The baron’s face was stern. “I desire words with you, Mademoiselle,” he said to Raphaëlle, while acknowledging Bertrande with barely a glance. “Come and ride beside me.” Raphaëlle climbed upon Zephyr with the help of Bertrande and ambled towards the château, leaving the younger girl behind in the grass of the meadow. “My son Raymond has only just returned to the château in a lamentable state. He says that you quarreled with him.”
For a moment, Raphaëlle was speechless with amazement at such a lie. “That is not so, my lord Uncle. Your son was quite rude to me.” She described Raymond’s behavior. The baron’s forehead furrowed with sorrow. News of his son’s uncouthness and cruelty was not unknown to him. He sighed.
“I will speak to him.”
“Speak to him!” echoed Raphaëlle, indignantly. “Why do you not discipline him, my lord?”
“Raymond does not respect anyone who is not a Cathar,” replied her uncle, bitterly. “He despises Catholics; he despises me. Corporal punishment would make him love me less.”
“Forgive me, my lord!” Raphaëlle burst out. “But I must speak the truth! It is because you are a weak Catholic that he despises you! If you observed the laws of God and the Church, he would at least have to respect your conviction!”
“What I have done, I have done because I had no other choice. I had to allow my wife to follow her conscience, and embrace an ascetic life. God did not mean for me to be a monk, so I live with Simonette, and treat her well.”
Raphaëlle shuddered. “You openly practice adultery, as well as harbor heretics.”
“If I did not shelter the Cathars, they would be put to death. It would be more wrong and cruel for me to allow people to die on account of their beliefs.” They were drawing near to the castle mount. The Baron continued, “Perhaps what you say is true, Raphaëlle. But it is not your place to lecture me. I am the master here. I answer to God, not to you. It is for you to make ready for your wedding, which will occur in a fortnight, on the Eve of All Saints. Abbé Paul Nicolau will officiate if you desire. I beg you to be patient with my son, who is still young, and was forsaken by his mother, even as I was forsaken by her. If you wish, it can be a marriage in name only, until he learns to master his temper.”
Raphaëlle desired to object to the very idea of any form of marriage to Raymond, but held her tongue, fearing that her uncle would suspect her plan to escape. She nodded in feigned acquiescence. They climbed the hill, passing through the gates of the lower walls of defense.
“This place is cursed by God,” she thought, but aloud she said, “What a fine thing it must be to be mistress of such a magnificent fortress.”
Her uncle glowed with pleasure at her remark, and suddenly she felt great pity for him. She returned to her chamber to dress for dinner, only to find Margot and Jehanette in hysterics. Jehanette had gleaned unsettling knowledge about the degenerate habits of the young master. As for Margot, it was enough for her to have discovered that Simonette was the Baron’s concubine, and that Bertrande was their daughter. “Do not fret, my friends,” said Raphaëlle in an undertone. Someone might be listening outside the door. “We are leaving this place, three days hence. It is all arranged. I have made the acquaintance of the parish priest, and he will help us. We will go over the mountains on foot with a band of pilgrims.” Even as the words fell from her lips, her heart sank. Margot would never be able to make such a hazardous journey on foot. The perceptive blue eyes of the nurse noticed Raphaëlle’s distressed countenance. She kissed her cheeks.
“Let me stay behind, Mademoiselle. I will hold them off by telling them you are sick in bed. I will bar the door of the chamber, saying you cannot be disturbed.”
Raphaëlle buried her face in Margot’s shoulder, as she had been wont to do as a child. “I cannot bear to be parted from you, and yet I dread what might befall you in the mountains. The plan is good, but I must ponder it. My uncle the Baron will be good to you for the sake of his sister, my mother, who loved you, dearest Margot, but as for that Raymond creature, no one seems to be able to control him, and there is no telling what he might do out of revenge. No, I do not think I can leave you.”
“Do not fear for me, child. You must get away.” Margot’s ruddy countenance hardened, flint-like in its adamancy.
Simonette arrived, for it was almost time for dinner, and they had to scramble to get Raphaëlle into a bright gown and surcoat of azure samite. She dined once more at her uncle’s side, sharing his cup of wine. Raymond and Esclarmonde again partook of herbs alone. Raphaëlle could not help but glance at the bench where Sir Martin had sat, now taken by dour Sir Gérard. The meal was delectable, but her churning mind made her stomach uneasy.
