The de Montfort Histories - The Dove and the Devil (6 page)

The meal was a protracted one as usual, and it wasn’t long before Guy
fell asleep under the bench where they were sitting. Even Amaury was beginning
to feel his eyelids pricking with tiredness; however, he was startled into
awareness by the mention of his name. He looked towards the high table to see
his father beckoning him. His first thought was that Guy had managed to
disgrace both himself and Amaury, but a quick look under the bench showed him
this couldn’t be the case because the younger boy was fast asleep with his
thumb in his mouth.

Simon beckoned him again. Amaury pushed his way through the slavering
dogs patiently waiting for table scraps they knew would soon be coming, through
the crowds of knights of lesser rank, and past all the retainers standing guard
over their lords and ladies. What could his papa want of him? He racked his
brain trying to remember if he had done anything to displease his father, but
nothing of importance sprang to mind, unless you considered stealing marchpane
from the kitchen a crime!

Reaching the high table and remembering his manners, he bowed to the
Lord Thibaut and kissed the great crested ring of the papal Legate, Fulques de
Neuilly. He looked warily at Simon, but Simon’s face revealed nothing. In front
of the high table stood a large carved chest.

“Open it,” Simon said.

Amaury put all his strength into heaving up the heavy lid, but it was
solid French oak and he could barely lift it more than a hand span. By this
time, everyone was looking at him and the chest with great interest. Amaury
tried again, and this time, spurred on by his father, succeeded. The sight that
met his eyes caused him to blink and look again. The links of chain mail on the
hauberk glinted in the light of the candle in their sconces.

“Go on,” Simon said. “Lift it out.”

Hardly daring to believe his eyes, Amaury withdrew a perfect set of
armour, fashioned to fit a boy of his size. He was seized with such a fit of
trembling he could hardly talk, let alone try it on. Walter saved the day by
running around the table to help him put it on. After a small struggle, Amaury
stood proudly in front of his father, not noticing his mother’s tears as she
viewed her baby’s first step towards manhood. She knew from this day on that
his dependence on her was over.

Simon rapped on the table to gain everyone’s attention. “By your leave,
Milord Thibaut, I have something to say to you all, and it concerns my son and
heir.” Amaury looked up from admiring his new armour when he heard his name
mentioned. “This day week,” Simon continued, “Amaury will set forth to
Leicester, where he will go as page to my uncle, the Earl.”

Everyone at the high table applauded. The Earl of Leicester was well
known to them all—a powerful lord and a warrior of great distinction.

Amaury was stunned. This was his dream come true, but he hadn’t imagined
it could happen so quickly. He looked at his mother, who quickly hid her tears
with a brave smile. This was what he had wanted for as long as he could
remember, so why didn’t he feel the way he thought he should feel when this
time came? He tried to smile when all the young pages crowded round to
congratulate him. He was glad when Walter suggested he take off the armour,
though. It was heavy!

The rest of the evening was anticlimactic for Amaury. Even the
troubadours and their music could not arouse any interest in him. Guy was still
fast asleep under one of the trestle tables and had missed most of the evening’s
events. Far from joining in all the fun and games, he had kept awake hardly
long enough to eat anything! Amaury debated whether or not to leave him where
he lay. He looked quite comfortable lying against one of his father’s hounds.
Upon reflection, he thought that his mother might not be happy if she found out
that her younger son had spent the whole night in the great hall with the dogs
and their fleas and those members of the company who were too drunk to find
their proper sleeping quarters. So shaking the little boy awake, he dragged him
up to the bedchamber where several pages were already asleep. After pushing him
with some difficulty into the middle of the bed (even a sleeping four-year-old
could be heavy, he discovered), he climbed in beside him and fell into a
dreamless sleep.

Chapter Four

Occitania, South of France

1199 AD

The Occitanians

The funeral of Arnaud’s wife took place the day after the visit her
parents had made to prepare her for her final resting place. Arnaud had allowed
her to be buried according to her Cathar beliefs and those of her family. In
truth, he had drawn comfort from the simple goodbye the believers had made to
his wife. They had consoled him with their practical kindness and he had been
overwhelmed by the help they had offered him at this time of sadness.

A funeral was not a mournful event for those of the Cathar faith. They
believed quite firmly that Arnaud’s wife was by now reincarnated into another
being and were happy with the thought that she might even inhabit the body of
her little daughter. As far as they were concerned, this was no reason for
sadness! A family had been found for Maurina in Lavaur, and the baby had
already arrived to live with Saissa Boutarra and her husband Pierre, a
good-living couple who were also believers. They already had four children of
their own, the youngest being but two weeks older than Maurina—a little
girl they called Braida—and they hoped the children would grow to be good
companions for each other as they grew older.
                  

 
Arnaud did not know what
route his life would take now. The seemingly simple life that had been mapped
out with his wife and baby had disappeared, and in its place lay a confusion of
mind that would not seem to clear. He knew he could not go back to the house
where he and his wife had awaited the birth of their child with such happiness;
it held too many memories that he couldn’t face. He dreaded even the thought of
entering the dark, empty house that had once been filled with such light.

He was a leather worker by trade and his skills had brought him in a
very satisfying wage. True, he smelt rather bad, as human urine and sometimes
dog dung or cattle brains were used in producing the leather. His hands were
always roughened and stained by the tannic acid used in the first stages of the
process. Looking at his hands, which still glowed yellow, he smiled as he
remembered his wife’s distress when she had taken his work-hardened hands into
her own to rub goose grease into the cracks in his palms. Would he ever return
to the camaraderie of the leather workers’ group? He didn’t think so. They were
as grand a bunch of fellows as one could wish to meet, but he felt no desire to
be anywhere near their jokes now.

