The de Montfort Histories - The Dove and the Devil

by Bell, Gradyn

  “I do not wish to reveal the history of this linen which I am about to hand into your care.”

  Pons opened his mouth to speak, but Bertrand interrupted him. “As I have mentioned before, the less said about it, the better. There are only a few amongst the elders who are party to this information—not because the others are not trustworthy, but because any knowledge of it is dangerous and it could sign their death warrants. By withholding all that we know, we are attempting in a small way to protect you. You will not be able to reveal what you don’t know, should something evil befall you. All I will say to you is that this material, if it is what we believe it to be, could be worth many men’s lives. Many men have already died in pursuit of it.”

  “But what am I to do with it?” Pons asked.

  “With that devil, de Montfort, approaching us as rapidly as he is, we must move it out of Fanjeaux. You know yourself that his armies are on our very doorstep. Not only that, I’m sure Dominic de Guzman suspects that we elders know more about the linen than we should. What he would say and do were he to find it here, I would not like to guess. The lady Esclarmonde herself sent it to us for safekeeping, and now it must be moved again because we don’t know what the next few weeks will bring.”

  “Does my lord of Toulouse know of this? His instruction to me was to go to Esclarmonde in Pamiers.”

  “Indeed he does not,” Bertrand said firmly. “Although he is our ally and our protector in many ways, he is not a believer. He has to run with both the hare and the hounds, and in order to protect his Cathar friends, he must be a professed Catholic. The burden of this linen would be too much upon his soul. He would have to give it up to the Holy Father.

  Now, you will set out in the direction of Pamiers, but you will take a more southerly route across the hills to Mirepoix. Never fear, on the way brothers will meet you and guide you through the worst of the forests. Say nothing of your burden to anyone. In Mirepoix you will go to the house of Giraud Sicre—he is one of us. There you will wait for your next orders. You need only show the dove for help to be immediately forthcoming.”

  “But what of my journey to Pamiers? My Lord of Toulouse gave me instructions to go to the Lady Esclarmonde.”

  “At the moment, our needs are greater than his Lordship’s. There are important things at stake and you will play a very large role in making history, I assure you. We will make things right with Toulouse. You must now do our bidding, my son! Never fear,” he added. “Your innocence is your best protection. Go now and ready yourself for your journey. And may God go with you.”

  Bertrand turned to the other perfecti while Arnaud pronounced the blessing on the youth. “May God make a good Christian of you and bring you to a good end.”

  As devout as he was, Pons could not help hoping that “the good end” would not be brought to him too soon.

  Where to hide the linen was a major concern for the young man. He was unable to put it in a saddlebag—he had no horse—and he could not hide it in his clothes; it was too large, even rolled up. Finally, he determined it would be best to wrap it around his upper body. This would give him the appearance of a much thicker-set man. He could only pray that he would not need to undress in front of any strangers and he made up his mind, then and there, to avoid all inns because of their communal sleeping quarters.

  Alain de Toulouse had very little difficulty in joining forces with de Montfort, who was delighted by the arrival of his former enemy’s eldest son. Simon found it hard to believe that the once proud Count of Toulouse was prepared to bend the knee—if not to him, to Holy Mother Church. The men Alain’s father had sent to accompany him were welcome indeed. De Montfort needed them desperately, for although Alicia had brought reinforcements, there was always a shortage of good fighting men.

  He had already begun his campaign to win back the fortresses he had lost so precipitously the year before, but his army was thinly stretched and, as always, the advantage was with the opposing forces due to their intimate knowledge of the countryside. With the addition of Toulouse’s son and his local knowledge of the terrain and the language, Simon hoped to encourage other Occitanians to join his forces.

  Simon and Alain had had their first encounter at the siege of Minerve. Impressively positioned, the town had been flanked by deep gorges, and Simon was obliged to surround the community and position his siege machines in the mountains that encircled the town. After several weeks of bombardment, a lucky hit had destroyed the staircase to the well, and water became unobtainable. After many citizens died of thirst, the town surrendered. The terms of the surrender were simple and non-negotiable; the Elders in the town would recant their heresy, or die by fire.

  Alain rode into Minerve as the pyres were being constructed, the smell of death already hanging in the air.

  None of the Cathars had recanted; they would be burned at the stake. He could hardly believe his eyes as he rode through the ruins of the small community to the square where the fires would be lit. He had heard of these burnings, but nothing in his imagination had prepared him for the actual event. In truth, he had always suspected that the reports the messengers had brought back to his father had been exaggerated. He knew now that they were not!

  When Alain was ushered into Simon’s presence, he was surprised to find the Pope’s Legate, Arnold-Almeric, seated at a table, which was set with goblets for wine and several platters of roast chicken and jugged hare. It appeared that both the military and the religious commanders were about to dine.

  “Come in, my boy.” Simon’s welcome seemed genuine. “We have been expecting you. Your father’s message reached us several days ago. Please join us. You must be hungry after your journey.” He motioned for Alain to seat himself.

