The Fire and the Light

by Glen Craney

  Folques pointed an accusing finger at Esclarmonde. “The surviving child was sired by your dead husband, a fervent Christian! There is no mystery about the fornicator whose seed produced the dead one!”

  Little Loupe latched onto Folques’s leg like a rabid pup. With the gnawing child in tow, Folques limped around the bed filling his scepter with holy water. Before he could dispense the baptismal sacrament, Phillipa rescued the newborn boy from the midwife and ran from the room.

  Two weeks later, Almaric and Folques rode into Foix accompanied by a carriage and twenty armed men. The soldiers set up an inquest dais in front of the church. Almaric mounted the boards and announced to the gathered villagers, “The viscountess of this domain is to be interrogated.”

  Roger emerged from the castle to confront the clerics. “Since when does the Cistercian General concern himself with the birth of a child?”

  “The smallest seed can spawn a field of thistles,” said Almaric.

  Roger assessed the mood of the townsfolk, but few appeared willing to support him in defying the monks. The Abbot’s gendarmes commandeered the women from the chateau. Punished by the hot sun, Esclarmonde feared she might pass out while she rocked her infant boy to sooth his choleric crying. The soldiers led her to a stool that had been placed below the dais. Folques entered the church and removed the small casket that held her stillborn daughter. He set it beyond the borders of consecrated ground.

  Roger tried to put a halt to this base treatment of the child’s remains, but the soldiers forced him back. “My sister is not well. At least allow her to be questioned in the cool of the chapel.”

  “She remains unchurched,” said Folques.

  “I shall endure it,” said Esclarmonde.

  Almaric took his seated station under the shade of the church lintel to satisfy the ecclesiastical requirement that judgment be rendered within sanctified confines. “Do you know why you have been summoned?”

  Esclarmonde stood unsteadily to meet the indictment. “I presume it is because of my lack of good manners in failing to die during childbirth.”

  “You are accused of withholding the sacrament of baptism.” Almaric turned to Folques. “I will hear from the defender of the soul.”

  “Defender?” yelped the Marquessa. “I’d rather the Devil plead the case.”

  Folques circled behind Esclarmonde to avoid the spell of her eyes. “The Devil is much invoked in these parts.”

  Esclarmonde tried to turn and face him, but the effort proved too painful. Near fainting, she fell back onto the stool and found Folques staring at her bodice, which had become wetted by her lactating breasts.

  Folques asked, “Have you ever uttered incantations?”

  “You mean prayers?”

  “I mean scriptural words falsely manipulated.”

  She shuddered with alarm. Had the Cistercians somehow learned of her surreptitious study in Jourdaine’s chapel? No, that was impossible. She had been alone at all times and had told no one. “If that were a crime, you would have hanged by now. Every person here once heard you spew your poesy and seduce maids with words falsely manipulated.”

  “You play with me, woman!”

  The Marquessa shouted, “When it comes to mediating God’s mercy, you merit only playing with!”

  “You may soon alter that opinion ... I call Margery de Santi.”

  The villagers watched in confusion as a foreign-looking woman was led from the carriage and brought before the dais.

  Folques asked the new witness, “Do you know this lady?”

  The woman shot a vengeful sneer at Esclarmonde. “She was the wife of my dead lord, God rest his soul. I served as their laundress in Gascony.”

  “Did you witness her activities when Lord L’Isle was away?” asked Folques.

  “She bade me to leave her alone in the church on certain days. But I watched her from the sacristy window. I knew she was up to no good.”

  “And what did you see?”

  “She stole a book from the priest’s quarters and copied words from it. She wrote them on scraps and whispered them over and over.”

  “And what did she do with those charms?”

  The woman glowered at Esclarmonde with wicked satisfaction. “She threw them into the fire.”

  Perspiration beaded on Esclarmonde’s brow, but she dared not swab it for fear that the act would be seen as a sign of guilt. “I can explain—”

  “The playing has only just begun,” said Folques. “I next call Mary Peraud.”