“You are not eating much, my niece,” commented the Baron, as she nibbled at the slices of capon served her by a young page. Suddenly, one of the guards entered and bowed. As he muttered in the Baron’s ear, the latter slammed his fist down impatiently upon the table. “Ah, mon Dieu! It is an officer of royal seneschal. Why now?” He sighed. “Bid him enter.”
The guard departed from the hall, only to return momentarily with a party of strangers in his wake. A herald strode forward, arrayed in the blue and gold of France. He blew a trumpet, announcing: “Monsieur Jacques d’Orly, officer of His Majesty King Louis IX!” The royal official entered, surrounded by tall knights, all mail-clad and in blue surcoats embroidered with the fleur de lys. Monsieur d’Orly himself was of medium height and wiry build. His helm was carried by his page, revealing a tanned, lean face framed in long lank brown hair, with thin lips, an aquiline nose, and eyes that reminded Raphaëlle of a falcon’s, dark but penetrating. He scrutinized the Baron, sternly.
“Monsieur le Baron.” Sir Jacques bowed stiffly, but his salute was more like an accusation than a greeting. “On behalf of our sovereign lord King Louis and his kinsman and seneschal Monsieur de Beaujeu, I come to investigate the rumor that you are harboring heretics in this castle.”
The Baron appeared not to hear the question. “Monsieur, I pray you be seated and refresh yourself. Your men, too.”
“Thank you, but first may I have an answer to my question. My men would not be pleased to dine with heretics.” Raphaëlle thought that Sir Jacques’ clipped northern accent was harsh on the ears.
The Baron took a long sip from his goblet.
“I swear to you, Monsieur d’Orly, that none who dwell here consider themselves to be heretics.”
Sir Jacques stepped forward. His movements were measured and controlled, but Raphaëlle stiffened, feeling that at that moment anything might happen. “Monsieur le Baron, pray do not bandy words with me. We know that there are Cathars here.” He glanced momentarily at Lady Esclarmonde, as she glared at him disdainfully. “Furthermore,” continued the knight, moving towards Raphaëlle, “it is forbidden for an heiress with lands and fortress to marry into a family of heretics.” Raphaëlle started, raising her face towards his. There was a long, jagged scar across the right side of his face. She longed to say aloud, “There are heretics here!” but she feared the consequences, and decided to remain quiet. Sir Jacques strode to the center of the hall. “Very well. I have only this to say. If there are any heretics here, who choose to recant their errors, they have only to send word to me at the village inn. I will grant them safe conduct to a religious house, where they may receive instruction in the Faith, and then be at liberty to take up a new life.” He started for the door, surrounded by his knights. He turned, his voice filling the hall. “In the name of God, consider my words!” he pleaded. He held Raphaëlle in his gaze for a long moment. Then he was gone.
Raphaëlle’s heart was pounding. Lady Esclarmonde spoke.
“Ah, but at least he did not have one of those ludicrous dog friars with him, those domini canes, or whatever they are called.” Several of the company laughed. “Those friars cause trouble wherever they go, and one does more harm than a handful of Frankish soldiers. I do not want any dog friars to set foot on our lands.” At last the meal ended, with no little atmosphere of trepidation in the hall. What a relief to retire at last to her chamber.
“Jacques d’Orly?” Raphaëlle wondered aloud to Margot and Jehanette. “My father used to speak of one Comte Jean d’Orly, his good friend, whom he met at the coronation of King Louis the Lion. I wonder if this knight is his son.”
“Ay, Mademoiselle, I do recall hearing such a name from your father, God rest him,” replied Margot, as she looped Raphaëlle’s scapular over her head.
“I wish to send him word of my predicament. I will ask Bertrande. Where is she?”
“She disappeared after dinner, Mademoiselle,” said Jehanette. “I will look for her while you sleep, and send her to you.”
“Very well.” After a rest, which passed peacefully, Simonette awoke her. Raphaëlle was surprised; she had expected Bertrande.
“Madame asks for you to attend her in the solarium,” she said with an indolent curtsey. “The ladies are weaving today.” Simonette wore a tightly-laced grey wool tunic and the same chunk of ruby on a gold chain around her neck. Her every movement was unctuously self-effacing, yet calmly self-assured. “I am pleased, Mademoiselle, that you are fond of my little Bertrande. Madame la Baronne has said that she may wait upon you, if you wish.”
