by Bell, Gradyn
The little houses and huts seem to cling to the inhospitable mountainside by sheer willpower, in some cases with half their foundations dangling precariously into the emptiness of the valley below. The fence of strong wooden stakes that surrounded the village was sturdy enough at that time to repel most invaders, but it would not stand for long against any of the immense war machines currently being developed in other parts of the world. With news of new persecutions arriving almost daily that told of the suffering of believers in other parts of France, the choice of Montsegur as a place of refuge was an obvious one.
The four men were welcomed by the incumbent perfectus Benoit, who led them into a small hut carved out of rock. Although it was nearly summer and it had been unseasonably hot even in this part of Languedoc, the hut was cold and damp and the walls ran with moisture. A shiver ran down Bertrand’s back as he wrapped his black cloak snugly around him.
“Please, sit down. Here, close to the fire.” Bertrand’s shiver had not gone unnoticed by Benoit. “It’s not the most comfortable of lodgings, but it suits our purposes for now. I have received word from Raymond of Perella and understand he has granted permission for the rebuilding.” He smiled. “Not that I expected it to be withheld. The Lady Esclarmonde was most insistent, and we all know how very persuasive she can be!”
The other men nodded. She was indeed a wonder. When she made up her mind to do something, nothing seemed to get in her way.
“I understand she is to receive the consolamentum soon. She is studying with Guilhebert de Castres. Now there’s a man for you! He roams the countryside tirelessly, putting many a youngster to shame. I must say,” he added ruefully, rubbing his back. “The pains in my joints and back are beginning to prevent my doing much of that now. The Lady Esclarmonde is fortunate indeed to have succeeded in getting Guilhebert to stay in one place for more than a day or two. I expect there will be a great celebration when she becomes a perfecta. She certainly is a single-minded woman!” The older man sat down beside Bertrand.
“We have come to finalize the plans for the rebuilding so that it can start as soon as possible,” Bertrand began, “but we shall leave everything in your hands, Brother Benoit. Raymond will stay to help as long as his other duties in Mirepoix permit, but the rest of us will go directly to Fanjeaux. We promised to make every effort to attend the consolamentum.” Although his eyes shone with delight he could not stop another shiver from racking his body. His face glowed red in the reflection of the fire. “I think I will retire to bed. My head is pounding and I believe I may have caught a chill—”
His words were cut off by the hacking cough that seized his body. At once, Arnaud turned to him, anxiety clearly registering on his face. This was unusual. Bertrand had never had so much as a sniffle in all the time he had known him. The man’s strapping good health was legendary.
“Do not concern yourself overmuch, my friend. ’Tis nothing but a summer chill. They are most prevalent in these mountains, as you know. The fog can descend in minutes, shutting out the sun!”
Bertrand got to his feet and for the first time Arnaud noticed the weariness in the older man. Even his long black cloak could not conceal the rigors that shook his body.
Leading him along a small passage cut out of rock into a cavern where several palliasses were laid on top of bracken, Benoit said “I’m afraid this is the best we can offer, but at least it is dry. There are some hot stones under the palliasse, so you should not suffer overmuch from the cold.”
“Thank you, my friend. I’m sure a good night’s rest will put me right for tomorrow. We must get back to Fanjeaux as soon as possible.”
While Bertrand slept, fortified with a potion of Coltsfoot to allay his cough and Valerian to quieten and soothe his troubled sleep, the others drew up the plans that would be acted upon with as much haste as possible. The outside fortifications would be attended to first, followed by the rebuilding of the fortress itself. Although Arnaud understood the need for this place of pilgrimage to be rebuilt as more and more believers flocked to it each week, he was at a loss to understand the sudden haste. Surely the Catholic Church was not such an immense threat!
“You do not understand the whole picture,” Benoit said. “Although we have many convents where our perfectae dwell, these unprotected women must have a place to go if anything should befall them. As it is, we have heard that Dominic de Guzman has built a convent right in Prouille where he is attempting to seduce our women believers back into the arms of the Church. He’s not making too bad a job of it, either. In fact, one of our sisters, Covinens, has abandoned us and now lives with a man and is pregnant. He made several other converts from amongst others of our sisters after delivering a sermon in Fanjeaux. I heard that some of the girls threw themselves at his feet, declaring they had been made heretics by our perfectae. They begged to be taken in by Dominic. As you can imagine, this has disturbed our entire congregation, particularly Guilhebert, who has made Fanjeaux a preaching centre of his own.”
“What can he be thinking of?” Arnaud asked. “Is he expecting us to battle in the streets for the souls of our believers? He must know very well we would never entertain that!”
“He knows that perfectly well but is attempting to win converts back to the Church by using our own methods of persuasion and preaching. He travels everywhere on foot and has given up all the fine living of his fellow clergymen and adopted our rule of living in poverty, chastity and obedience. I, myself, have heard him preach. He is a master with words and therefore someone we need to watch carefully. I’m sure he will be a threat to us in the future; he’s powerful and well-connected. Even the Pope himself defers to him sometimes. Mark my words!”
