by Glen Craney
Guilhelm gently braced a hand against her back to steady her, ensuring for her peace of mind that the other Cathars did not witness the gesture of intimacy. He assisted the Marquessa and the two girls to the allures to allow them to see the fruits of their bravery. “These lasses, not God, gave you the miracle. But the Lion will return.”
That prediction dashed Esclarmonde’s hope for an end to their travails. “Then we have accomplished nothing.”
“We’ve gained time,” said Guilhelm. “That is victory enough for this day. The Lion will limp back to Carcassonne for the winter to lick his wounds.”
Esclarmonde could find little to celebrate in the temporary respite. She muttered to herself in despair, “This war will never end.”
Guilhelm was not one to sweeten bitter medicine to ease its consumption. “If your brother does not find an ally, it will end sooner than you wish.”
“Is there no one who can turn back that bloodthirsty man?”
The Marquessa overheard Guilhelm’s dark prognostication. With her pensive gaze set on the distant crests, she challenged him with a prediction. “There is one who can ... the Hammer of the Moors.”
Guilhelm shook his head to dismiss such foolishness. “The King of Aragon will not cross those mountains again. Not to risk his kingdom to save a few heretics.”
“I know him better than you do,” insisted the Marquessa. “He is of my generation. He can be brought to our side.”
“Peter is a loyal Catholic,” scoffed Guilhelm. “Besides, he has his hands full fighting the infidels on his own borders. What could possibly entice him to bring his army to Occitania?”
The Marquessa glanced speculatively at Esclarmonde as if sharing a mysterious knowledge that only women could comprehend. “In his youth, the King was possessed by two passions,” said the matriarch. “He could never keep a dry eye on hearing a well-phrased verse.”
“And the second?” asked Guilhelm.
The Marquessa’s gray eyes smoldered with a plan. “A certain chatelaine of great beauty who lived in Cabaret.”
Just as in a candle flame, the obscure light at the bottom adheres close to the wick, without which it cannot be. When fully kindled, it becomes a throne for the white light above it, and when these two come into their full glow, the white light becomes a throne for a Light not wholly discernible.
- The Zohar, Kabbalah
XXVI
Aragon
October 1212
Esclarmonde climbed atop a high scarp worn smooth by centuries of pilgrims who had fallen to their knees in prayer after surviving the Pyrenees on their way to Santiago de Compostela. Thrilled to find España’s fertile plains spread before her, she dropped her hood and basked in an arid breeze redolent with the bloom of autumn oranges. Guilhelm did not stop to share her exultation but continued his descent into the Aragon foothills, cautiously guiding her black meren jennet through the tufts of blue thistles. He had said little during their strenuous two-week trek through the Ariege gorge and across the high ranges, where they had found shelter in the primitive refugios that bordered Andorra’s chain of crystal lakes.
Esclarmonde allowed her imagination to evoke the many celebrated personages who had trudged this ancient route: Julius Caesar rushing his legions to the Ebro river to subdue Pompey; Hannibal and his African elephants slipping through the pass to reach the back door of Italy; Roland and Oliver trading chansons de gestes on their campaigns against the Moors. According to legend, so many pagans and Christians after them had trampled though this defile that the dust raised by their feet had formed the Milky Way. Young couples in particular were drawn to the pilgrimage; a bounty of children was promised to those who reached the end of Creation on the Galician shores and gathered the scallop shells held sacred by the goddess Venus.
She studied Guilhelm and wondered if he too saw the irony in their circumstance. Both were sworn to celibacy. Yet here they were, treading together a path that promoted fertility. At times she wondered if God became so despondent over the world’s misery that He contrived such mismatched adventures for His distraction. Since his contretemps during the Foix siege, Guilhelm had not spoken of her attempted tryst with Folques. His silence was more unbearable than open recrimination, for she could not determine if he had forgiven her or was so heart-injured that he had locked the pain within. She dared not broach the matter now, when they were so near their destination. It had taken all of her talents for persuasion just to win his escort. She caught up with him and tried to coax a conversation. “Guilhelm, do you think you’ve lived before?”
