Witness Testimony recorded by Lucien
VILLAGE OF VILAFRANCA DE LAURAGUÉS
William de Lauragués: stonemason;
age forty (he thinks)
ood day to you, Friar Inquisitor. Have you come to preach? My men will not mind listening to preaching after we break for the day and for dinner. We must seize the daylight. Count Raimon’s bastida will not build itself, and these stones, they do not cut themselves, either. We’ll be a fine town here before too long.
If you’re hungry, the cook has some nice fatty coneys, and turnips, and bread and cheese. Probably some wine, too, if he hasn’t drunk it all himself. He’s over there by the fire.
I go to mass, Brother Preacher, on holy days. My wife, she makes me. My soul is good enough with God. Eat some food, and save your words for those who need them more. If you will return in the evening, the men will be glad of some preaching to pass the time.
A femna? That’s the other way they like to pass the evenings. Ho! Ha!
Friar Inquisitor, I have one hundred and forty men here under me, building this bastida. I can’t concern myself with every wench who wanders into this camp.
How was this one different, then?
And when would that have been?
Hm? Oh, nothing. Are you related to her?
What has this donzȩlla done, to have a preaching friar searching for her? Does she have a father or uncles or brothers looking for her? I ask, because a man came through yesterday seeking a girl. A lordly man, I should say a warrior. Likely no connection.
I haven’t seen a young donzȩlla. But I will tell you this, Friar. You’ll recall the rainy morning, a few days back. My men huddled in tents and waited for the storm to pass. I came out in the rain to examine a section of wall. When I approached, I saw a figure get up and scurry off. Man, woman, young, old. I don’t know. Vagrants do pass through. If this person thought the wall would offer shelter from the wet, he—or she?—was mistaken.
Here’s the odd thing. I reached the spot where the person had been. All around it was mud, thick and black. Wet as eels, the day was. But in the spot where the person had been, it was dry as salt. With grasses spread in a hollow like blankets. Dry as holy relics, yet surrounded by all that wet, like Gideon’s fleece.
My wife said the person must have been a true saint for God to keep the water off like that. She said it’s a miracle.
My wife is a faithful Catholic, Friar Preacher.
It may have nothing to do with the donzȩlla you’re looking for.
You asked if I’d seen anything, and that’s what I saw.