The de Montfort Histories - The Dove and the Devil

by Bell, Gradyn

Giving him a cheery wave he went to look for his squire. He hadn’t gone more than a few paces in his search for him when his attention was caught by a familiar sound. He could clearly hear it over the din from the lists.

  “Papa! Papa!” Who could mistake that voice? It fairly squeaked with excitement. A small boy emerged from the crowd, followed closely—too closely for his brother’s liking—by Guy and his harassed nurse.

  “Oh, Milord, I’m ever so sorry!” The nurse’s face was red from exertion as she tried to take hold of the wriggling Guy, who was doing his best to evade her clutches. “I know he shouldn’t be here and I daren’t think what the lady Alicia will say, but he is so stubborn. He will go everywhere that Master Amaury goes.”

  “Whoa there!” Simon caught Guy up in his arms. “Be at peace, young man, and give Nurse a rest.”

  Guy flung his arms around his father’s shoulders. If Guy looked upon Amaury as his hero, he looked upon his father with near Godlike adoration. It was seldom that he had the opportunity to be this close to his papa, and he was relishing every second of it.

  “When are you going to joust, Papa?” Amaury asked, attempting to distract his father’s interest from his young brother. Guy was getting altogether too much attention.

  “Not until tomorrow, but Geoffrey de Joinville will be in the lists this afternoon. If you are very well-behaved you may accompany maman and me when we go to watch him. He will be against Gauthier of Brienne, so it should be a good match. You will certainly see some good jousting. If you pay attention, you may even pick up some pointers.”

  “Me, too! Me, too!” Guy pleaded while pounding on Simon’s chest.

  “Not so fast, young man. You have a choice. You may rest this afternoon and attend this evening’s festivities or you may stay up this afternoon and go to bed early this evening. Choose wisely because once you have made your choice, you will honour it!”

  Guy pouted and there was a quiver to his lips, but even at his tender age he knew his papa’s decision was final. “I choose to rest this afternoon and attend the festivities tonight,” he declared finally.

  His face brightened when it occurred to him that the evening would offer many opportunities to get into mischief with some of the younger pages whilst adult eyes were distracted by all the food and wine. No nurse would be constantly dogging his heels, and there would very likely be troubadours from Occitania who had accompanied some of the lords from that southern part of France. He loved their singing, even though he was not able to understand exactly what they were singing about—they sang in a foreign language called Oc.

  There were loud protests from both the boys as Simon pushed them towards Guy’s nurse. He had seen Walter, who was just about to go into the tent of one of the armourers. “You may spend the next hour or so looking around and then you must return to the chateau. Do you both understand that? You must stay with Nurse and do as she tells you.”

  Amaury was about to argue but thought better of it. His father clearly had business to attend to which was of no concern to the boys. Besides, there were some very exiting sights to see—the stilt walkers, for one thing, and the wrestlers for another. An hour was such a short time to take everything in! This was an excellent tournament and Amaury was impressed. He certainly didn’t want to cause any trouble in case he should be forbidden some of the delights that were simply begging to be sampled.

  Chapter Two

  Occitania, South of France

  1199 AD

  The Occitanians

  The air was filled with the moans of the young woman lying on the blood-soiled bed. She had laboured for two days to give birth to her child. Huge eyes, like those of a frightened doe, beseeched the attending sage-femme to end her misery. The midwife could only shake her head. This was a difficult one, no doubt about that. She could see clearly that the babe was far too big to be born nature’s way. Something must be done and quickly if both mother and child were to survive.

  She went out of the foetid-smelling room to where the young woman’s husband paced the floor, as he had done for hours. His haggard face wore the lines of exhaustion. Upon seeing the midwife he looked up expectantly, but his hope soon died, for he could read in the old woman’s face what she was about to say.

  “It’s a case of one or the other,” she said flatly. “There’s been far too much blood lost. I’d say you’ve the best chance of saving the baby.”