Lost in thought, sitting on the small dividing wall that separated his
property from the next, he felt rather than saw the approach of Bertrand Arsen,
the
perfectus
who had come when his
wife had lain dying. Bertrand’s long black cloak cast a shadow over Arnaud as
he approached him from the path behind where the young man sat.

“What will you do now, my boy?” The man’s voice was kind. “Shall you
stay here in Ambres, or will you go to Lavaur?”

“I’ll never live in that house again,” he answered vehemently. “I
couldn’t bear to enter it. I shall ask my neighbours here to clear it out. As
far as I am concerned, it can stand empty or go to ruin for all I care.”

“Perhaps you should dwell on the matter for a while before you make any
great decisions. Why not just leave things as they are for now?” Bertrand
suggested gently. “I am leaving for Taulat tomorrow; why not accompany me and
my friend? It will be an arduous trip through the hills and the track is rough
and rocky on foot, but you look healthy enough to me. It would take your mind
off things.” He waited for Arnaud’s reply.

Unbeknown to Armaud, Bertrand was one of the bishops of the Cathar
church. There was no pomp and ceremony in this church. The only thing that set
the bishops and their helpers apart from other believers was their dress, which
consisted of a simple black cloak over a black tunic around which they wore a
black girdle. They wore sturdy sandals or clogs on their feet because they
walked virtually everywhere. The terrain in which they did their preaching was
often mountainous and it required great stamina to clamber over rocks and
through fast-moving streams where there was no ford. Good sturdy footwear could
make a difference between life and death, especially in the inhospitable
winters of the lower Pyrenees where they oft times ventured.

Arnaud took only a few seconds to consider his reply. It was just what
he needed—a complete change of scenery. He had never been as far away as
Taulat before, and, in fact, knew little of the small community that lay over
the mountains. It would be an adventure of sorts, and would give him something
else to think about other than his dead wife.

“I should like to accompany you. Thank you for asking me.” Arnaud’s
voice was tearful and filled with emotion. Since his wife’s death, even the
smallest measure of kindness had this effect on him.

“Good.” Bertrand’s voice was brisk. “Shall we say tomorrow at dawn? We
will need to get as full a day’s walking as possible. I wish to be in Taulat
within two days, if possible.” With that, he stood up from where he had been
stooping next to Arnaud, patted him on the shoulder and left the way he had
arrived.
    

Arnaud’s trip back into Lavaur where the Boutarras lived took him the
best part of the day. He found the baby Maurina was already well ensconced,
surrounded as she was by three older children of the family who were delighted
with the new arrival. The girls had quarrelled bitterly over taking care of
Braida, their own new baby sister. Now they had another baby to share!

“Have you eaten to-day?” asked Saissa. “By the looks of you I should say
you haven’t!”

“Come, sit down near the fire and join us. We were just about to eat.”
Pierre motioned him towards the table.

Arnaud had not noticed the darkening sky or the passing of time, nor had
he realised how hungry he was. Thinking about it, he could not remember the
last time he had eaten anything substantial. It must have been before the baby
was born.

“Thank you, Pierre.” Arnaud sat down on the bench that ran the length of
the large room. Although the food was not rich, there was lots of it. Saissa
could make a banquet out of a lettuce leaf and a stick of celery, Pierre had
often said to anyone who would listen. The bread she made was white and of good
quality, too, witness to the fine flour that he brought home from the mill
where he worked.

“I am to leave tomorrow morning with Bertrand,” Arnaud began. “We are
going to Taulat with one of his friends.”

What Arnaud had no way of knowing at that time was that this “friend”
was Bertrand’s assistant and an elder or bishop in the Cathar church. Indeed,
at Bertrand’s death, the “friend” would move up to become a bishop in
Bertrand’s place. What Arnaud had also not realized was that on the trip, no
meat would pass his companions’ lips, as the two of them were
perfecti
, or “perfects” who had received
the consolamentum of the living and were now expected to lead perfect lives as
judged by Cathar belief. They would therefore touch no food that they judged to
be contaminated by any sexual act in its production.

Saissa exchanged a glance with Pierre. Being believers, but not
perfecti
, both of them knew that a
hungry trip lay ahead for Arnaud.

“Eat up. Here, have some more,” Pierre said, passing the steaming pot to
Arnaud.

Regretfully, Arnaud had to decline. His stomach was already distended
from the amount he had eaten and he could eat no more.

“I shall make you something to eat on the trip. Perhaps a nice sausage
or some cheese,” Saissa said. Arnaud tried to protest but finally gave up when
he saw she was intent on doing what she had said.
   

Dawn the next day appeared only too quickly. Arnaud felt he could sleep
forever but reluctantly pulled himself from the palliasse in front of the fire
where he had spent the night in the Boutarras’ house. Tiptoeing over to the
baby Maurina who was sleeping the untroubled sleep of a newborn, he kissed her
lightly on her forehead before letting himself out the door. As he set out
towards the southern gate of Lavaur to meet the others, the sun was just
beginning to show its face on the eastern horizon.

It was not long before he saw the two people he was to meet. He was
surprised to see them both dressed in the dark cloak and tunic of the Cathars.
Although he knew little of his wife’s religion, he knew enough to recognize
that these were more than ordinary believers. They had asceticism about them
that the everyday
credentes
did not.
He had heard that the goodmen, as the
perfecti
were called by the non-believers, were so pure they never even went near a
female unless it was to give the consolamentum for the dying. He did not know
how true this was; it might have been merely gossip. It certainly seemed
strange to him that a man ,unless he had taken a vow of chastity as the priests
he knew did, would elect to live his life apart from a woman.
Still, it takes all sorts to make the world
,
he thought as he went forward to greet the small company.