“I hope you are mistaken, my friend. I should not like our brethren or our sisters to be harmed in any way, but it seems as though this man is intent on stirring things up.”
Arnaud sighed, wondering inwardly why man could not live at peace with his fellow man. Where was the need for wars? Why must people fight over differences in belief? Jews and Arabs had lived in perfect harmony with Catholics and Cathars in this part of the country for generations—there was no need for anything to change! Clearly, however, times were changing. Arnaud could tell by the tension in the air. Why else would they be here to arrange the rebuilding of this small fortification? True, he could discern nothing tangible, but worry still lay heavily over him.
“What say you to finding our palliasses and getting some sleep?” The voice of Raymond of Mirepoix broke into Arnaud’s thoughts. “You must be away in good time tomorrow lest the consolamentum takes place without your presence.” As he spoke, a hacking cough from the inner chamber where Bertrand slept interrupted his words. “However, I fear your trip may be without Bertrand.”
His words were prophetic. It was obvious that Bertrand was going nowhere, at least for the next few days. He clearly had more than a summer chill, and although he argued that he was strong enough to travel, he was finally persuaded that it would do no one—least of all him—any good were he to persist in his demands to accompany them back to Fanjeaux. It was decided that Raymond of Mirepoix would accompany the two others in Bertrand’s place and so the sick man wearily bade them farewell and settled back to ride out the illness that had come at such an inconvenient time. (Years later, Bertrand would marvel at the timing of this sickness and wonder in his humble way whether God had sent it so he would remain on the mountain after the others had left Montsegur!)
A week after the departure of the other perfecti, Bertrand was well on the road to recovery. Twilight was just beginning to creep over the mountain when a small group of horsemen came to a halt at the bottom of the hill below the palisades that protected the small village. Two of the knights wore the familiar white mantle emblazoned with the red cross of the Knights Templar, the Crusading warrior monks, who, along with their vows of chivalry, had taken the religious vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. Their two companions, although mounted on horses of equal breeding to those of the Templ
ar Knights, were clearly not fighting men. Their whole demeanour was one of humility that bespoke a more religious nature.
The story they had to tell was recounted over a sparse evening meal. They had come from Constantinople—or what was left of it—where they had been instructed by Andre de Joinville, a Templar Grand Prior, to carry a piece of folded linen taken from a church in Constantinople and deliver it into the hands of Esclarmonde de Foix, who, they had been told, would be found at Montsegur. It seemed a prosaic enough task, and at first the perfecti did not understand the men’s unwillingness to talk about the linen. Bertrand’s gentle questioning eventually drew from them the complete story.
“As you are aware, we Templar Knights would never attack a Christian city. As you well know, Constantinople is a Christian city. Although the Pope, for all intents and purposes, forbade the attack on the city, in reality he closed his eyes to what would take place because he knew of the fine collection of Christian relics that was kept there. It is no secret that he employed several priests and brothers to collect what they could of the relics in order to preserve them from marauding Crusaders. Their orders were to bring back what they could to Rome for safekeeping.” The Templar’s voice became heavy with sarcasm. “As it was, the ships carrying many of the relics were attacked by the Genoese, and most of the relics of the saints and bits of the true cross ended up in Genoa. Had we not acted when we did, who knows where this would be.” As he spoke, he withdrew a piece of linen from the silk in which it was wrapped and laid it reverently on the bench in front of him.
“Our instructions are to guard this linen with our lives. It is said to have inordinate powers and has been used many times to protect the Emperor and his armies from defeat. We have seen with our own eyes its power to rekindle the failing courage of an army and especially to revive the hopes of those about to be defeated. We know it was stolen from a church in Constantinople by someone who was sympathetic to the cause of the believers. There are many in the east who believe as you do, that your teachings are the true messages of God and that it is the Pope and his followers who are the heretics.”
The man who spoke these words wore an eastern cross on his breast. Bertrand guessed that he was one of the sympathizers himself, perhaps the very man who had stolen the cloth. “But why us?” His question hung in the air for several seconds before and answer was forthcoming.
“We know the Pope uses military force whenever he thinks it necessary to gain his ends. We are sure that in times to come, and perhaps in the not-too-distant future, his fanaticism to rid this area of all of you believers will get the better of him. We, your brethren in the eastern community who have no love for the western Pope, have daily witnessed the power of this piece of linen. Thus, when given the opportunity during the Crusaders’ attack on our city, we removed it out of Pope Innocent’s clutches. As it was, we were just in time. Most of the other relics were stolen immediately.”
“But what is it? Why is it so important, this piece of linen?” Benoit asked the question to which the other perfecti wholeheartedly wished to know the answer.
In response, one of the Templars began to unwrap the piece of linen. “See for yourselves.”
What the perfecti saw clearly upset them. Imprinted on the cloth was the face of an eastern-looking man. As the Templar continued to unfold the cloth, there lay revealed what appeared to be a painting of a man’s body.
Bertrand touched the linen gently. “It looks like a painting, but it isn’t,” he said. “The colour is part of the material. It is not painted on or woven into the material.”
