Raphaëlle trembled. She dreaded facing Margot and Jehanette, and having to tell them that she had made a doleful mistake by coming to the Château de Mirambel. The sounds of sleep had ceased; she could hear them stirring. How distressed they would be to see her in such turmoil! She had been taught to always present a calm exterior to servants. She noiselessly sped from the chamber. She had to be alone, to think, to pray, to decide what to do. If only she knew where the chapel was, but then, it was always kept locked. She did not know where she was going, as she ran down the gallery in the opposite direction of the great hall, her saffron gown billowing behind her.
The gallery narrowed into a low-ceilinged passage, laden with shadows and sudden turns. Coming around a corner, she espied a man and a woman emerging from a chamber. It was her uncle, the Baron, with Simonette. He stroked Simonette’s shoulder in a familiar manner. Bewildered, Raphaëlle spun soundlessly around, ran a few paces back, and dodged out a half-opened door, through which sunlight was gleaming.
She found herself on the battlements, caught in a swirl of wind. The chill invigorated her, sharpening her mind. No sentries were in sight, for she had come out where the north tower curved, affording her enough of an indentation in the body of the castle for a few yards of privacy. She crept to the edge of the wall and peered through the crenellations, breathing in the expanse of the valley below. The autumn colors melted into each other against the grey crags. The river glittered through the wooded hills and meadows like a twisting snake. In the distance, the snow-covered peaks pierced the very heavens. Raphaëlle experienced the illusion of flying into the immensity of blue. Memory engulfed her, and the longing for her mother and father, her brother and sister. Tears flowed with abandon, as she rested her face against her hands, which gripped the rough, stone merlon.
“And God saw that it was good,” quoted a masculine voice behind her. She turned around. Martin de Revel-Saissac stood behind her, in a grey tunic girt with sword and scabbard, his ebony head bare. His jovial eyes and smile were so close to her, it was like sinking back into the pleasant dream from which she had been awakened.
“You wonder how the Cathars can believe that it was all created by the devil,” he said, gesturing towards the vista of mountains and sky. Then he noticed her tear-stained face. Gravity shadowed his brow; his lips parted with concern. “You have been weeping, Lady Raphaëlle.” His eyes darted across her partially exposed shoulders. He stepped towards her, to be halted by the flash of her temper.
“You!” she cried. “Why did you not tell me?! This place is a hotbed of Cathars! What a fool you must think me! You should have warned me!”
“Warned you?” he queried. “It was too late when I met up with you on the road. Where else would you have gone at that desperate hour? You were already in a fearful humor. I would have been cruel to add to it.”
“Perhaps,” she choked. “But I shall not stay here. I will go home tomorrow. I have decided.”
“I do not think the baron will permit you to leave. You are already legally bound to Master Raymond; they have taken possession of your dowry, I daresay.”
“Then you should have let me escape when I had the chance,” she fumed. He moved forward, taking her hand. “No, it would not have been right. It is good that you are here. You are needed in this valley. You will be a strong influence for good, and for truth, to the people here.”
“But there is great wickedness in this place!” she cried. “It is not a castle of light; it is a castle of darkness. So, since my fiancé is a Cathar, will he think he will be sinning if he marries me? But then, I just saw my uncle, a married man, caressing a woman not his wife! It is all so…so…twisted!”
“I told you your uncle was no boon companion of mine, did I not?” reminded Martin. “He has been exceedingly weak in his dealings with Lady Esclarmonde. He allows himself to be completely ruled by her.”
“She is a Cathar, too,” commented Raphaëlle. “I can tell.”
“A Cathar, indeed!” exclaimed Martin. “Lady Esclarmonde is a Perfecta, one of the leaders of the sect, the only ones who are bound to refrain from carnal relations and flesh meat. She has received what they call the consolamentum, the ‘baptism of light’ which sets them apart from the rest. She stopped living as the baron’s wife shortly after Master Raymond was born. Pierre did not stand in her way, but turned to other women for consolation. Simonette la Belle has been his concubine for years, and has borne him a child. But before her, there was Esterelle.”
“Who was Esterelle?”
“Esterelle was the twin sister of Esclarmonde. Your uncle seduced her when his wife began to pursue her ‘calling.’ When the baron fell in love with Simonette, he abandoned Esterelle, who had just brought forth a stillborn child. Overcome with sorrow and shame, Esterelle ran away on a night of wind and thunder. She disappeared without a trace, except that her kirtle was found close to the spot which the peasants call the Vallée des Dracs. The faery folk, it is said, are always in search of human mothers to nurse their pixie offspring. It is believed by many in the neighborhood that Esterelle dwells among the faeries even to this day, for often a stray woodsman claims to have glimpsed her, gathering herbs by moonlight. To her family, however, she is regarded as dead.”