  The guards prodded up the Foix midwife. She cowered in terror under the stern inspection of the Cistercians.

  “You delivered the dead infant?” asked Folques.

  “And the living one!”

  “Was it an unnatural labor?”

  The midwife hesitated. “It was queered from the start.”

  “Could the infant girl have been saved?”

  “Only if I cut the lady open.”

  “Was that remedy not proposed to the mother?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And she refused? Placing her life before the salvation of the child?”

  The midwife turned toward her fellow villagers to plead the case that she had done nothing wrong. “The viscountess was sufferin’ terrible.”

  Folques reclaimed her attention by pounding his fist on the dais. “Did you mock the Eucharist and draw pentagrams in the birth room?” He nodded ominously in a warning that she had best answer with caution for her own soul.

  “I was taught the way by my grandmother.”

  “Was the boy infant offered the mother’s breast?”

  “He was.”

  “And did he take it?”

  The midwife glanced helplessly at Esclarmonde. “He refuses her milk.”

  “A damning portent!” shouted Folques. “The innocent babe recoils from the tainted nourishment of a murderess!”

  Almaric forced Esclarmonde to suffer the full impact of that mark of culpability. “What say you to this evidence?”

  Starved for sleep, Esclarmonde tried to respond, but her mind was slowed. She had suffered recurring bouts of memory loss during the past weeks. The ravages of the difficult labor and the many blows from Jourdaine’s hand had taken a cumulative toll, dulling her senses and slowing her reactions. She closed her eyes in an effort to marshal her thoughts. “The God I love would not consign innocents to a pit of isolation and abandonment.”

  “All mortals must be baptized by water before they are allowed entry into Heaven,” said Almaric. “All are stained by the sin of Adam and Eve, even children. God’s laws allow no exceptions!”

  “Where in the Scriptures is that stated?”

  “Holy Writ is beyond the understanding of the laity,” said Almaric. “The Holy Father clarifies and mediates God’s Word.”

  “And bends it to his designs,” said Esclarmonde. “This monk who questions me was once a laymen. He took no schooling in theology. How is it that he suddenly gained such insight into God’s opinions?”

  “Blasphemy!” Almaric turned to his notary. “Record it!”

  “Christ never condemned unbaptized children,” said Esclarmonde. “Where is it written that He baptized any children?”

  Almaric glared the murmuring crowd to silence. He had expected insubordination from these primitives, infected as they were by the vilest of beliefs. The heretics taught that only those who fully understood and accepted the teachings of Christ should receive the Holy Spirit. He had been warned that Esclarmonde would attempt to turn the inquest into a debate on scriptural justification. Yet he could not back down now in such a public forum. “Father Augustine affirmed that such infants are relegated to Limbus. There they share the common misery of the damned and are denied the beatific vision.”

  “Did Jesus not say that he who is baptized and believes shall be saved?” she asked. “Infants have not developed the faculty for belief.”

  Cornered, Almaric moved to end the proceedings before she could stir the c
rowd further. “Summarize the evidence!”

  Folques was forced to shout over the protests. “This woman conspired by magical means to remain barren! Her conjuring with the Devil cause her to become seeded with the perverse state of duality!”

  “Rome was founded by twins!” cried Phillipa. “Does all evil then come from that city?”

  Folques spun on Phillipa with an accusing finger. “This woman, a known heretic, conspired with the accused to prevent the baptism!”

  Phillipa saw Esclarmonde stumble and falter. She broke through the cordon of guards to brace her and prevent the child from being dropped.

  Almaric stood and took a halting step on his deformed leg. “It is the finding of this tribunal that the accused—”

  “She must be allowed rebuttal witnesses!” demanded Roger.

  Almaric turned his fearsome glare on Loupe, who stood at her father’s side. “Has this child been baptized?”

  Esclarmonde silently begged Roger to say no more lest he place Loupe in danger. At Phillipa’s insistence, their daughter had not received the Catholic sacrament. For once, Roger acceded to his sister’s better judgment.