Raphaëlle accepted the offer with a gracious smile, although she wondered how much of a practical help Bertrande would ever be as a servant, even if she herself had intended to remain at the Château de Mirambel. She put on a russet scapular as was her custom when performing manual labor. Simonette led her to the solarium, on the west side of the castle. The sunny room, with its many arched windows, was whitewashed and glowing. Lady Esclarmonde presided over a dozen ladies and maid-servants, while sitting upright before her loom like a queen.
The ceiling was painted with angels, clouds and birds; along the walls were the forms of various plants, animals and faery folk, all in vivid colors. Some of the women had spindle and distaff in hand, others were mending, cutting, or weaving like the Baroness. In her black robes, she led them in a weird chant. The tune was oriental but the words were in Occitan.
I am in everything, I bear the skies, I am the foundation, I support the earths; I am the light that shines forth, that gives joy to souls. I am the life of the world; I am the milk that is in all trees; I am the sweet water that is beneath the sons of matter….
The ladies were chanting, but few of the serving women. Lady Esclarmonde’s voice was high, thin, not unpleasant, but eerily disembodied. Raphaëlle stood spellbound and appalled. All the hymns that she knew of were addressed to God. Lady Esclarmonde sang in the first person, as if she herself were divine. The chanting ceased as the lady’s eyes fell upon Raphaëlle. She motioned for her to come forward. The others rose and curtsied. “Come, my niece, and work at my side.” Raphaëlle was handed a spindle and distaff, and sat on a stool next to the Baroness. Around her was the soft buzz of conversation, as the looms shuttled back and forth.
“Did you sleep well, my child?” asked Lady Esclarmonde in tones polite but cold. Her hands moved with a quick deliberateness as she worked, as if suppressing anger or agitation. Raphaëlle wondered what Raymond had told his mother about the encounter in the forest.
“Yes, I did, Madame,” replied Raphaëlle. As her eyes met Esclarmonde’s, she noticed the latter’s were bright with excitement. “She is not even thinking of Raymond. What could have a higher priority than her own son and his behavior?” she wondered.
“How did you like our hymn?” asked the Baroness.
“I have never heard the like of it before, Madame,” stated Raphaëlle, dryly. “It is a Cathar hymn, I suppose?”
“Indeed,” asserted Lady Esclarmonde, proudly. “Yes, indeed. But we call ourselves ‘Good Christians.’ The hymn is an ancient one, from the east, entitled: ‘Come to me, my Kinsman, the Light, my guide.’ I myself translated it into the langue d’oc.”
“Well done, Madame,” said Raphaëlle.
Esclarmonde beamed. “It is truly a day for singing. I wish I could share with you what gladness is in my heart!”
“I am pleased that Madame has cause to rejoice,” commented Raphaëlle, trying to focus upon her work. She hoped Lady Esclarmonde would not keep trying to indoctrinate her. She had never before had anyone try to convert her to heresy, and was not certain how to react.
“It is the culmination of my dream of dreams,” said the Lady in a gleeful whisper. Raphaëlle did not reply. She battled rising curiosity. Lady Esclarmonde wove in happy silence, after asking Simonette to sing. The concubine launched into a peasant weaving song, her sensual contralto subtly blending with the wool and flax, vivifying them in verse after playful verse. After an hour or so of laboring thus, Esclarmonde announced that her weaving for the day had ended. She was going to the stillroom and wanted no one but Raphaëlle to assist her. “First take a basket and fill it with rosemary from the garden. Then join me,” she commanded.
Raphaëlle found a basket and betook herself to the garden. She gladly found it empty, for she wanted a few moments of solitude. The longing to escape was becoming increasingly like a caged animal within her. She cut off sprigs of rosemary with a small paring knife, the incense of the herb and the bracing autumn air elevating her outlook somewhat. She had been in near despair about what to do with Margot, but now an inner voice whispered, “God will show you what to do.” Bertrande appeared from behind a boxwood. “Well, there you are!” exclaimed Raphaëlle. “Where have you been all afternoon? I sent Jehanette to find you.”
“Walking, listening,” said Bertrande, twirling around, as she munched on a handful of parsley.