“What an incredible story… and what a sad one!” sighed Raphaëlle. “It is all the more clear to me that I must leave this place. I must go before something terrible happens to me! I want to return to my home!” Covering her face with her hands, she openly sobbed.
Martin put his arms around her. Impulsively, she clung to him, burying her face against his chest, so that the beating of his heart mingled with the shuddering of her frame. His hands became lost in her tangled hair, as he drew her even closer than she could have imagined possible. Her mind seemed to discard its cares in a rush of exultation; the tears ceased to flow. As if by some wordless command she slowly tilted back her head, but before their eyes could meet, his mouth landed upon her own. She had never before been kissed by a man; the fleeting embraces of her former betrothed bore no comparison. His fingers wandered gently across her shoulder, and her conscience awoke. She flung herself backwards and slapped him.
“You hypocrite!” she cried, trying to wipe away the taste of his kiss. “They are heretics here, but you are a hypocrite! I am practically a wife and you – you are practically a monk. It is your duty to protect and guide me but you – you are a seducer as well!”
Martin’s countenance fell; he appeared horrified with himself. “Forgive me…please…forgive me, Mademoiselle,” he sputtered. “A thousand apologies! You… you bring to mind someone quite beloved to me, whom God took from this world. Forgive me! It will not happen again!”
Raphaëlle hastened from the battlements. Bliss strove with shame as she found her way back to her chamber. Margot clucked over her state of disarray, but Raphaëlle’s emotions were too intense for speech, and so she gave no explanation. Jehanette mirrored her silence, with wide eyes and pallid visage expressing her concern, as they rearranged Raphaëlle’s hair and apparel.
“Witches, spells and heretics,” Margot muttered over and over again. Simonette appeared at the door.
“Lady Esclarmonde has commanded me to give Mademoiselle a tour of the castle,” she announced with a curtsy. Raphaëlle could not help regarding Simonette with curiosity. She had never before seen an actual concubine. Simone was placid and respectful. It seems she had not noticed Raphaëlle in the passage outside the baron’s chamber. They spent the rest of the afternoon going over the entire château. Raphaëlle saw the kitchens, the buttery, the scullery, the smithy, the stables, the mews, the armory, and the cellars, all the while meeting the servants who worked at the various capacities; she tried to remember their names. She was shown the kitchen garden, and another, larger orchard between the first and second walls of defense on the southern slope of the castle hill. She was then taken to Lady Esclarmonde’s solarium and stillroom, as well as the baron’s state chamber and council room. Finally, after the laundry and bathhouses came the guardhouse, where she greeted Sir Alain, Sir Gérard, and the several men-at-arms who had escorted her during her journey, especially the wounded ones. Sir Alain and Sir Gérard were not quite as surly as they had been before the attack, and bowed quite low to her as she departed. As for the chapel, it was an isolated building on the high battlements of the east side.
“I am sorry, Mademoiselle,” said Simonette in her husky voice. “It is not permitted to enter. Neither are we allowed to climb the stairs of the north tower. It is for Lady Esclarmonde and her – her friends.”
“And her Cathars, you mean,” retorted Raphaëlle. Simonette quickly glanced away.
“Are you a Cathar, too, Simonette?” asked Raphaëlle, bluntly, in spite of the woman’s discomfiture.
“Oh, no, Mademoiselle. I am a Catholic. I go to Mass in the parish church every Sunday. But I never receive Communion.” Simonette did not raise her thick lashes as she spoke.
“I understand,” said Raphaëlle, soberly, wishing she possessed the wisdom to counsel her. “I shall pray for you, Simonette,” was all she could think of to say. Raphaëlle retired early that evening, taking only a little bean, bacon, and leek soup and some wine in her parlor for supper. Churning homesickness overwhelmed her. She recited Compline from her mother’s breviary, remembering how she and her parents had often sung the hours together in the candlelit radiance of their chapel at the Château de Miramande, usually accompanied by the Franciscan friar who served as their chaplain. She was happy to crawl between the lavender-scented sheets for a few hours of oblivion.
She awoke in the depths of the night. She had been dreaming of the faeries in the Vallée des Dracs. For an instant she thought the dream was real, for she heard singing, a strange chilling sound, disturbing the pre-dawn stillness. In the glow of the dying fire, Raphaëlle climbed out of bed and slipped on her linen dressing gown, throwing a long woolen mantle about her shoulders. She went to the window. The chanting seemed to be coming from the chapel. There must be a service going on there. She stole from her bedchamber, determined to see for herself what was happening, and what the chapel actually looked like inside. After all, if she was one day to be chatelaine of the Château de Mirambel, it was her duty to be cognizant of its mysteries. She sped from shadow to shadow, avoiding sentries, while navigating the twists and turns that led to the eerie chanting. As she approached, she recognized the tongue to be neither Latin nor faery, but the Occitan.
