The Fire and the Light

by Glen Craney

  “Minerve and Termes lasted less than three months,” said Chandelle. “No one gave us a chance to make it until winter. God is watching over us.”

  Another blast of wind rattled the hut. Raymond entered breathless from running the gauntlet from the barbican. His somber face was sheeted with ice and his hands trembled from the freezing air.

  Corba clutched at him. “My love! Stay with me.”

  Raymond slid to his haunches and pressed his forehead to Corba’s cheek. To his dismay, he saw that he was only making her colder. He surrendered to her uxorial ministrations and allowed her to blow warmth to his eyes and straighten his bent fingers, anything that might extend the illusion that she still nurtured a home for him. He attempted a smile that died with a spasm of coughing. “I’ll rest a moment. I shouldn’t think the French will attempt the wall this night. They’re too sated on wine and roasted fowl.”

  Esclarmonde offered Raymond what remained of the melted snow. He forced it down his seared throat, gulping painfully. After a few minutes of this rare respite, he made known to her with a dart of his eyes that he required a private conference. Each night, he reported to her alone on the progress of the fighting. Before leaving, he gently repulsed Corba’s attempt to keep him in her arms and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I’ll return after my rounds, darling.”

  Esclarmonde was assisted by Raymond’s hand to her elbow as they made their inspection circuit. The temple was hauntingly quiet, a ship run aground in a frozen sea of ice. The only signs of life were the steam plumes rising from the breaths of soldiers huddled along the walls. Raymond’s gait was slowed and uneven, and he seemed unsteady, as if his sight and balance were out of kilter. He was a stalwart, optimistic man, never one to utter a complaint, but on this night his spirits were so wan that he was barely able to speak.

  “Corba is melting away,” he whispered.

  Esclarmonde gently squeezed his cracked fingers to instill courage. “Come to her as often as you can. Your presence is worth a day’s ration.”

  “I fear there will come a time when she won’t recognize me.”

  “It is in God’s hands ...” Her voice trailed off. She found it increasingly difficult to talk of a divine purpose amid such devastation, particularly in the presence of the soldiers. They suffered even more than her followers, for they were unable to let down their guard and retreat into meditation lest the French ambush them. Watching Corba sink into Raymond’s embrace, she had felt a pang of envy for their mutual emotional sustenance. He was neither a man of strong faith nor a skilled warrior like her brother, but he fought for principles of chivalry and love of family, and she had never known a more selfless soul. “Will Loupe be relieved of the watch tonight?”

  “You know her. She’s as stubborn as your brother was.”

  Esclarmonde could just make out the round, satisfied faces of the French warming themselves over their fires beyond the barbican. How plump and healthy they appeared, as if they had been engendered from another race of men. “They’ve made it so near our line.”

  “Twenty more came up today.”

  “Will they attempt the walls?”

  “They outnumber us ten to one, but it would be a risky gambit even with such advantage. If we repulsed them, they could be hurled off the cliffs.”

  “What kind of man is this D’Arcis?”

  “Cunning but not impetuous. I almost yearn for the erstwhile days. At least with de Montfort we were assured of a quick resolution.”

  She searched the French lines for some sign of the black-robed friars. “The Dominicans are not on the summit?”

  “Safe and warm within their tents in the vale. The Archbishop of Narbonne leads the cabal of inquisitors. Some of the men also overheard the French speak of a firebrand called Brother Otto.”

  Esclarmonde’s heart seized, but she quickly dismissed the possibility. Her Otto was a Cistercian, that much she knew. She had received reports that Folques had sent her son to Rome to serve in the Curia. During the weeks prior, she had not asked Raymond the paramount question on her mind for fear she would be compelled by the dictates of her faith to communicate his answer to the others. On this eve, however, she needed to know the truth. “Raymond, what are our chances?”

  He looked toward the scudding darkness above the distant peaks, hoping the clouds might spin out an auspicious augury. “If we can hold on until the March rains, the cistern will be replenished and the birds will fly within range of our bows. God willing and spring arrives early, the berries and roots will sustain us until relief arrives. But if Pierre-Roger ...” He shook his head in self-chastisement for having broached that subject. He had vowed never to speak ill of his fellow officer, even if the man had become a thorn in his side with his constant complaints and challenges.