He turned on her with a look that hovered between astonishment and harsh dismissal. “Has the elevation made you light-headed?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve not thought about it. Who were you? Caesar? No, you brood more like Brutus.”
“Was he the one that bedded that Egyptian harlot?”
The quip stung Esclarmonde like the asp that killed Cleopatra. She knew the allusion was meant to suggest that she was loose with her virtue. “She was only trying to save her kingdom from the domination of insipid men.”
“And did she succeed?” he asked, knowing the answer.
Esclarmonde was stopped speechless. What an infuriating man he could be at times! How was she expected to argue with such a cynic who held fast to no creed? The Cistercians could be cornered into their blind wynds of flawed logic, but Guilhelm never took a rooted stance, contending in philosophy with the same shifting tactics that he adopted in combat. She tried to outflank him with another approach. “Do you believe that God is just?”
He studied her like a chess player trying to predict an opponent’s next move. “What does the great polemicist of Pamiers believe?”
“You dodge and weave like a Paris juggler on ice. Humor me this once.”
“Is God just?” He ruminated for a moment. “Efficient, perhaps.”
She licked her lips in anticipation, having exposed his board queen to her strength—a discussion of theology. “Can God be both just and inefficient? If the world does not work in accordance with divine law, is not unmerited suffering the inevitable result?”
“What is your point?”
“Cleopatra sacrificed her body to save her people. Yet the Egyptians did not claim her to be their risen god. The only difference I see between Cleopatra and the Roman version of Christ is that she was a woman and He was a man.”
“What does that have to do with what we were just talking about?”
Nothing at all, she conceded to herself. But she was still smarting from his barb hinting at her compromised chastity. Now that her feint had thrown him off balance, she was in a better frame of mind to resume their game. “Would you send off a squire under your instruction to fire one practice arrow, then judge him for the rest of eternity on the merits of that single shot?”
“Of course not.”
“Why then would God allow us only one chance at salvation?”
Guilhelm screwed his eyes into a mental clench. “You deem it a tragedy to be returned to this world. The Pope declares it an abomination to believe that a soul would transmigrate and take on flesh again. What if both of you are wrong? If we are returned here again and again, might it not be a blessing?”
Esclarmonde laughed from astoundment. “If one of us suffers from the thin air, it’s certainly not me. Why would you want to relive—”
“Hear me out, woman! You ask my opinion, and before I manage half a thought, you dismiss it. You are as pig-headed as the Pope!”
She affected mock injury. “You’ll pay for that slander.”
He displayed the back of his good hand. “Slap it.”
“I certainly will not!”
“Ah, I forgot about your pacifist vows. No loss. You wouldn’t be quick enough anyway, being a woman and—”
She punished his wrist with a darting smack and followed it up with a lording smirk. “How’s that for womanly quickness?”
Her alacrity did not elicit the expected response. G
uilhelm gently took her hand in a gesture of conciliation. Moved by his plea for clemency, she arched her wrist to receive the courtesy, impressed by how far he had come since that first day in the court of love. Indeed, her companionship seemed to have had a rather salutatory effect on his manners. She closed her eyes to savor the full effect of the kiss and—“Ouch!” She yelped from the sting of his retaliating slap. Her eyes flew open and examined with horror the red contusion that had been raised on her wrist. “Why in blood’s name did you—”
“How did that feel?”
“How do you think it felt?” she snapped.
“Would you have empathy for the pain had you not received it in turn?”
“So, you champion an eye for an eye? What did that ever solve?”
He captured her hand again, this time calming her flinch and rubbing away the lingering discomfort. “Have you considered the possibility that both you and the Pope misinterpret the Old Testament? Perhaps the eye for an eye is not demanded in the same lifetime. Perhaps one must return to this world to experience the same injury to understand his error? You consider suffering unjust only because you don’t remember inflicting it on others.”