At length she approached the singular building. The small steeple, which gleamed in the moonlight, bore no cross. The double doors were flung wide open, and there were several persons huddled in the arched portal to observe the service, for the tiny chapel was overflowing. She recognized knights and ladies whom she had met at the feast, as well as a few of the servants, and miscellaneous simple folk, who must have come up from the village. It was easy for Raphaëlle to slip up behind them, and peer over their shoulders in order to view the spectacle.
Nothing had prepared her for what she beheld. About thirty people were crowded into the place of worship, which Raphaëlle’s mind ceased to label a “chapel,” for it did not resemble anything in her experience which merited the name. The stone walls and vaulted ceilings, illuminated by candles, were whitewashed and bereft of all decoration. The windows were milky-green; there was no stained glass, no statues, no rood screen, no images of saints or angels, and no tabernacle. Above the apse there was painted on the ceiling a large, circular blue flower with several layers of petals. On the wall beneath it was painted a tumbling white dove. In the center of the sanctuary was a plain marble table covered with a white linen cloth, bearing two candles and an open book. On a smaller side table stood a copper ewer and basin for washing hands, and folded linen napkins. The only other objects of religious significance were several banners placed throughout the nave, extremely plain ones, Raphaëlle thought, without gold or silk embroidery, and of symbolic representations she did not recognize. The emblem of the chalice was familiar, but completely alien were the diamond-shaped design, the bull’s head, and the blue flower.
At the head of the assembly stood Lady Esclarmonde in her voluminous black robes. With upraised arms and trailing sleeves, she prayed like a pagan priestess of old, facing the falling dove. All the believers had their arms similarly outstretched; Raphaëlle realized that Esclarmonde was praying the Pater Noster in the vernacular. Then the lady then knelt before the table. After kissing the floor, she spoke in a loud voice.
“We have come before God and before you and before the ordinances of the Holy Church that we may receive pardon and penance for all our sins in thought, word and deed from our birth until now and we ask of God mercy and of you that you pray for us to the Holy Father of Mercy that He forgive us.”
Raphaëlle thought of her aunt the Mother Abbess. This was similar to what the nuns in the monastery did at their chapter of faults.
“Let us worship God and declare all our sins and numerous offences in the sight of the Father, the Son and the honored Holy Spirit, of the honored Holy Gospels and the honored Holy Apostles, by prayer and faith and by the salvation of all the upright and glorious Christians and blessed ancestors asleep and here present, for their sake we ask you, holy lord, to pardon all our sins. Benedicte, Parcite Nobis.”
The believers responded: “Amen.” The Perfecta continued. “For numerous are the sins by which we daily offend God, night and day, in thought, in word and deed, wittingly and unwittingly, and especially by the desires the evil spirits bring to us in the flesh which clothes us. Benedicte, Parcite Nobis.”
“Amen.” Raphaëlle was impressed by their fervent and devout tones.
“Whereas we are taught by God`s Holy Word as well as by the Holy Apostles and the preaching of our spiritual brothers to reject all fleshly desire and all uncleanness and to do the will of God by doing good we, unworthy servants that we are, not only do not do the will of God as we should, but more often give way to desires of the flesh and the cares of the world, to such an extent that we wound our spirits. Benedicte, Parcite Nobis.”
“Amen.” Raphaëlle whispered the response as well.
“We go with those who are of the world, mixing with them, talking and eating with them, and sinning in many things so that we wound our brothers and our sisters. Benedicte, Parcite Nobis.”
“Amen.”
“By our tongues we fall into idle words, vain talk, mockery and malice, detraction of our brothers and sisters whom we are not worthy to judge nor to condemn their faults. Among Christians we are sinners. Benedicte, Parcite Nobis.”
“Amen.” It all sounded very Catholic to her. They even used some Latin.
“The penance which we received we have not observed as we ought to have done, neither the fasting nor the prayer. We have wasted our days and hours. While we are saying the Holy Prayer our senses are diverted to carnal desires and worldly cares, so that at this moment we hardly know what we can offer to the Father of the Just. Benedicte, Parcite Nobis.”
“Amen.”
Suddenly, she felt a hand upon her shoulder, and a whispered feminine plea. “Come away! Come quickly away!” She turned around. It was the girl with auburn hair, whom Raphaëlle had seen on the battlements at night and then flitting through the orchard at noon. Her amber eyes were great with fear, her white face, tear-stained. A high forehead, arched eyebrows and Grecian nose added beauty to her elfin mystique. She wore a russet wool tunic, similar in color to her hair. “Come, come!” she pleaded again, grabbing Raphaëlle’s waist. Raphaëlle began to follow.
“Who are you?” she asked.