“Bertrande, do you not have any duties?”
“Oh, yes. Maman told me that Lady Esclarmonde wants me to wait upon you.”
“Then why have you not been with me? I need your help,” said Raphaëlle, breaking off several more sprigs with an agitated flourish.
“But, Mademoiselle, I have been helping you! I have been finding things out. And I had a dream…you must hear it.”
“I told you, Bertrande, that I have no wish to hear any of your dreams. Please forget them.”
“But sometimes the things I dream of come true. I dreamed that you would arrive here with Sir Martin, and you did. I was waiting for you upon the walls. Remember?”
“Yes, I remember. Well, then, tell me of your dream, and be done with it.”
Bertrande leaned closer. “I saw you climbing a staircase with hundreds of stairs. Many stairs, very many. You held the hand of a little maiden, lovely to behold, with long brown wavy hair and blue eyes. The two of you were climbing and climbing. Next, I dreamed of you all in white, kneeling beside three coffins in a dark church with yellow candles.” Raphaëlle froze. How could Bertrande have known how Raphaëlle and her little sister Marie had mounted the seven hundred steps to the shrine of Saint-Michel d’Aiguilhe at Le Puy-en-Velay, standing on its finger of lava rock, to pray for an end of the pestilence, from which their mother and brother were suffering. Young Marie had also succumbed, and the three had died. Raphaëlle had made the vigil at their coffins alone. Her hand shook ever so slightly and asked, “Is that all?”
“No, there is more. The scene changed, and I saw you in a dark place, holding in both your hands a large green stone, polished and sparkling. It was the size of a pomegranate. There were wild beasts surrounding you, but you were unaware of them, and there was a shadow.”
“A shadow?”
“A dark figure like a shadow was creeping towards you. I was screaming, trying to warn you, but you did not hear me. Then the dream ended, and I awoke.”
“It sounds like you dreamed of nothing more than the dreadful plight in which I find myself. I must get away from here,” sighed Raphaelle.
Bertrande gripped her wrist. “But my dream, at least the last part of it, was of things to come. You must beware. There is evil coming.” “There is already evil here. And it has affected your mind, little cousin. You must not think so much about your dreams. Put them from your thoughts.”
Bertrande’s elfin countenance fell. “There are times when what I dream about does not come to pass.”
“We should not rely upon dreams, nor should we build our lives upon them, but only upon reason and faith,” said Raphaëlle, getting to her feet. “All the same, I am glad to be leaving this place. First, I need you to go to the village for me.” Then she told Bertrande of Esterelle and the secret passage. Neither piece of information appeared to surprise the girl.
“I have often seen Lady Esterelle in the forest. We wave to each other, but never speak.”
“Why did you not tell me that before?” queried Raphaëlle in bewilderment.
“It did not seem to be the proper time. But it was the passage in the crypt that I wished to tell you about.”
“How do you know of it?” asked Raphaëlle, doubting her own good judgment in placing any confidence at all in such a child
“Once, I was hiding from Raymond. He was on a rampage. I lay for hours in the crypt, and fended off the mice. Suddenly, I saw a woman with a torch. She touched the altar in three places. It moved aside, and she bent down, crawling into a hole behind it. It was Lady Esclarmonde, and a short while later she returned with two men in black hoods. None of them saw me for I was crouched behind one of the tombs. And that’s what I wanted to tell you – the two men came again today, while everyone was resting. I saw them going into the North Tower with Lady Esclarmonde.”
“Who are they?” asked Raphaëlle.
“I think they are two Perfecti. But you must be careful, because they might leave at any time, and you do not want to run into them down in the tunnel when you are trying to leave yourself. Oh, Raphaëlle, I wish I could come with you! But I cannot leave my mother and my father.”
“I do not expect you to leave them, Bertrande. All I want is for you to go down to the village and tell Sir Jacques d’Orly at the inn of my predicament. Tell him I will be trying to leave tonight by a secret way, and that I might have need of his aid in case the plan fails.”
“I will go, Mademoiselle. My grandmother owns the inn, so it is no trouble.” Bertrande slipped away.