  The Papal Legate did not appear so welcoming. He had no reason to trust any of the offspring of his enemy, the Count of Toulouse, who had made a fool of the illustrious cleric once too often. Nevertheless, he proffered his hand on which he wore the ring bearing the insignia of his office. Alain dutifully kissed it, noticing the softness of the skin of the man who wore it. This man might be the religious leader of the Crusade, but as anyone could see, he had never sullied his hands by fighting. He preferred to fight in the background—with words rather than weapons. There was less risk that way.

  As far as the young man was concerned, the meal was a nightmare, conscious as he was of what was taking place in the square outside the church vestry where he and the other two men were eating. The smoke from the bonfires was already curling round the portals of the church. The choking atmosphere appeared to deter his companions’ appetites not one whit; the cleric polished off two fat capons and several flagons of wine in a matter of minutes. Simon was a little more abstemious, but Alain, try as he might to force down some morsels of food, found himself near to gagging every time he tried to swallow.

  “You will have to harden your stomach, my boy,” Simon said, chuckling. “You will be treated to worse sights than these. These people had a chance to save their lives but did not wish to do so. They have chosen to die in this manner, and we certainly do not want to disappoint them, do we?”

  Alain did his best to appreciate the humour. The last thing he wanted was for these two abominations of God to suspect that he was not here to do their bidding or help with their cause.

  “Come,” Arnold-Almeric said as he struggled to his feet. “They are going to lead the first of the heretics to the fire. We may yet witness a miracle if some of them decide to change their minds about what they believe. My only regret is that the cursed faidits managed to escape our clutches.”

  “Have the believers ever done that at this stage, changed their minds?” Alain asked in an effort to quell the dizziness that assailed him.

  “No,” Arnold-Almeric answered in a querulous tone. “They never give up. And mark my words, in a while they will start to sing!”

  As if on cue, the victims’ voices were raised as one in a hymn of praise. The young man turned away. His stomach had revolted at las
t, and the meal he had forced himself to eat splashed over his boots and, insultingly, over those of the Legate, who fairly danced with rage at the ruination of his fine leather footwear.

  The youth saw that it did not take very long to dispatch one hundred and forty souls to their maker—or, as Arnold-Almeric said sourly, “to hell!” After the burning, a pall of greasy black smoke hung over the area so Alain was relieved when Simon invited him to ride out around the town’s fallen defences. Happy at the chance to breathe some unsullied air, the boy was even more relieved when the Legate refused Simon’s invitation to ride with them, preferring to rest before the evening meal and, as he had said rather testily while looking at Alain, change his soiled garments!

  The two men rode in silence for a few minutes before Simon spoke. “My next objective is Termes,” he confided to the boy, “and I’ll need more men for that. What I desire is that you ride in all haste to your father who is waiting for my orders. He has billeted those of his vassals who will fight with us in the town next to the chateau. He will be expecting a messenger from me.” He smiled grimly as he spoke. “Tell him I require him to muster as many able-bodied soldiers as possible and that they are to join me in Montlaur where I have garrisoned a few of my men already. I know your father will not refuse me, anxious as he is to prove his loyalty to Holy Mother Church! In any event, when you go from here you must leave the soldiers who came with you. I am sure they will be as loyal to me as they are to your father!”

  Alain looked at Simon, seeking some confirmation of the sarcasm he heard in the man’s voice; however, the crafty leader’s facial expression gave nothing away.

  “William of Termes is a stubborn devil and I foresee a long siege before we break his resolve. Our army is stretched thin. With every conquest we make, we must leave a garrison of soldiers guarding what we have won, so we will have need of many more men of good fighting calibre before the campaign is finished. Now, I see by the slump in your shoulders that you are tired. Get some rest. You must leave at dawn tomorrow.”

  Pons heaved a sigh of relief when he arrived in Mirepoix. His journey had been all the more arduous because he avoided staying in any area where communal sleeping was required, which ruled out virtually all the accommodation en route. He was tired and hungry when he approached the town. At least, he thought to himself, I will be amongst believers here because the Count of Foix is Esclarmonde’s brother, and there is sure to be a large contingent of us.

  It did not take him long to discover, however, that while he had been journeying to the town, the political situation had changed for the worse. Mirepoix itself, that bastion of Cathar sympathisers, had fallen to the Devil’s army and many of the brethren had been rounded up and taken away to be questioned by the local Catholic bishops. Those who had managed to escape had fled to the countryside and the mountains. Pons was reluctant to ask too many questions for fear of arousing suspicion, and spent all his time avoiding the men garrisoning the town. He had no wish to remake the acquaintance of his former soldier companions, fine fellows though they were!

  The youth was very hungry—a condition he had learned to live with by now—and had no idea whether his contact, Bernard de Sicre, was alive or dead. The noise he heard as he walked past several taverns bore witness to the number of men who were intent on using any free time they had to drink themselves into oblivion. It seemed to him a dangerous idea to call at any of these establishments for information, as he had no desire to draw attention to himself. Viewing it safer to go hungry, he decided finally to turn around and make his way back to Fanjeaux. Hardly had he turned on his heels when he felt a slight tap on his shoulder. He whirled around, expecting trouble, or, at the very least, one of his former soldier acquaintances.

