help if I put on her nightgown? A more familiar target, perhaps?”

  The blade came peril
ously close to Jourdaine’s jugular. He had no choice but to shred the annulment petition and write new terms.

  Guilhelm dictated to him, “I, Jourdaine L’Isle, do hereby grant—”

  “She grants the dissolution to me!”

  “You’ve acquired quite a familiarity with the law.”

  “The dowry forfeits upon the proof of the wife’s sterility!”

  Guilhelm lowered the weapon to the crease at Jourdaine’s ungirded loins. “And does the law also grant the same right to a wife whose husband is sterile?”

  Jourdaine’s hands were now freed, but he dared not risk a move.

  “Did de Montfort in his many tales of adventure relate to you the manner in which Greek palace boys are rendered eunuchs? The secret is dispatching the appendage slowly. If the cutting is too quick, one bleeds to a slow death.”

  Jourdaine needed no convincing that the Templar would carry out the mutilation. He finished scribbling the terms of the new contract: I hereby attest that during the course of my marriage, I inflicted bodily harm upon my wife. Having caused no progeny to issue, I relinquish all rights to the dowry of Montsegur.

  Guilhelm examined the document and returned it to be signed. The Gascon reluctantly inched the quill toward the signature line and—

  “Guilhelm?”

  Esclarmonde staggered toward him from the shadows. Guilhelm was forced to drop his weapon to prevent her from falling. Catching her, he was straightened by a blow to his shoulders. He fell with her clinging to his neck.

  Jourdaine drove a punishing heel into Guilhelm’s ribs. “I should’ve run you through the first time I laid eyes on your scrawny bones!”

  “No!” Esclarmonde lurched to her knees. “You’ll kill him!”

  “That’s a plan! Yours will come!”