by Glen Craney
Blanche circled her nephew with a wilting inspection. “Does the name Raymond de Alfaro mean anything to you?”
Louis crunched on an apple, drawing a nervous flinch from the rattled baron. “The man is one of your vassals, is he not, Raymond?”
“And his kinsman,” reminded Otto.
Perspiration beaded across Raymond’s forehead. “He is, my liege, but—” He took a step back, angling for time.
Otto moved sideways to block the baron’s escape. “Alfaro led the murderers to the church.”
Raymond was spinning from one accusation to the next, his face a kaleidoscope of choler and fear. “By all that I hold sacred—”
Blanche silenced his whimpering with an upturned hand. “An even stranger story has been brought to my attention. One being spread by those debauched bards who infest your land.”
“I don’t listen to the fatuous singers,” said Raymond.
“Perhaps you should,” Blanche advised. “They seem better informed than you about what moves within your borders. There are rumors that the heretics have built a faux Grail castle on Montsegur.”
“Preposterous!” Raymond’s darting eyes were at war with his denial.
Blanche lifted the gold crown from her head and gazed into its gemstones as if divining the future from their prismatic reflections. “What goes on inside that fortress?”
Raymond feigned indifference, his voice flattening. “I have never made it my business to go there.”
Blanche spun the nail of her index finger around the band, generating a grating ring that intensified with each circumnavigation. She asked Otto, “Who commands the defense of the heretic mountain?”
“Raymond de Perella.”
“Do you know the name of the lord who the chroniclers say protects the Grail Castle?” she asked.
“I do not, madam,” said Otto.
“Perilla,” revealed Blanche, her stare opaque.
Otto’s mind raced to catch up with the direction Blanche was headed. “A mere coincidence, I am certain.”
“What does Montsegur mean in Occitan?”
Otto was nonplussed by the similarities Blanche was finding between the Grail legends and the Cathar refuge. “The Mount of Salvation.”
Blanched smiled thinly at Otto’s manifest admiration for the workings of her intellect. She walked over to inspect an arras of gold weave that depicted a maiden protecting a dying unicorn within a walled enclosure. “The troubadours claim that the Grail is protected on a mountain called Montsalvache.”
Intrigued, Louis tossed aside his apple. “What are you getting at, mother?”
Blanche caressed her son’s thick brown hair with loving condescension, resigned to his ignorance in such arcane matters. She resumed her cross-examination of Otto, stealing glances at Raymond to assay his reaction. “The heretics, I am also told, worship a mysterious light on Montsegur. The place is said to be guarded by priestesses who conjure clandestine rituals and spells.”
Otto swallowed slowly in an effort to conceal his uneasiness. Had she stumbled on the mystery that Folques tried to reveal on his deathbed? He was eager to divert her from traveling down this path of inquiry, uncertain where it might lead. He had long dreamed of exposing the secrets held by the Cathars and delivering them to the Holy Father in person. He chose his next words with care. “These cloggers spread all manner of falsehoods. I interrogated one of their witches a few days before the raid on Avignonet.”
Blanche’s gaze flashed hot for a fractured second, but she quickly retreated into a placid comportment. “And what did the woman reveal?”
“She knew nothing of any use.” Otto modulated the feigned insouciance in his voice. “I dare say if anything of import was taking place on that mountain, the woman would have given it up under the lash.” He prayed that the Queen Mother’s inquisitiveness was finally squelched.
Blanche, whose sphinx-like face was rendered even more inscrutable by the thick powder, picked up a viol left by a musician and strummed its strings while pondering what to make of Otto’s marked lack of interest in Montsegur. “Was there not a noble lady of some notoriety who once lived in Foix? Worshiped by the heretics as a saint? I seem to recall a chanson extolling her.”
Before Otto could gainsay that suggestion, the Archbishop blurted, “You speak of Esclarmonde de Foix. The woman is long dead and sent to Hell, praise be to God. She was hunted for many years by Bishop Folques of Toulouse.”