Her basket overflowing with rosemary, Raphaëlle betook herself to the stillroom. Lady Esclarmonde was waiting. The very walls and rafters of the stillroom were penetrated with the aroma of herbs, from the bitter wormwood to the heady rose geranium. Bunches of dried and drying broom plant, calendula, sage, chamomile, mint, catnip, basil, and marjoram were hanging from the low beams of the ceiling. The walls were lined with shelves of clay pots and jars, as well as glass vials of herbal concoctions and essences. Lady Esclarmonde was standing at a wooden table, using a small piece of wool to skim a bowl filled with an aromatic, greenish liquid. Gently, she would skim and then squeeze a few drops from the wool into a glass vial. The prickly, mysterious scent of rosemary pervaded the air around her like an invisible aura.
“Ah, there you are,” she said as Raphaëlle came in. “Essence of rosemary is so helpful in curing headaches and melancholy.”
“Yes, Madame,” agreed Raphaëlle.
Lady Esclarmonde gave her a piece of wool and told her to help. Raphaëlle had not realized until then how much taller the Lady was than herself. “Now, my child,” she declared abruptly, her black-lidded eyes snapping with a mercurial intensity. “You discovered for yourself that we are Good Christians here. It was never any wish of mine to hide it from you. The Baron warned me against ‘flaunting’ my religion in front of you, fearing you would be startled by our ways, but I believe that the sooner you begin learning, the better.”
Raphaëlle pursed her lips and pondered what to say. She did not want to antagonize the lady and thereby make her escape more difficult.
“Of course, Madame,” she said after a few moments. “But I was thinking of the song that Madame was singing in the solarium. I have never heard a hymn in the first person. You sang as if you, Madame, are divine.”
Lady Esclarmonde beamed. “There is divinity in each of us. Through the Baptism of Light, the Consolamentum, and through fasting, abstinence and prayer, we try to purify ourselves to the ultimate possible limit in order to come to know ourselves and to meet the divine. Divinity is trapped inside our material bodies, bodies which were created by the evil Demiurge.”
Raphaëlle experienced a subtle flicker of confusion. Had she not heard her aunt, the Reverend Mother Abbess, say similar things? She realized that there was a difference between Lady Esclarmonde’s words and what she had heard at the Benedictine abbey. She knew that God created the first man and the first woman, not an evil Demiurge, but otherwise perplexity entered her mind and heart. “Madame, when you pray, what prayers do you say?”
“In community we pray the Orazom, what you would call the Pater Noster. As for our personal prayer, it is a journey deep into the center of the soul by which we obtain secret knowledge, the gnose. During our lengthy meditations, we try to generate strong emotions, sometimes so strong that one feels close to death. However, by reaching the center of the soul we discover our own divinity. If one does not make the discovery in the present life, then the soul is destined to return in another life, possibly several lives. It is called reincarnation.”
“Such a doctrine is not in the Apostle’s Creed, nor in Sacred Scripture, nor in the writings of the early Fathers,” declared Raphaëlle adamantly. “In our Church, we believe that when people die, they are judged by God, and the good are sent to Heaven, or to Purgatory if they need purification, while the wicked are sent to Hell.”
The Baroness snickered. “We do not believe in hell. Life is a crossroads between earth and heaven, and hell only exists here upon earth, created by the Demiurge. How could the Good God send people to such a terrible place as hell for all eternity?”
“He does not send them there. They send themselves there by refusing His love, and by their own unwillingness to repent. God is All-Merciful, but His infinite justice permits there to be hell, where dwell the devil and the bad angels. I thought you believed in the devil?"
“We believe that the angel Lucifer fell from the perfection of Heaven, after seducing a proportion of the angelic souls and entrapping them in matter. Only through receiving the Consolament can they return to their guardian spirits in Heaven.” She paused, as if silenced by a moment of wild exaltation. “You realize, of course, that I am named for the great Good Woman Esclarmonde de Foix, the keeper of the Grail Stone, the jewel which slipped from Lucifer’s diadem when the rebel angels were expelled from Heaven.”
Raphaëlle kept quiet. She had always thought the Holy Grail was the chalice of Jesus Christ used at the Last Supper, and that it was now kept at the Cathedral of Valencia. They had filled several small vials with essence of rosemary. Lady Esclarmonde turned to Raphaëlle with a smile radiating from her white face. “You seem to have many questions, my child, as well as some confusion. I can tell that you have been told many falsehoods about us Good Christians. Most people have been deceived. But we, the elect, rise above the taints of the world. We take our doctrine and practices from the early Church, before it became corrupted by Constantine.“ Raphaëlle wondered. Perhaps she had been misled in some matters. Lady Esclarmonde seemed so wise and holy. The baroness continued. “There are those among us who can explain better than I. After supper, I will bring you to meet my special guests. They are here in secret. Meet me at the foot of the north tower at the beginning of the first watch of the night. You may bring one of your servants.”