“That is absurd.”
“You insist that God is efficient. What would be the most efficient way of teaching people to do unto others as you would have them do unto you?”
“Tell me, oh Master Abelard.”
“If the Cistercians knew that they would suffer the pyre in the next incarnation, would they be so hell-bent on inflicting their mayhem? You and the Pope are not so different. He wants to ascend to Paradise and sit in Abraham’s lap. You want to escape to some elusive realm you call the Light. Each of you hates this world in your own spiteful way. Perhaps the most just and efficient result would be for you and Innocent to exchange places in the next life.”
She could not determine which had shaken her more: his assault on her hand—which seemed motivated by more than just education—or his searing condemnation of her faith. Was it any wonder that all three estates despised the arrogance of Templars? He may have abandoned the Order, but he had not forsworn its condescending method of discourse. Yet she had undergone sufficient introspection of her own soul to admit that she had goaded him into the challenge. He had reason to be cross with her; she had cost him years of misery and humiliation under de Montfort’s heel. If she could not accept his criticism with good grace, then in truth she was no better than the Roman pontiff. Finding him stewing, perhaps even a bit regretful of his outburst, she resolved to change the subject. “When will we reach the King’s palace?”
“Within the week, provided the Caliph’s scouts don’t find us first.”
That was not the question to brighten his mood. He was still in a foul temper over her refusal to heed his counsel against making the journey. King Peter of Aragon had defeated the Moors three months earlier in a decisive battle at Las Navas de Tolosa, but these frontiers were still infested with infidel marauders who made their living selling Christian captives to the North African slave markets. She resorted to another tact to tease away his grumpiness. “Didn’t you once suggest we run away together to a foreign land?”
“I proposed a locale far from Rome’s reach. You have led us into the very cauldron of its devotion. If you think de Montfort and the Cistercians are fanatics, wait until you deal with these Spaniards.”
“King Peter arranged the marriage of his sister to an excommunicate,” she reminded him. “How devoted to Rome can he be?”
“He has also bonded his son’s future marriage to de Montfort’s daughter. He plays both sides.”
Esclarmonde shook her head in exasperation. She had always found it nigh impossible to unravel the intricate bonds of vassalage that webbed the Languedoc. Nor could she understand how in statecraft, unlike in love, fealty could be multiplied and divided without apparent impairment. The Count of Toulouse was cousin to King Philip of France and brother-in-law to Peter of Aragon. The House of Foix thus owed allegiance to Toulouse and Aragon and possessed the right to seek redress and protection from both. Yet these two domains separated by the mountains were ancient enemies, a harsh reality that rendered all the more difficult her plan to yoke them as allies to save Occitania. The Cistercian war had dragged on for another year. De Montfort had intensified his savagery, massacring the populations in Mossaic and Mountabon and drawing her brother into a costly battle at Castelnaudry. If she failed to convince the Aragon monarch to take up their cause, it would be only months before Foix and Montsegur were also lost. Guilhelm lifted her to the saddle and led her palfrey down into sloping fields striped by rows of olive groves. Sensing that he had become more restless than usual, she risked another question. “Is there something besides brigands that worries you?”
“Alcaniz is governed by the Order of Calatrava,” he said. “The Spanish caballeros despise Templars.”
“Both are Christian orders. Do they not abide by the same ideals?”
“Years ago, the kings of Aragon and Castile placed their possessions under the Temple’s protection,” he said. “When the Moors sent reinforcements from Africa, my Master recalled our brothers to France rather than defend the castles. After that treachery, the Spanish kings formed their own military orders and vowed to never again trust the Temple.”
“Will you be in danger?”
“Only if they discover my affiliation.”
“Is there anyone in Peter’s court who might recognize you?”
“To my knowledge, no.”
“Then you fret needlessly,” she assured him. “No one would ever suspect a Templar of escorting a heretic lady across the mountains.”