  “What has happened?” he said, grabbing her by the arm.” Why have you let things go this far?” His voice sharpened as he struggled to comprehend what was happening. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? We could have done something. We could have found a physician!”

  He looked stricken. He and his wife had both looked forward to their first child. Although her pregnancy had been fraught with illness throughout the nine months, they had hoped she would recover her old self after the birth of the baby. He had watched over her carefully—as solicitous as a mother hen with a chick—but had noticed her almost daily decline from rosy-cheeked young woman to someone whom he hardly recognized.

  The old woman gazed at him. In an effort to hide her own emotion, she spoke louder than she intended. “Make a decision now; otherwise both will die.” A low-pitched sound from the bedroom interrupted her. “What is it, my dear?” she called gently.

  The girl’s body writhed as another enormous contraction wracked her body. “Please save my baby. I heard what you were saying to Arnaud, and I beg you to save the baby.” Exhausted, she lay back, her white face even paler than the sheets.

  “Now, now, don’t you fret.” The midwife’s face softened as she looked at the girl, barely nineteen, whose life hung so perilously in the balance. “One more big push should do it.” She watched the young woman, who looked as though she barely had strength to lift her hand, let alone endure the cataclysm of the final hour of childbirth. Hurrying out of the room she spoke urgently to Arnaud. “Fetch the priest now.”

  I can’t go now! She needs me,” he said, twisting his hands together in the agony of indecision. Pushing her aside, he crept into the darkened bedchamber where his wife lay like a shadow on the bed.

  She beckoned him over and whispered to him. “I don’t want a priest. You promised. Fetch Bertrand. You know why. I want to make a good end. You promised!” Her frail hands picked at the embroidered coverlet on the bed. She had been so proud when she had finished sewing it. Was it really so few months ago? Worn out with the effort of talking, her eyelids fluttered closed.

  Torn between wanting to take her in his arms to comfort her with his physical presence and doing as she had asked him, Arnaud hesitated.

  “What are you waiting for?” the midwife asked. “Go and fetch the priest.”

  Sighing, the girl lay back, the tension leaving her body.

  “Don’t give up now,” the midwife begged. “One more push will do it.” She kneaded the hugely swollen belly and the girl’s body arched in a final convulsion.

  The midwife muttered a quick “Hail Mary” as she swiftly bundled the baby into the swaddling bands that were already prepared. The baby, a girl, was already registering her displeasure at the arduous trip she had made coming into the world. The mother’s eyes flickered open and a smile touched her lips briefly as the baby was placed next to her, the tiny pulse at the young wife’s neck the only indication that she still lived.

  The sound of footsteps stirred the young mother and her face lit up with joy when she recognized Arnaud, her husband, and his companion, Bertrand Arsen.

  Arnaud looked at the midwife and asked her to take the baby into the next room. He and his wife wished to speak to speak privately with Bertrand..

  “But where is the priest?” the midwife stammered. “We don’t have much time,” she whispered, pointing to the telltale signs of bright red blood.

  “Please go and stoke up the fire. The baby will need warmth tonight when the sun sets.”

  Looking somewhat churlish at being so expeditiously dismissed from the room, the midwife gat
hered up the baby and left.

  “Can you hear me?” Bertand’s voice was soft and low. The girl indicated with a flutter of her fingers that she could. Bertrand gently laid his hands on her head and the Holy Book on her breast. As the words of the consolamentum for the dying swept over her, she felt certain that she was pure enough to be reincarnated as a vessel worthy to be chosen by God. With a faint smile still playing around her mouth, she took her final breath as Arnaud’s wife.

  Gently closing the girl’s eyes and kissing her on her now blue lips, the young man straightened up from where he had been leaning over the bed.

  “Thank you, my friend.” His pain was clearly evident as he tried to hide the waves of grief that swept over him. “Although I am not one of you, my wife was a believer, a faithful Cathar, and it meant much for her to have you here. Long ago, at our marriage, I made her a promise that if we were ever blessed with children, they should grow up in your faith. I intend to keep that promise, and so now I ask you if you know of any young mothers among your flock who might take on the nurture of my daughter. It would be a long-term affair.