  It was no one he recognised—certainly not a soldier—but a middle-aged woman dressed plainly in black with a white coiffed head covering.

  She looked at him intently before remarking, “These are strange times, are they not?”

  Pons could not help but agree with her, all the time wondering who or what she was.

  “Are you by any chance looking for work? Most of our young men have gone, either to fight the enemy or to do other of God’s work.”

  Pons noticed she carefully did not clarify whom she meant by “enemy,” or what she meant by “God’s work.” He replied, “If you know of anyone who could allow me food in return for a few days’ work, I would gladly labour for them!”

  “Would you mind working in the fields? I am especially fond of working outside myself. I love the fresh air, particularly the singing of the birds. Do you like birds?”

  The question hit Pons like a blow to his face. Who was this woman and could he trust her? “Well, yes,” he stammered. “I am fond of birds.”

  “My favourites are doves,” she went on chattily. “I love the cooing noise they make.”

  Without saying a word, Pons pulled out the tiny dove he wore around his neck. He could only hope he wasn’t making an enormous mistake.

  “Thank God I have found you!” Her face expressed her relief. “Follow me. I will lead you to some of our brethren. We knew you were coming because Bernard de Sicre managed to get a message to us just before he was taken. The elders have mostly gone; many of them managed to save themselves, but one or two were unlucky. A few of us believers said we would stay behind. It seems the Devil is not too concerned with us. He wishes only to convert our Elders, thinking that should they desert our church we will follow suit.”

  She hurriedly guided Pons down several narrow streets until she eventually came to a small house set into a large stone wall.

  “I think you will be safe here for a while,” she said. “There is no entry from the back of the house, and the walls are nearly ten feet thick. They are the original ramparts of the town. Not even de Montfort himself was able to batter them down!” She paused to look at him. “I think you could do with some food,” she said decisively, putting some bread in front of him, along with a large bowl of some sort of stew. As Pons ladled the meat onto his bread he could not have cared less if it had been rat meat. He was famished, a condition that had become all too familiar to him in the past few months.

  “What will you do now? We have no knowledge of why you are here, only that it was important you were looked after and helped to leave safely when you wished to do so.”

  Speaking with his mouth full, Pons replied, “I must return to Fanjeaux as soon as possible. The brothers there will be anxious to see my return in view of what has happened here. If I might, I would spend the night here and set out before cock crow tomorrow. I can sleep on the floor; I am well used to that. Besides, I have no wish to put you at any more risk. I will leave at first light.”

  Pons took his leave somewhat regretfully the next day. The little house had been comfortable and welcoming, something he had sadly missed in the last few months. It reminded him of home and all the love he received in his own family. For the first time in months, he was beginning to feel homesick—a dangerous emotion—rather like he had felt in Toulouse. How long ago that seemed! Perhaps, he thought, it was time to go home.

  After Simon’s dismissal, Alain had lost no time in returning to his father, whose pleasure at his son’s safe return was obvious. For the first time in several weeks the older man walked with his head held high and a spring in his step. The political machinations of the last months had taken their toll on the Count and his son was quick to notice all the added lines of worry that had developed in his father’s careworn face.

  The Count was less than pleased at de Montfort’s request and had no intention of acceding to the orders of a minor jumped up nobleman, a person of far lesser rank than he, which is what he considered de Montfort to be. Although he had professed himself to be a loyal Crusader and defender of the Church, he never had any intention of fighting against his neighbours, or, for that matter, his own vassals. His public scourging the year before and his submission to the church had been a ploy to keep safe his domains and the pe
ople living on them and the ploy was working. A Crusader’s land and property were sacrosanct and could be attacked by no one!

  In the familiar Tour du Midi, where Alain had spent many happy hours with the rest of his family he was welcomed back by his father, the conversation growing more serious as the evening went on.

  “I had not wished to worry you with the latest summons I have had from the Church Council in St. Gilles, but in view of de Montfort’s demand we must plan our course of action very carefully. I have once more been accused of failing to rid my lands of heretics and Jews. They have told me again that I am to disband my mercenaries, and they wish me to pay more taxes in retribution of my former “sins.” They have demanded my presence in Narbonne. As I understand it, de Montfort will be there. I have not made up my mind what to do. It may be a trap, even though the Council is to be held under the auspices of Holy Mother Church. It will be led by Arnold-Almeric, and you know what that means—he despises me and all I stand for.”

  “De Montfort will not be in Narbonne—not yet, anyway. He thinks you are there waiting for him and has commanded me to tell you to take your men to Montlaur to begin the siege there. I met Arnold-Almeric himself at Minerve. What an odious man! He was there enjoying the conflagration with de Montfort. Can you believe it? They both managed to eat a meal while those poor souls were burning. They are hard men but Arnold-Almeric is an especially vile and vicious person. He claims to be a man of God but he certainly does not deserve the title. I witnessed little of the charity in his black heart that Paul speaks of in the Holy Bible. He enjoyed seeing those souls suffer and was glad so few of them repented. De Montfort was all for giving them a second chance to recant their heresy, but Arnold-Almeric wouldn’t hear of it.”