The white-mantled Knights of Calatrava greeted Esclarmonde with glares of contempt as she entered their headquarters, the Encomedia of Alcaniz, an austere fastness that sat on a sunbaked hill overlooking the Guadalope river and the trade road from Barcelona to Toledo. The ancient palace’s latticed stucco walls were studded with the black hammered armor of these caballeros so feared by the Saracens.
To her relief, King Peter did not share in the cold greeting. He broke a wide grin and rushed to her with open arms. “My lady, it gladdens my heart to see you in good health.” He was surprised to find her accompanied by a man not attired in the black robes of her Cathar faith. “Do I know you, sir?”
“I was at Carcassonne,” said Guilhelm vaguely, eager to avoid the subject.
Peter’s face darkened at the mention of Trencavel’s lost city. “You were fortunate to escape that infernal pit. The foolish lad would not heed my counsel.”
“He refused to abandon his people,” reminded Esclarmonde.
Peter brushed aside their disagreement on the murdered viscount’s virtues as no longer worthy of his attention. “I have been in the field fighting the Almohads. What is the news from the Languedoc?”
“De Montfort prosecutes a reign of terror with a savagery never before witnessed in a Christian district,” said Esclarmonde.
The King was distressed by that unexpected report. “My eldest son resides with the man. I was told by the monk Guzman that the Norman was merely cleaning up a few rebellious enclaves.”
Pierre Vidal, the most senior troubadour in the Aragon court, limped forward and genuflected with difficulty to Esclarmonde. “The lady speaks true, my liege.” Vidal’s voice was still as mellifluous as she remembered it from her youth, but there was now an odd thickness in the way he pronounced his words. “Last year, I saw with my own eyes the Lion’s depravities in Toulouse.”
The King detected Esclarmonde’s distraction. “Our good friend here suffered the worst calamity that could befall a member of his profession. A married lady fell in love with the cleverness of his tongue.”
“That is no mark against a man of song,” protested Esclarmonde.
“The lady’s betrothed did not see it that way,” said the King. “My physician reattached the appendage. He now warbles again like a spring robin.”
“My gracious benefactor
took pity on me,” said Vidal.
Esclarmonde looked across the hall and recognized several former dignitaries of the singing guild. “My lord, it appears you’ve given refuge to every troubadour who once traveled my homeland.” She offered her hand in greeting to an aged but still-handsome bard whose most prominent feature was a perpetual grin of mischief. She laughed in delight, thrilled to make the reacquaintance of the only Occitan singer so famous that he was referred to by the name of his Provence home. “You, Miraval, I shall never forget.”
King Peter arched with a loud guffaw. “My lady, you are much too young to remember this old bag of pipes!”
The Calatravans, seeing how Esclarmonde’s arrival had exalted their monarch into such high spirits, eased the severity of their martial stances. She could not remember the last time she had enjoyed the warmth of such a well-appointed court. When Miraval kissed her hand, she felt transported as if a maiden back to the love courts. She giggled girlishly and in a good-natured taunt reminded him, “My father oft spoke of his rival.”
Miraval surrendered a bemused confession. “The Count of Foix and I were hot-blooded jeune hommes, held in thrall by the unrivaled beauty of your mother. You have her high cheeks and alluring eyes.”
The King saw that Miraval’s last observation had chased Esclarmonde’s good cheer. “Is your mother not well?”
“She was last seen near death in de Montfort’s dungeon.” She blinked back tears. “There is a saying in our land, my lord. When your neighbor’s walls are on fire, your own property shall soon burn.”
Before the King could offer his condolences, a shout from the entrance interrupted their shared moment of grief. “Fire shall be the fate of any who traffics with this heretic woman!” Peter and his knights turned toward the doors and found the Bishop of Toulouse blustering into the hall with a claque of sour-faced canons from Dominic’s parish in Castile.
Esclarmonde shot a consternated glance at Guilhelm. How had Folques learned of their decision to come to Aragon? Did the Cistercian spies deduce it from her absence? Worse even, could the Calatravans have sent copies of her correspondence with Peter to Citeaux?