  “You fear the French may try to purchase his loyalty?”

  “He broods, and his men are restless,” said Raymond. “I’ve mixed my knights in with his on the watches just to be safe.”

  The faint thrum of a chant could be heard coming from the chapel. Esclarmonde pressed a fortifying kiss to Raymond’s cheek. “I’ve promised them a sermon ... in truth, I don’t know what to say.”

  Raymond drew a gelid breath in preparation to make the dangerous run back to the barbican. “You’ll find the right words. You always do.”

  The bone-thin Cathars and wounded soldiers who had crowded inside the chapel attempted to rise in reverence. Esclarmonde bade them remain on the floor to conserve their strength. She had ordered a roof beam splintered for firewood; snow sifted through the cracks and dusted the floor. She walked among them trying to find an explanation for the torment they now endured because of her faith. She stoked the reluctant fire in the hearth and watched as the chapel began to glow with a lambent radiance. “How precious is this flame. And yet, do you see how its warmth is not diminished when more of us seek its comfort?” She retrieved a candle, the last in her possession, saved for this night. She lit the wick and, cupping the flame to prevent its guttering, passed it down the line for each person to bathe in its blessing. “Why would our Lord have chosen to be born into a world of—”

  The creak of the door interrupted her sermon.

  Loupe stood at the portal. Accosted by expressions of disbelief, she reconsidered and reached for the latch to leave, but Esclarmonde captured her hand in welcome. Balmed by the warmth, Loupe reluctantly took a seat behind the others, uncertain of how she should act, for this was the first time that she had attended a Cathar service.

  Esclarmonde offered Loupe the candle to thaw her face and continued the sermon. “It must have been on just such a night as this that Jesus looked down on this world and made His fateful decision. The Lords of Darkness had ordered all firstborns murdered. Mary and Joseph were forced to leave their home. They sought shelter in a warm inn but were turned away, just as we are turned away this night. Their only refuge was a manger warmed by a solitary candle. Jesus saw that faint flicker and came to us that night. Why? He came to show us the way back to the Light. He came because if a single spark is left stranded, the Eternal Flame will never be complete.”

  Chandelle edged closer. “Will He come again?”

  Before Esclarmonde could answer, Loupe stood in protest. “He didn’t come for those at Beziers! Or for those at Minerve and Lavaur! Why would this god of yours save us now?”

  “He did not come into this world to save our bodies,” said Esclarmonde. “He did not come into this world to save His own body.”

  Loupe’s frozen face was strafed with despair. “The Catholics say their bodies will be resurrected on the Day of Judgment, and ours will burn.”

  “If your arm is severed, are you not still the same person?”

  “Of course, but—”

  “Then are we not more than our flesh?”

  “Why then would Christ take on flesh if it’s only a prison?” asked Loupe.

  “To demonstrate that what we see and feel and hear is merely a mirage,” said Esclarmonde. �
��Our senses are a trickery perpetrated by the Demiurge. Sheep kept penned all of their lives do not see the opened gate. The Lords of Darkness did not kill Our Lord. They did not kill Him because He was not His body.”

  Loupe folded her arms in defiance. “I’ve watched too many die to believe that something blessed occurs at that moment.”

  “I don’t ask you to accept it unless it is first shown to you as truth. When the time comes, you will know it with—”

  Distant screams rolled up the eastern spine. The congregants rushed out and found Raymond and his men dragging up three wounded soldiers.

  Esclarmonde cried, “Are the defenses breached?”

  Raymond was too dazed to form an answer.

  Esclarmonde saw Pierre-Roger and his men fighting off an assault at the barbican. Above them loomed a long, slender shadow, cast ghoulishly by the enemy’s tapers. She prayed that the cold and hunger were playing games with her mind, but the gut-wrenching image, more at home in some perverse bestiary, would not fade from view. A towering wooden arm—the tallest she had ever seen—was being cranked back and bent unnaturally with the groaning twist of a coiled rope. The air seemed to have been sucked from creation; not a breath could be heard. When the diabolical arm was on the verge of breaking, the skein ratchet released and the sling recoiled with such a wrenching bawl that it sounded like a bull being slaughtered. The sky was too overcast for her to see what had been launched. The ominous whistling grew louder and culminated in a skidding crash somewhere in the darkness along the defenses. She had heard that same horrid thud of destruction below the ramparts of Carcassonne and Foix.

