op the bayle returned home to his small maisoṇ after mass and pulled off his shoes.
The old woman who cooked and cleaned for him a few times a week had left a pot of something on his hearth. He poked at the fire and threw on a few more sticks. It reminded him of last night’s execution, and he shuddered.
It was a good living, acting as Guilhem’s bayle. No one troubled him, and he got his money. The mighty must acknowledge him, and the peasants must fear him. So long as he was strong and able, it was a good life, if dull sometimes for want of friendship. But friendship doesn’t fend off starvation in winter, nor shelter anyone from the deadly winds of political and religious conflict that had raged throughout Lop’s lifetime.
Still. That burning woman. She hadn’t stopped burning, behind his eyelids, since this morning. All through breakfast. All through mass. He never took this job wishing to throw old gray femnas in the fire. A woman of the same age as his own mother, were she still alive. Who wanted to do that?
But he’d done it. Lop would never be found lacking in his job.
Dieu, he was tired.
There was a knock at the door. He pulled on his shoes and rose. His sleepless night haunted him now. He opened the door to find the Tolosan knight, Senhor Hugo, standing there.
Lop, as a rule, did not show surprise. He genuflected, befitting the nobleman’s rank.
“Senhor de Miramont,” he said, “how may I serve you?”
“Your name is Lop?”
“Oc.” He bowed again. “Would you care to come inside my home?”
“Grácia.” Senhor Hugo pulled his cloak about his sides and ducked through the door. He was a much taller man than stocky Lop. He sat upon a stool next to the fire.
The bayle pulled a pitcher of wine and some cups from a shelf, but the knight waved the offer away. Lop put them back.
“Good bayle,” the knight said. “What can you tell me about the woman executed last night?”
Lop ran his hand over his wiry whiskers. Danger tingled in the air. He must choose his words carefully.
“She did not much welcome death,” he said. “I can say that much.”
“Who among us does?”
Lop met his gaze. “There are some,” he said, “who seem to court it.”
“What else?”
Lop watched the man’s face. “Her name was Dolssa.”
“Did she state that as her name?”
Lop shook his head. “Non. It’s what Senhor Guilhem said.”
“So he was with you, then, last night?”
“For much of the time, oc.”
Lop wondered to what these questions tended, but he knew not to pry. This knight betrayed no urgency, no desire, but pressed his questions coolly upon him.
“Where was the woman found?”
Lop rubbed his beard. “I don’t know,” he said. “It was Senhor Guilhem who found her and arrested her. Somewhere outside of the vila, I think.”
The knight sat and watched Lop until even he, veteran of trouble, broke his gaze and looked away. He looked back. Another question seemed to hang in the air.
Lop went on the offensive.
“Did you know the woman, Senhor?”
Nothing could ruffle Senhor Hugo. “I was there when she was sentenced in Tolosa. Oc.”
“And she escaped?”
He nodded. “She did.”
No credit to you, thought Lop. A low laugh rumbled in his throat. “Some trick that must have been,” he said, “for such an old crone to slip through the Bishop of Tolosa’s chains.”
Senhor Hugo watched Lop. “Heretics,” he said slowly, “can be cunning.”
“Or have cunning friends,” added Lop.
The knight’s eyebrows rose. “That is also true.” He stood and placed a coin upon the table. “For your good help,” he said. “I’ll see you again.” He left before Lop could rise to show him to the door.