  Almaric held no illusion about his chances for proving a charge of heresy against Esclarmonde at a full tribunal in Toulouse. But he wielded another cudgel of punishment, one that would admirably serve his purpose this day. “The unbaptised stillborn is denied burial in sacred ground. The son of the deceased Jourdaine of L’Isle will be taken into this church and christened in the true Apostolic Faith. He shall then be remanded as an oblate to the wardship of the Order of St. Bernard.”

  Esclarmonde rushed the dais. “You’ll not take my child!”

  Folques forced her back. “The baptism will proceed! Or your brother’s child will also be taken into custody!”

  Mad with despair, Esclarmonde fell to her knees shrieking and crying. “I’ve not named him!”

  Folques stole the wailing infant from Phillipa’s fighting grasp. “His surname has been chosen by the Abbot. He will be called Otto L’Isle, after his paternal grandfather.”

  Esclarmonde clawed to break past the guards. “The son must also take the name of the mother’s lineage! It is the law of our people!”

  “He will take the Christian name of his father.” Folques lorded his revenge over her as he cradled the infant to ease its crying. There was justice in God’s wisdom. This child should have been his firstborn. He would raise it as if it were his own.

  Esclarmonde reached Montsegur several hours after midnight. Despite the debilitation of her illness, she climbed the crag with her swaddled dead daughter strapped to her back, forced to stop every few steps to gather strength. She finally reached the approach to the summit and found the small dolmen where she and Guilhelm had first kissed. The moon’s crescent seemed to dip in grief as if to confirm the destined spot. She knelt there and dug a hole with a knife. Coughing back tears, she placed the tiny body into the shallow grave. “The Church does not permit me to give you a name. Forgive me.” She heaved with sobs as she covered the grave with dirt and stones.

  A few steps away, the cliffs fell off sharply. She looked down at the welcoming darkness. What blessed relief it would be to walk away from this world. The night would make it easier. She would be eternally damned, for all suicides were denied Heaven. But at least her baby girl would not be alone. She came to the edge and tried to push off. Do it, coward! Eyes closed, she released her hold on the boulder and—

  Two hands pulled her back.

  “Preparation for death takes a lifetime.” A hoary old man dropped the hood of his black robe, revealing a flowing white beard.

  She fought against his restraint. “Let me die!”

  He held her in his embrace until she calmed. “To seek release from this world is the mark of wisdom. But only if accomplished in the manner that allows one to avoid returning to the flesh.”

  “Who are you?”

  He smiled sadly. “You don’t remember me?”

  The old man’s face suddenly came back to her memory—he was the Cathar bishop she had encountered years ago in Lombrives. “My God ... How did you know I was coming here?”

  Guilbert de Castres led her from the precipice. “There is much suffering in this cracked world. You incarnated into this life to show others the way back to the Light.”

  “My life is in ruins. How could I show a way to anyone?”

  “Our people are prisoners trapped in a dark cave,” said Castres. “Like you, they are disheartened and blinded. Do you offer them a torch and leave them to their blindness? Or do you show them how to strike the flints?”

  Esclarmonde sifted her fevered mind for an answer to the riddle. “The torch would soon go out. They would only be lost again in the darkness.”

  “The Church of Rome begrudges us a few sparks and commands us to be satisfied with the dimness of our existence. The true god, the God of Light, would have us break the bondage to these priests who monopolize the spiritual sun.”

  “What kind of God denies an innocent child entry to Heaven?”

  “The God of Darkness,” he said. “The God of Rome.”

  “How do you know the God of Rome isn’t the beneficent one?”

  “The Master said the Almighty created us in His image. Would a loving father send his son to a brutal death to rectify his own misbegotten creation?”

  “My babe is doomed to Limbus!”

  Castres pressed his palm into the fresh dirt. “No, this precious one has been called home. Be thankful she did not suffer long.”

  “She was sent here to die? Without even taking a breath?”

  “If not for her sacrifice, would you have come to this crisis in your faith?”