“Ah yes, the Bishop of the Fires. I once heard him warble his inanities in my grandmother’s court before he took the vow.” Blanche turned back on Otto with an informed smile. “Was he not your spiritual advisor?”
Otto petitioned a goblet from a scullion, temporizing to collect his thoughts. He had insinuated an invitation to this evening’s repast with designs to gain introductions in the court. But now he wondered if Blanche had not contrived his attendance all along to draw him out. Her inquiry about Montsegur were troubling enough, but this interest in his upbringing was passing strange. Could she, God forbid, have learned that Esclarmonde was his mother? Folques had sworn to him that he told no one outside the abbey and he himself had arranged the destruction of all documentary evidence concerning his lineage. Desperate to divert this line of inquiry, he scoured his memory for details of the Grail legends. Perhaps the Queen Mother’s vanity could be turned to his advantage in gaining his revenge against Esclarmonde. This much he knew: Blanche would countenance no rival, for there could be only one Grail Queen. His plan was fraught with risk; a promising future in the Church hierarchy would be cut short if his connection to the heretic priestess were to be revealed. Nevertheless, he resolved to set it in motion.
“I did overhear one of the murderers at Avignonet speak of this Foix woman as if she still lives,” said Otto. “Of course, I gave it no credence. These deranged cloggers converse openly with the spirits of deceased family members as if they are still companions in the flesh. As the Archbishop indicated, the viscountess is certainly dead, or she would have reared her head by now. A couple of the prisoners introduced to the clarity of the interrogation tools did gabble claims about this Esclarmonde having studied the black arts inside that Devil’s synagogue.” With a calculated smoothness, he casually moved on to another subject, bobbing the cork on the line for Blanche to take the bait. “Speaking of synagogues, I was only this morning advised by my Dominican brothers in Toledo that the chief rabbi there was found hoarding gold worth—”
“What manner of black arts?” Blanche interrupted.
Otto affected a moment’s confusion and followed it up with an abashed realization that Blanche wished to continue discussing Esclarmonde. Waving off the supposition he was about to offer, he conceded, “Oh, if I recall correctly, there was some talk of the priestess having covened with Jew necromancers who claimed the ability to ascend to the higher realms.” He nearly lost his nerve, withered as he was under her boring gaze. I should have revealed it sooner. She now suspects me. He cleared the constriction in his throat. “A fabrication spread to embellish her legend, no doubt.”
Blanche mulled these revelations with a locking stare, impossible to read. Finally, she released Otto from her inspection and ordered Count Raymond, “This last heretic haven in your territory must be eradicated at once.”
“If de Montfort could not subdue the fastness, how will I manage it?”
Blanche continued speaking as if she had not heard Raymond’s protest. “The Seneschal of Carcassonne will command my son’s army. Archbishop, you will oversee the adjudications and executions.”
The Archbishop’s scaly face flamed at the horrid prospect of spending the winter in the Languedoc marches. “Madam, I must minister to my own flock. Lenten season will soon be upon us and—”
“Your flock can wait,” she said peremptorily. “There is more pressing work to be accomplished on God’s behalf. I expect to receive your report of the mountain’s capitulation before the start of summer.”
Raymond dithered to
his knees to beg release from the infeasible task, but his attempt was rendered stillborn by Blanche’s kindled glare of threat. Weighing it the better bargain to leave with a reprieve from treason than to lose his head, he lurched to his feet and, sketching a frazzled bow, backed toward the doors before his aunt’s prickly temperament could alter.
“Raymond,” she said. “There is still the small matter of your signature?”
“Signature?”
“I’ve chosen this joyous occasion of your presence to have our understanding drawn up in another treaty. We know how your aging memory tends to falter at the most regrettable moments. The document merely reiterates that because of your shameful role in the murders at Avignonet, your domain will divest to the crown should our prayers for your heir not be granted. My son’s attestation has already been inscribed. You need only sign and seal it with your signet, and you are free to resume your search for that special lady who will capture your heart.”