  There are things I must do, and I cannot do them and have the care of a small baby. In any event, I could not teach her all that she needs to know of her mother’s beliefs. I will be able to pay well enough if you could recommend someone.”

  “I don’t know of anyone here in the village, but I am sure there must be one or more in Lavaur. There is a growing population of believers there, and Bruna Domergue and Saissa Boutarra were both due to be brought to bed about now. I don’t know if they’ve given birth yet, but I can find out. In the meantime, perhaps you can find a wet nurse here in the village. Both of the women I mentioned are very clean in their habits and their own children are well clothed and fed, so you would not need to worry about the baby’s health. I’m sure our friend here,” he said, flinging open the door to find a red-faced midwife with her ear to the keyhole, “would know of someone who could oblige here in the village for a few days.”

  Clearly somewhat discomfited, the midwife looked up and nodded. “My own daughter gave birth not three months ago and she has enough milk for six. I’m sure she would oblige.”

  Arnaud was relieved. Although he had looked forward to this baby, he had not a clue what to do with her and wished to be left alone to grieve as he wanted. He dare not think what his wife’s family would say. They had objected to their union at the outset because they had not wanted their daughter to marry a non-believer. Only the thought that she might convert him to their way of believing had softened the blow for them when she told them she would have Arnaud and no other.

  The believers, or credentes as they were sometimes called, did not believe in the sacrament of marriage and had therefore not attended when their daughter took her vows with him. Their beliefs were simple: they rejected the Church of Rome and all its sacraments, including mass, baptism, marriage and the last rites. They had no churches or cathedrals but prayed together in each other’s houses. Sometimes they prayed outside, in the woodlands or on a mountain top. Their most abhorrent belief as far as the Catholic Church was concerned was that of reincarnation. The whole of society could be turned on its head by such a belief, which taught that a noble might well be reincarnated as a serf or a serf as a noble! This was too much for the Catholic Church and the civil authorities to swallow.

  Set atop a gently rising hill overlooking the River Agout sat the small village of Ambres. It consisted of a line of smallish, rose-coloured houses set along the one main route. One direction led to Gaillac; the other direction led to the thriving town of Lavaur. On this late November afternoon—the first week in Advent, for Catholics—the smoke from the chimneys of the houses in Ambres rose in lazy curls. The warmth of the winter sun was dissipating quickly as shadows began to fall over the sleepy little village. Farmers and wine sellers, artisans and woodsmen, had all returned by five in the afternoon when the daylight had faded too far to see anything. Only the shepherds were left out on the lonely hills above the village, tending their sheep and ensuring no wolves came near.

  The people of Ambres led a largely comfortable life, living as they did on very fertile soil that could grow almost anything they cared to plant. The chalky hillsides nearby were perfect for growing the excellent vines that the Romans had brought in times past. Sunflowers were gathered for their seeds and their oil. Mushrooms grew in abundance. There were plenty of fish in the nearby streams, and the pheasants were so plentiful they begged to be caught. No one need go hungry in Ambres.

  Just a few miles away, the town of Lavaur was a burgeoning centre of excellence for potters. People came from far and wide to buy as much as the skilled workers could produce. Several astute nobles in the area had begun to raise silk worms to feed on the local mulberry trees. They had foreseen the growing use for silk, the material made popular by soldiers returning from earlier Crusades. It seemed there was no end to the demand for this luxurious fabric. The local people had also begun to produce a strong blue dye, which was very popular amongst the nobility. It came from a plant that loved the soil and the growing conditions in the countryside around where Arnaud lived.

  All in all, the people of Lavaur and its surrounding villages were very content with their lives.

  Even though to an outsider the small village of Ambres appeared to be locked up for the evening, the gossip still managed to spread from house to house. Everyone sympathised with Arnaud’s great loss, knowing as they all did of the young couple’s regard for each other—a situation all too uncommon, as it was more usual for a man to beat his wife than to love her! All the women had a story to tell about the fears they had had for the young woman’s life…how pale she had grown…how large the baby had seemed.