“Yes, Madame,” said Raphaëlle. In her heart she was curious and baffled, for there were many things in the Cathar doctrine that resembled Catholic teachings. She began, at least, to understand why so many in the south had embraced the heresy. There was much about the fasting and austerity that was challenging but appealing. Perhaps it would not be such a bad thing to live among such fervent people. She wished Sir Martin were there to help her discern.
“Now,” said the lady, “I am going to make my daily rounds of the village, to visit the sick and bring food to the poor. Surely, my child, you accompanied Madame your mother in such missions of mercy.”
“Yes, I did, very often.” Raphaëlle suppressed tears at the memory of her mother. They descended to the village, attended by Simonette and Jehanette. Bertrande was no where to be found. Raphaëlle wondered if she had conveyed the message to Sir Jacques. They passed the parish church. It was an ancient structure, greatly in need of repair. Raphaëlle longed to go inside, but Lady Esclarmonde hastened her gait so that they quickly passed it by. At that moment, as if in answer to prayer, Bertrande ran up to them. “Madame, one of the Believers has need of your counsel, in the cottage next to the tanner’s shop.”
“Ah, yes, thank you, Bertrande. Simonette, take Mademoiselle on the rounds. I shall meet you later.” Lady Esclarmonde glided off.
“I want to see the inside of the church,” declared Raphaëlle as soon as the Baroness was out of sight. Covering her head with her mantle, she walked up the steps of the Church, Simonette and Bertrande likewise pulled their shawls over their heads, as they followed in her wake. It was dim inside; as Raphaëlle’s eyes adjusted the red glow of the Presence lamp seemed to grow brighter. Although they were broken in a few places, the stained glass windows poignantly portrayed scenes from the life and martyrdom of Saint Jacques le Grand, to whom the church was dedicated. The three women genuflected and crossed themselves, just as a shabby, shaggy figure emerged from behind one of the old Roman-style pillars which upheld the roof of the edifice.
“Father Paul!” exclaimed Bertrande. “Lady Raphaëlle wished to see the church.” Father Paul gave a little bow and a slow, quizzical smile, as he noticed that Simonette was also present.
“I am going to light some candles,” declared Simonette, hastening away.
Raphaëlle could not help noticing that the building was in dire need of repair, with water stains along the walls, a puddle or two on the floor. “Father, I will send money for you to have the necessary repairs made. I am appalled that the church has been allowed to deteriorate.”
“Ah, yes, Mademoiselle, it is shame. But the heresy is deeply planted in this village. Lady Esclarmonde rules the hearts and minds of the people. The priest who was here before me was a Cathar himself, living openly with his mistress; and so the people lost respect for the Church. Many young couples now live openly in concubinage. Only a handful comes to Mass on Sunday. The rest come only to mock the Host with a slice of turnip.”
“Oh, no,” sighed Raphaëlle. She stared at Bertrande, who nodded with knowing distaste.
“Yes, and on the very steps of the church, during Mass. It is horrible,” said Bertrande.
“I do not understand, Father.” Raphaëlle felt her cheeks flush scarlet. “Forgive me for speaking so frankly, but I thought the Cathars are against carnal relations. Why do their teachings seem to promote concubinage?”
“Because, my child, when everything is forbidden, then everything is permitted. The Cathars find relations between spouses to be far more sinful than fornication, than any carnal acts outside of marriage. Even incest is not frowned upon. Marriage regularizes the act and leads to many children, which to the Cathars is a way of entrapping more souls in the material world. I have found that the unity of family life has been shaken in this village, with children who do not know which of their mother’s lovers is their true father.” He lowered his voice to a murmur. “Those babes who are fortunate enough to see the light of day….”
Raphaëlle was not certain what he meant. She asked in reply: “Oh, Father, how can such an awful state of affairs ever be undone?”