Raymond grudgingly accepted the quill from an attendant and stood over the parchment like a condemned man examining the block. Finally, with a barely audible hiss of emasculation, he signed and jammed his ring into the wax so forcefully that his knuckles formed part of the impressed seal, formalizing what he feared would become the death warrant for Toulousia’s independence. A magpie screeched somewhere in the night, causing him to question if the ghosts of his ancestors had gathered to haunt him in dissent. Eyes swimming with the pellicle of despair, he bowed slightly and made the shameful walk toward the heralds who were waiting to escort him from the chamber.
Otto feigned his departure with the baron, hopeful that a show of indifference to the Montsegur expedition would seduce Blanche a step further into his snare. As he neared the exit, he heard:
“Dominican ... I would speak with you on a private matter.”
His back still turned, Otto suppressed a victorious smile.
Blanche waved out the flabbergasted Archbishop, who was red with indignation at finding a cleric of lower stature being granted such a privilege. Seeing her son still lounging on the chaise, Blanche asked, “Should you not look upon the welfare of your wife?” When Louis failed to take her hint, she raised her voice in a stentorian demand. “I wish to take spiritual counseling from this monk!”
Bowls of fruit scattered as Louis hurried from the chamber.
Alone with Otto, Blanche traced a finger across the raised stitching of the Flemish Grail tapestry as if attempting to divine the clue to a puzzle. After nearly a minute of this meditative study, she turned to him and ordered, “You will serve as my eyes and ears in this Foix campaign.”
Otto shammed surprise while congratulating himself for having inveigled the woman at her own game. He made certain the hook was firmly snagged by pressing his palms together in a plea of inadequacy. “My lady, I am but a lowly notary. There are others more—”
“I have been watching you closely. With the proper intermediary, you will swiftly ascend God’s earthly ladder.”
Otto bowed adroitly to accept the compliment.
Blanche removed her gloves and extinguished the candles surrounding the Grail goblet, darkening the hall by descending degrees. She fixed her hawkish eyes on him with an unsettling intensity. “In the unlikely event you find this Cathar temptress alive, bring her to me.” She enjoyed his fascination with how she tested her threshold for pain by holding her bleached fingers in the penumbras of the flames before guttering them. “When the heretic nest is taken, search it alone. Report to me—and only me—what you discover.”
Everyone’s death is of the same quality as himself ...
- Rumi
XXXIV
Montsegur
May 1243
Esclarmonde shook the morning cold from her bare feet and cupped her palms to blow warmth into her cheeks. First light had yet to break; frost blanketed the sills and a thin sheet of ice glazed the washing basin. Sixty priestesses sat along the chapel walls with their eyes closed and knees tucked against their stomachs, so gaunt that a litter of scrawny rabbits would have given off more heat. She skipped a pebble across the floor to test their awareness. Several jerked slightly with eyelids fluttering. They were supposed to be meditating, but they had fallen asleep during the day’s first session, held before dawn to connect with the power available in that spiritual limbus between night and day.
She arose quietly and retrieved the pot of melted sheep lard that she had hidden under the altar. She sprinkled the fat with crushed sulfur and dried leaves, then placed the pot in the hearth and threw in a burning coal.
Seconds later, the chapel exploded with a crackling flash.
The women erupted shrieking and thrashing. Entrapped in the disorienting twilight between slumber and wakefulness, some fell to their knees in the darkness, others careened into the walls. Corba dragged Chandelle through the tumult and plowed headlong into Bernard Saint-Martin, who had rammed open the door on hearing the tocsins. Corba pummeled him with her fists, convinced that the Dominican henchmen were upon them.
Raymond charged into the dim sanctuary and captured Corba’s wrists. “Have you gone mad, woman? I am your husband! What in God’s name is going on in here?”
Bernard was on his knees and curled into a ball. He peered over the protection of his elbow, uncertain whether to trust the cessation of hostilities. Raymond fired the tapers to bring more light to the bizarre scene. The women shared confused glances at finding nothing amiss.