  Raymond could barely utter the words. “They’ve brought up a trebuchet.”

  That report was met by groans of anguished disbelief.

  “Those beams are too large to have been carted up on sleds,” insisted Loupe.

  “They strapped the timbers to their backs,” said Raymond. “The Bishop of Narbonne was trained as an engineer. I should have foreseen it.”

  Esclarmonde tried to gauge the distance between the trebuchet and the temple’s north wall. “Can their stones reach us?”

  “No, but if they take the barbican ...” The prediction died on his lips.

  Loupe finished it for him. “They’ll set the engine at the tower. And then no place on this mount will be out of their range.”

  During the calamitous days that followed, the Occitan barbican was relentlessly reduced to a heap of stones. Nights were the worst. The darkness prevented the watch guards from predicting the arc of the missiles and the blind whistling spawned more terror than the impacts.

  Each morning, Raymond took roll to determine how many of his men had survived the bombardment. The French inched closer by the hour, stalking the temple like wolves frothing to pounce on a stunned prey. Two thousand crusaders now crowded the far angle of the eastern crest and clamored for an assault, no longer fearful of being driven off the cliffs. Barely half the Occitans were hale enough to raise a sword, and those took turns standing guard, a duty that required shouting warnings when the next stone was launched. The severely wounded languished in the bailey with no shelter over their heads. The perfectas, bereft of essential medicinals and bandages, tended to them as best they could.

  As dusk fell on the seventh night of the bombardment, Loupe crawled to Raymond’s foxhole. “We can’t hold this position. They’ll be on us by morning if we sit here and do nothing.”

  “Launch!” screamed Bernard.

  The Occitans ducked under their battered shields. The whistling dropped an octave. The stone exploded against the palisades and rained shards.

  Bernard peered out from his hole. “If we give up this wall, that chateau will become our ossuary.”

  “We have to disable their sling,” said Loupe.

  “That’s a dead man’s lunacy!” protested Pierre-Roger. “We can’t lift our heads without getting brained.”

  “If you have another plan,” challenged Loupe, “let’s hear it.”

  While they argued, Raymond watched as the sun disappeared over the distant peaks and gave way to the slender arc of a quarter moon. If they waited another night, the waxing lunar light would deny them what slim advantage the darkness provided. Reluctantly, he ordered Pierre-Roger, “Divide the men by blind lots. Give those who draw the assignment an extra ration.”

  An hour after midnight, Loupe returned from the temple with what few loops of extra rope she had managed to scavenge. Having drawn one of the black stones, Bernard was assigned to lead the raid. While testing the temper of his sword, he saw Loupe throw a bundle over her shoulder. “What do you think you’re doing?” When she refused to acknowledge his question, he crawled closer to confront her. “You agreed to abide by the fate of the draw.”

  “I don’t believe in fate.”

  “There’s never a dearth of killing here,” said Bernard. “Why must you always go looking for it?” She tried to deflect his challenge by occupying herself with fastening and checking the knots. He grasped her shoulders roughly and spun her to face him. “Answer me!”

  She was shaken by his raw anger, so uncharacteristic. Turning from his demanding gaze, she revealed in a barely audible voice, “I don’t want you to go alone.”

  The heat in Bernard’s face melted into astonishment. He pulled her into his embrace. For the first time, she did not resist his advances. He kissed her passionately and whispered, “I don’t want to go the rest of my life alone.”

  She could not meet his eyes. “If I agree to marry you ... You must promise to come back alive from this raid.”

  Bernard pulled from his belt pouch the gold wedding band that he had purchased years ago. He took her hand and tried to slide it onto her finger, but the ring was too large. He fashioned a makeshift necklace from a strand of twine and hung it around her neck. This time, it was Loupe, eyes tearing, who took him into her embrace and stole his breath with a kiss.