The priest sighed. “It will take many years of solid preaching and catechesis, and encouragement to the people to return to the Sacraments. Most of all, prayer is needed, and the good example of great ladies such as yourself.” He paused a moment. “Perhaps you can help me,” continued Father Paul. “There is a young mother, about your age, whose one year old child is said to be very sick. The child has been treated by Madame la Baronne but grows worse. The child has not been baptized; the parents will not bring him to me. A visit from a lady like you might make a difference.”
Raphaëlle made her way to the cottage. It was not difficult to find. She had only to follow the thin wail of a little child. It was an ordinary peasant home, with a ham hanging from the rafters, along with garlic and onions. A pig rooted outside the door. A young mother in her late teens was holding a spindly toddler. Pale as death, the baby's weak cries indicated the presence of some consuming malady. The girl stared at Raphaëlle, her eyes great with despair. In the corner, his face to the wall, sat the young father of the child. Hearing Raphaëlle enter, he turned, and leaped to his feet. The child's mother did not stir.
He bowed to her. “Pardon my wife, Madame,” he said. “She is greatly afflicted for the sake of our son, who is dying.”
“What is your name?” asked Raphaëlle. Her heart welled with pity for the poor parents.
“I am Bernard Sajous. This is Mengarde, my wife. Our son is ... is …” and he began to weep. "Oh, Madame, it is too late. He is beyond human help.”
“Nonsense! He can still cry, and he is aware of what is going on. Why his eyes follow me!” She felt his forehead. “He has a high fever. What have you been feeding him? Has he been weaned?” The father said nothing. “Why, perhaps he is hungry. Yes!” exclaimed Raphaëlle, bending over the child. “He is hungry, and thirsty. Bernard, is your wife not able to nurse him?”
The young man wept all the more. “It is too late...it is too late!”
“No, it is not too late!” insisted Raphaëlle. “Come, allow me to give him some broth!”
“No... please, Madame!” pleaded the father.
“Madame!” exclaimed the mother, shooting up, her voice trembling. “I have milk! I can nurse him myself.”
“No, Mengarde,” insisted Bernard.
“I cannot watch my baby starve to death!” cried the woman. She opened the front of her dress; the child began ravenously to nurse. “It was the Good Woman!” she sobbed to Raphaëlle.
“Hush, woman!” ordered Bernard.
“Let her speak,” commanded Raphaëlle. “Mengarde, whom do you mean when you say ‘Good Woman’? Do you mean Lady Esclarmonde?”
“Yes!” wailed Mengarde. “She was here last night. She heard that our baby had a high fever and a bad cough. She said the little one might die, and so she gave the consolamentum. Although, it is not usually done, that so young a child should be hereticated. Afterwards, she said we could not feed our son again, or it would destroy the result of the baptism of light, and the baby would not go to Heaven, but would come back to earth in another person's body, or even as an animal. Tell me, Madame, that it is not true!”
“Of course it is not true. Has your little one been baptized in the parish church?” The mother shook her head. “Then baptize him; if he dies, he will go straight to heaven. But perhaps he can be healed, and will live to be an old man. Let us give him some broth, and make a poultice.”
At that moment both husband and wife shuddered, as a black shadow filled the doorway. It was the Baroness. Mengarde fell to her knees. “Madame, please do not be angry. I could not bear to hear the child cry.” Bernard prostrated, face to the ground, speechless. “My Good Christians, I told you not to feed the child after I administered the consolamentum. You should have followed my instructions.”
“Why did you tell them to let the child starve to death, Madame?” Raphaëlle asked Esclarmonde.
“It is called the endura,” explained Esclarmonde, with her calm demeanor. “After receiving the consolamentum, the dying person can no longer be given food or drink.”
“That is madness!” exclaimed Raphaëlle.
Lady Esclarmonde took Raphaëlle by the arm; her cold hands gripped like steel. “Leave this cottage at once, Mademoiselle. I can see that that knave of a priest has been meddling again. Ah, tonight you will have the benefit of true guides, who will answer all of your questions. Simonette, Bertrande, take Mademoiselle back to the castle. I will deal with things here.”
Raphaëlle and the servants made their way up the hill to the castle. She could not get the sick child out of her mind, and felt that somehow she had failed. She must find out more, and perhaps then she would not feel so burdened and confused. She wondered who awaited her in the tower. Meanwhile, Sir Jacques was nowhere to be seen.