Benoit and the others, crowded round to see and touch the linen for themselves.
“How can it be that this material is so powerful?” Bertrand asked.
“This is for your ears only,” one of the Templar Knights responded sternly, “and those of the Lady Esclarmonde until she deems otherwise. We believe this to be the burial cloth of our Lord, Jesus Christ.”
There were gasps of horror as he spoke. The perfecti drew back from where they had been leaning over the linen.
“We know this cannot be true,” Bertrand said emphatically. “Our belief is that Jesus existed only as a spirit and was never a real man! Only a real man could have left a trace like that.”
The Templars smiled. “No ordinary man left this imprint. It would not have been possible. Your beliefs are sacred to you and I respect them, but no one can say that this cloth does not have a power that is above our understanding. It has saved too many lives and given victory to too many worthy people fighting lost causes. It is for this reason and no other that you must ensure the cloth reaches Esclarmonde and stays safe in her keeping.”
The fourth man in the group of horseman, who up until then had remained silent, rose from the bench where he had been sitting. His demeanour, at once humble but yet arresting, caused the company to grow silent. All debate ceased as he began to speak.
“My name is Simon Choniates. You may have heard of my brother, Niketas, a man of greater learning and importance than I. But I was in Constantinople when the plunderers ravaged our city in the name of the Roman Pope. They forced their way into churches and palaces on horseback, looting sacred vessels and anything else of value. I saw it all! Anything they did not want they tore down or smashed. Remember, these are Crusaders I speak of - soldiers of God, soldiers who had taken vows before God not to harm fellow Christians. Thousands of harmless citizens were struck down. My brother saw with his own eyes nuns who had been violated in their own convents. The soldiers even set a woman of the streets on the throne of our patriarchs. Imagine the insult. It was as if a whore had been elevated to the Papacy! The infidels would have been kinder to us than the so-called Christians were! My brother, Niketas, advised me to escape while I could with whatever I could save.”
Simon stopped to draw breath. “I confess it was I who rescued the linen. I could not bear to see it fall into the hands of those who pillaged at will. Even if you do not believe it is the shroud of our Lord, you must believe in its power to protect you as it has done for us for hundreds of years before this. We fear it is only a matter of time before Innocent turns his attentions fully on you. Imagine what he might do to you in the wake of what he has done to us!”
“If this cloth has marvellous powers and it was in Constantinople, why is it the city fell to the invaders?” Benoit asked, interrupting Simon’s eloquent words.
“We do not think its power is simply that of a protector against evil, although the Eastern Emperor always used it in such a manner,” the Templar replied reverently. “We believe it is a true holy relic that must be preserved for all time. That is why we have brought it here. Perhaps the city would not have fallen had it not been removed. Who can tell? We believed it was much too important and valuable to be left where it was.”
The Templar began to fold the linen away, leaving only the imprint of the man’s head showing in the top quarter of the material. “We have been commanded by our Grand Prior and your brethren in the east to bring it to Esclarmonde for safekeeping. However you may think of it—protector of kings and emperors, true relic of our Lord Jesus Christ or just a piece of linen—it is of great importance and must be guarded as such, with your lives if necessary!”
The Templars and their companions rose. “Now, we should be away from here at first light. No trace of us or where we stopped must be found lest others seek to wrest the cloth from you. Make no mistake as to its value.” The urgency in his voice was disturbing. “There are those who would pay a king’s ransom to obtain it and stop at nothing to put it in the hands of the Holy Father in Rome.”
The perfecti looked at each other. “Your visit here to us will be made known only to the Lady Esclarmonde,” Bertrand said finally. “We will do as you have bidden; you have clearly taken great risks to be here. What the Lady Esclarmonde does with the linen is her affair. It appears to have some power as you have suggested, and who knows what use she may put it to.”
They quickly said thei
r farewells. Hardly had the clatter of the four departing horsemen subsided when Bertrand made his farewells to Benoit and set out on his journey which had now been given an added impetus. He must do the Templars’ bidding and take the fabled piece of cloth to Esclarmonde with all haste!
Chapter Twelve
Occitania, South of France
1207 – 1208 AD
The Albigension Crusade
“Go to your spinning, Lady.” The tone was haughty, the voice icy. “It is no business of yours to discuss matters such as these.”
There was a hush as Dominic de Guzman’s companion Stephen of Minia delivered these words of dismissal to the Lady Esclarmonde, who was seated in the hall of the Chateau de Castela, her brother’s home in Pamiers. It was here that Catholics and Cathars had met once more in an effort to make each other understand and respect their differing religious beliefs.
Catholic bishops and priests alike were surprised by the ill-mannered remarks of this foreign brother, who clearly had no idea of the status of Esclarmonde in this region of Occitania. Not only was she the sister of the Count of Foix, one of the premier nobles of the area, she held vast tracts of land and property in her own name. Becoming a perfecta in the previous year had only served to heighten the great reverence in which she was held by all Cathars and, truth to tell, by many good Catholics.