  Esclarmonde flushed with hope. If the heretic bishop spoke true, her daughter had not been consigned to perpetual darkness after all. Perhaps the babe’s suffering had not been in vain. As she looked back on her own life, she saw that everything taught by the priests of the Roman Church had caused her only pain and despair.

  “Our sole means of escape from the cycles of incarnation is the gnosis that rids us of ignorance,” said Castres. “Rome insists that blind belief alone will offer us salvation. The Pope spawns sacraments for every occasion and demands remuneration to build his towers of Babylon. But his dogmas and creeds are designed to keep us enslaved.”

  “These mysteries you teach ... Can they give me back my life?”

  “They will bury your old life, not revive it. Our way leads to the ineffable joy sought by the Magi since the beginning of time. But its ascent is difficult and fraught with dangers.”

  Esclarmonde looked toward the rocks, thousands of feet below. Had it not been for this holy man’s intercession, she would be dead. Here, on this pog, her mother had chosen the same path now being offered to her. “My life was meant to end here, on this night. That’s the only thing I know with certainty.”

  “Then end it.”

  “But you said—”

  “Die and be born again in the Light.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “The first step is always the most difficult. You must cast aside the chains of desire and attachment.”

  Esclarmonde hesitated. “There is a man I love.”

  Castres took her hand and led her down the pog. “A greater love exists. I will help you find it.”

  The Lord... allowed us to communicate those divine mysteries, and of that holy Light, to those who are able to receive them. He did not certainly disclose to the many what did not belong to the many.

  - Clement of Alexandria, Stromata

  XVI

  Foix

  April 1206

  Esclarmonde was led blindfolded down a long, descending corridor of uneven steps. After being administered a bitter concoction of belladonna and wolfsbane, she was lowered onto a dank surface that smelled of mold and incense. The swish of robes receded and she heard a heavy slab being slid over her head. Minutes passed, then an hour. Yet she could not be certain of the ti
me; the absence of sound and sight combined with the narcotic effect of the brew skewed her senses.

  Her breath shallowed and quickened. She had spent the past year meditating and fasting in preparation for this night. Thousands of Cathar credentes, or believers, lived in the Languedoc, but only a few had undergone such rigorous training to attain the highest station of their faith. Shivering from the cold, she tried to turn onto her stomach, but the sarcophagus was too narrow. We are exiled from our true home, left helpless to find our way back, trapped in the rotting coffin of our physical sheath. To avoid panicking, she concentrated on a point between her eyes and repeated another tenet of Bishop Castres’s teachings: Seeing involves not seeing something else. Her skin ignited with heat and a disorienting flash was followed by what appeared to be an image of her body hovering above her. The Bishop had instructed her that all mortals were wrapped in a Robe of Light, an invisible spark of the soul from the divine Sun that was often mistaken for an angel by the uninitiated.

  I am not my body. I can see without my eyes.

  She willed her Light Body higher until only a slender cord connected it to her heart. She was suddenly propelled through a swirling vortex of opalescent colors. Before her stood two gold-gilt doors with corners embellished by images of a lion, an eagle, a bull, and a bearded man. The portal opened to a grotto that had been carved into shimmering crystal. A knight with his back to her knelt before an alabaster altar and prayed to the Mandylion shroud.

  The Holy Image on the cloth came alive.

  She was being drawn back into time. She was shown how the frightened Apostles had huddled together in Jerusalem after the crucifixion. In this room of their hiding, Jesus appeared to them in His vitalized Robe of Light. He was blazoned with such blinding illumination that they were required to turn away. The Magdalene placed a linen sydoine over the Master’s emanating face and body to singe His features into the cloth. He removed the imprinted shroud and offered it to His disciples as a remembrance, and then He vanished.

  In a cascade of successive visions, Esclarmonde witnessed how the future of Christianity was set upon an erroneous and disastrous course in the crucial hours after the Master’s return to the Light. Disheartened by His second disappearance, the disciples argued over what they had just witnessed. His brother James and the Magdalene knew that Jesus had come to demonstrate the illusion of the physical body, but Peter and the others insisted that Jesus had been resurrected in the same flesh that had hung on the cross.