  Disgusted by their maudlin lock of affection, Pierre-Roger snapped a halfhearted signal for the raiders to be off on the mission that he had no faith would succeed. Those chosen to remain behind guttered their torches and began singing ballads to muffle their comrades’ exertions. Bernard and Loupe, accompanied by forty men, slithered on their stomachs toward the north cliffs. One-by-one, they fastened the ropes to pinions and descended over the pendent edge. They rappelled in silence along the sheer face toward their target, a precarious drop on the far side of the barbican. One false step meant certain death.

  Loupe was the first to breast the French side of the ledge. After several blind attempts, she gained a foothold. She bit on her tongue to sharpen her jangled senses as she inched her eyes over the precipice. She had calculated perfectly—she was several feet behind the crusader line. A few steps from her straining hands, a Gascon guard leaned on a pike. The camp was enveloped by the snoring darkness. She tugged the rope in a signal for the others to swing across the cliff. The trebuchet stood thirty paces away, protected by several armed men. She strangled the guard from behind and brought forward the crossbow strapped to her back. She ignited the tip of her missile with a flint against a rock and fired the flaming arrow into the wooden palisade.

  The French wall erupted in flames. The crusaders surrounding the trebuchet rushed to the palisade and flailed at the conflagration with their cloaks. When the French were distracted, Bernard and his Occitans silently climbed the crest and heaved their torches into the engine.

  “Attack!” screamed an alerted crusader.

  Those crusaders who had been sleeping on the far cusp of the spine roused from their bivouac. Raymond’s reserves slowed the reinforcements with a punishing volley. Confused by the attacks from both front and rear, the crusaders beat another retreat to the burning palisade. The crossfire tactic purchased Loupe a few seconds more. Black smoke coughed up from the engine’s entrails as arrows cut the ground around her. She begged the flames to grow faster.

  A phalanx of crusaders appeared over the brow of the spine.
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  “Get away!” Bernard turned back and fought off the first wave of attackers. He fell with blood gushing from his thigh artery—an arrow had bored through his femur. A Gascon mercenary ran up to finish his kill. He staggered backwards and looked down at a ragged hole in his chest.

  Loupe dropped her spent crossbow. She ran to Bernard and dragged him toward the burning palisades. He screamed in agony, “Leave me!”

  The other raiders had retreated to the ropes, believing their assignments accomplished. Hearing Bernard’s shouts, several clambered back up to the crest. The French were waiting for them. They cut the ropes and sent the Occitans plunging to their deaths.

  Choked by the smoke, Loupe kicked at the flaming palisade stakes and finally caved a hole. She heaved Bernard through the snaking fire and pushed him across the barbican. “Run!”

  “My leg’s broken!” he cried.

  Loupe wrapped his arm around her neck and stumbled with him across the no-man’s-land. Raymond led a charge from the barbican to give them cover. Esclarmonde and the Cathars ran from the temple to help carry Bernard to the gate. “Don’t die!” screamed Loupe, collapsing. “You promised!”

  The next morning, Otto hurried up the path along Montsegur’s eastern spine to examine the scene of the previous night’s raid. Informed by a courier of the attempt to destroy the engine, he was forced to cut short his first visit to Foix. He had decided to explore that notorious incubator of heresy despite a boyhood vow to Folques never to step foot in the city of his birth. He justified this breach of faith with the need to find witnesses who could arm him with evidence for Esclarmonde’s impending interrogation. In truth, he had long burned with a curiosity to see the place of his abandonment.

  His fact-finding mission, however, had left him morose and disillusioned. Commandeered by his fellow Dominicans for a regional headquarters, the somnolent burgh had been repopulated with bastide settlers and was nothing like the descriptions he had heard of it during his youth. The few inhabitants old enough to have witnessed his mother’s meteoric rise in sin were either senile or refused to admit knowing her. The hall where his stepfather had suffered his great ignominy—yes, the legend of that pivotal confrontation was still passed down in the abbeys—was being used to store livestock fodder. He had found a faint residue of blue paint and gold stars on its concave ceiling. Standing among the hay bales there, he tried to imagine that painted Delilah in those carnal courts fluttering her beguiling lashes to inflame the passions of weak-willed men.