Esclarmonde appeared from the shadows. “You men may take your leave.”
Raymond and Bernard backed out of the chapel questioning if they had stumbled upon some mysterious feminine rite best left unexamined. “There’s a sampling of their pacifist ways,” Raymond muttered as he shut the door. “We could have used a battalion of them at Muret. Keep the armory locked.”
Corba found the sheep fat sizzling just beyond the hearth grate. “Which one of you pigeon-brains left this grease near the fire?”
“I did,” said Esclarmonde with an unsettling serenity. “It was no accident.”
The women glared incredulously at Esclarmonde and suspected her of falling victim to another of her demon-plagued trances. The Marquessa leveraged to her scabbed elbows. “Child, have you taken leave of your senses?”
Disappointed in their mistrust, Esclarmonde cowed them with a glower back to their seats. “How will you maintain a steady mind at the appointed hour if you cannot remain calm when confronted with such a trivial distraction?”
“What in God’s name are you talking about?” asked Corba.
“It is time.”
“Time for what?”
“To prepare for death.”
The women shook their heads in mutiny, disgusted by the perverse prank. Corba feared that her old friend was becoming more unhinged from the world with each passing month. “We’ve had enough of this morbid fascination with the end of our days. It will come soon enough without dwelling on it!”
“It is nearer than you think.”
Corba swiped at the air in utter exasperation. “Then let us live in peace with our loved ones until that hour!”
“Chandelle nearly left us without being instructed on the means to return to the Light,” said Esclarmonde.
“You think I don’t count every hour she’s with me?”
Esclarmonde stared down at the threatening hand gripping her arm until Corba removed it. She walked across the chapel to meet each judging face. “All of you are free to leave if you wish. No one holds you here.”
Incensed, Corba was on Esclarmonde’s heels. “You have no children at your side to protect! Departing this world comes too easy for you!”
Chandelle tried to pull her mother back to sitting. “Let us at least hear what she has to say.”
“I’ve listened to her nonsense all my life! What has it gained me?”
Esclarmonde knew that she had driven these women hard. Many had given up their families to follow her, accepting the stark deprivations of food and sleep and ris
king capture at the hands of the churchmen, testing their sanity by navigating deeper into the dangerous spiritual realms. But she could no longer put off this final obligation. She removed a tallow candle from the wall sconce and sat on a stool in the center of the circled group while holding the flame in front of her face to protect its precarious life from the drafts. “The Light’s approach at death will be more disorienting than the fright you’ve just undergone. It will seem as if we are suddenly awakened from a deep sleep and find ourselves exiled into a foreign land.”
“How do you know this?” asked the Marquessa.
“Father Castres conveyed the mysteries to me before he passed. He made me promise that I would transmit them to you. I should have done so before now, but I could not bring myself to endure it.”
The rancor drained from the women’s faces. Corba slowly retreated to her position next to Chandelle and dropped her voice to a near whisper, as near an apology as she could muster. “What did he wish us to know?”
Esclarmonde drew a steadying breath to ease the tremors from their confrontation. “The entirety of our lives is but a preparation for this moment of passing. The Bishop assured me that it will be a blessed event provided we cast off our fears and false beliefs imposed by the Lords of Darkness.” To offer tangible proof, she came to the unsuspecting Chandelle and rubbed her hand against the blind perfecta’s cheek. Chandelle smiled as if having expected the touch.
The Marquessa was amazed by the demonstration. “You didn’t even flinch. Why were you not startled?”
“I’ve learned to expect the unexpected, I suppose,” said Chandelle. “It’s almost as if my body has given up trying to warn me.”
Esclarmonde kissed Chandelle’s forehead in reward for her perceptiveness. “When awake, she is accustomed to our presence. But when she falls into the dream state, she forgets, as we all do. Our existence is not unlike spending years in total darkness only to have our eyes assaulted by the midday light at the trice of death. The spiritual Sun that rises at midnight will appear a thousand times brighter than its celestial counterpart.”