The maiden did not answer, but started to run, and Raphaëlle ran with her. Soon the voices of the Cathars were behind them, as they passed through an arch into a long passage, up a narrow, spiral stair, where there was a low door. The girl drew from her kirtle a key attached to a cord, and unlocked the door. Raphaëlle had to bend to enter, curiosity and a sense of adventure overcoming any trepidation. She found herself in a small oriel built onto the side of the castle. “Who are you?” Raphaëlle asked once more.
“I am one who weeps much, laughs seldom, and watches always,” said the fey creature.
“Why do you weep?” asked Raphaëlle. “Because I was once kissed, by one who now tries to forget that I exist.”
“Sir Martin kissed you?” stammered Raphaëlle.
Tears began to well up once more in the pools of amber. “Yes…yes. It was in the springtime, near the Vallée des Dracs, and all the new leaves were dancing, while all the birds sang. He wove a crown of blossoms for my hair. We… we had been riding together on his horse. He sang a song he wrote just for me.” She paused and began to sing:
The damsel with the swirling hair,
She waits for me, she waits for me.
And I with longing await the day
When with that mantle bright
I will be wrapped
And with those arms, caressed….
The girl broke off her song, so choked was she with tears. Raphaëlle felt indignation rising up against Sir Martin. “He is a renegade, Mademoiselle,” declared Raphaëlle. “I am certain of it. I believe he should be reported to his superior.”
“Oh, no!” cried the maiden. “I do not want him to get in trouble on my account! He did me no harm.”
“Of course he did you harm! He dallied with your affections and then abandoned you. Your father must be outraged.”
The girl said nothing, but cast Raphaëlle an odd, sideways glance. “Oh, no. I think my father hoped Sir Martin would beget a child with me, which would bind him more closely to us. But he only kissed me, and once, only once.”
“Once was more than enough!” exclaimed Raphaëlle. “But your father must be quite a knave to wish you to sacrifice your virtue for his intrigues.”
The girl stared at her with a sober expression. “My father is the baron,” she declared.
“What!” cried Raphaëlle. “No!”
“Yes, it is so. My mother is Simonette la Belle. I am Bertrande.” “Then… then you are my cousin!” Raphaëlle felt she could not quite absorb it and would have to think of it later. Then she blurted out: “But why, Bertrande, did you take me from the service?”
“Because they do not like to be watched by outsiders. Especially not during the aparelhament, the monthly confession of faults.”
“Do they all publicly confess their faults?” asked Raphaëlle.
“No, since only the Perfecti are so bound, and Lady Esclarmonde is the only Perfecta among them tonight, except for those in training. Only the Perfecti are bound to obey their rules; the rest do pretty much as they please. They like to pretend that it is harder to be a Cathar than a Catholic, but for most of them it is not. They do not even keep all of the Ten Commandments half the time. And they eat meat on Fridays, and laugh at fasting, saying it is only for the ‘Good Men,’ which is what they call the Perfecti.”
“Then, you are a Catholic?” asked Raphaëlle.
“Oh, yes. I will take you to meet Abbé Nicolau in the village. He is kindly towards everyone, but Lady Esclarmonde hates him. He is not allowed to come to the castle, not ever. He is good to me, and does not think that I am mad.”
“I do not think that you are mad,” said Raphaëlle. She surveyed the oriel. It was adorned like a small oratory, with a prayer cushion and an icon of the Virgin. “Tell me, what is this place?”
“It is my secret place. My father gave it to me as my own. I tell my beads here, and hide from Raymond when he gets nasty.” Raphaëlle shuddered at Raymond’s name. “What a dreadful boy! He is handsome but quite disagreeable.”
Bertrande regarded her with steady solemnity. “He is, truly. I would not marry him, if I were you. It would be better to run away to the faeries, like Esterelle. He pretends to be pure, and studies to be a Perfecti, but his deeds are as foul as his breath. He has many unclean habits. There are those among the servants who try to stay out of his way. My mother told me to keep away from him at all costs.”
“I knew it,” sighed Raphaëlle. “There is no doubt that I must escape from this castle. Are there any monasteries of nuns nearby where I could seek sanctuary?”
“There is said to be a new monastery of nuns in Toulouse. It would be a dangerous journey over miles of rough country. I do not know the way, but we could find someone who does. Perhaps you can ask Abbé Nicolau. Shall I take you to him tomorrow morning?”
“Oh, yes,” agreed Raphaëlle, thoughtfully. “But first, I should like to see the Vallée des Dracs. Have you ever caught a glimpse of the lost Esterelle?”
“I know many who have claimed it. Alas, I am not allowed to go into the Vallée des Dracs. But I can show you where it lies.” And Bertrande broke into a smile.
“Very good!” exclaimed Raphaëlle. “Meet me in the stables in the morning around the hour of Terce.”
“I will,” said Bertrande. “You must go back to your chamber now. Do you know the way?”
“Yes. Thank you! Good night!”
“Good night!” And the cousins parted with the hope that a new friendship brings.