  There was also some discussion about why no priest had been summoned to give the last rites of the Catholic Church. They knew Bertrand Arsen had been present, and while they willingly accepted that the elders of the heretics’ church—the perfecti, as they were called—lived amongst them and did no harm, they could not accept that they were able to absolve people of their sins as a priest could. However, the inhabitants of this commune, together with most of the population of Occitania, were extremely tolerant of the heretics, just as they were of other religions. If there were only a few believers in the little community of Ambres, there were certainly many more in the nearby larger towns, particularly Lavaur.

  The perfecti—or perfectae, for both sexes could become elders in what was becoming known as the Cathar church, led what could only be called exemplary lives, abjuring as they did all sexual contact with anyone and allowing no food that needed to reproduce sexually to pass their lips. The ordinary believers, the croyants or credentes—people such as Arnaud’s wife—were allowed to live normally, and, indeed, because the sacrament of marriage was not recognized, often took other sexual partners; however, the elders—the perfecti—lived lives of extreme self-deprivation.

  Most of the villagers thought the perfecti were mad; nonetheless, a strong attitude of “live and let live” prevailed in most Occitanian communities. The Cathars were strong, hard-working people, whose leaders owned no property of their own, having given it to the church when they became perfecti. These perfect ones, for so they were judged by their followers, lived anywhere they could lay their heads, almost always in the houses of other believers. They walked the hills and valleys relentlessly, no matter what the weather, to bring their message to those who would be converted.

  The midwife’s daughter had readily agreed to take on the task of feeding Maurina, the name Arnaud had given to his daughter. While Maurina’s mother had sickened and died, the baby appeared to be thriving when she arrived at the house of her surrogate mother, sucking hard on the piece of linen dipped in milk and honey that she had been given to appease her when she had begun to cry for food. Even so, she grasped greedily at the plump, milk-engorged breast offered to her by the midwife’s daughter.

  It wasn’t long before the baby, replete with milk
and exhausted with the effort of procuring it, fell asleep and Berthe, the midwife’s daughter, was able to sit down with her mother for a good gossip. Even in villages as far flung as Ambres, deaths in childbirth were sufficiently rare, especially in one as young as Arnaud’s wife. Consequently, in all the households in the village that evening, the women’s main topic of conversation was the baby.

  “Do you know Bruna Domergue or Saissa Boutarra?” the midwife asked Berthe.

  “Can’t say that I do. Why?”

  “One or the other is to take the baby—at least I think that is what’s going to happen.”

  Since her mother was usually well informed about everything that went on in the village, Berthe didn’t disagree. As she spoke, the older woman leaned over to polish the huge oak table around which the whole family sat in the twilight before bedtime. It took pride of place in the kitchen; no other household in the village could boast of having one such as this. Because her husband kept several hives of bees, there was never any shortage of beeswax for polishing. In fact, there was often enough left over to take to market to sell in Lavaur on a Saturday morning.

  Although they were not rich, the house was as clean as it could be, given that seven people were crowded into one room—along with several animals during the winter. The few pieces of furniture were well taken care of. The candles were of good quality and never gave off that thick plume of black smoke that laid a horrible sooty layer about the place. That they never smoked was due to the skill of her husband and his bees, which produced the best beeswax in the commune. Even the local church used his fine candles for the mass. Unlike many of their neighbours, they had glass in the two windows at the front of their cottage. This served to give the family a certain cachet amongst their neighbours. There were several cottages in Ambres that still used sacking to keep out the damp and cold in winter!

  The log fire in the middle of the room crackled, releasing a shower of sparks. This was where the family slept, the most senior members sleeping nearest the fire. Tonight Berthe would take pride of place, as she not only had her own baby to keep warm but also Arnaud’s newborn child. It was a heavy responsibility and although she would be well paid, she would have looked after the baby for nothing had it been necessary, for as a young girl, she had been in love with Arnaud.