Raphaëlle awoke in pain greater than any she had yet experienced. “I must be dead and in Purgatory,” she muttered. “No, you are alive, and on earth,” came a woman’s voice. Raphaëlle opened her eyes. Her vision was blurred, and her forehead burned. She nevertheless detected firelight dancing on the rough ceiling of a cave. A face leaned over her. It was Esterelle. “Drink this,” ordered the anchoress. “It is an infusion of valerian, and will help you to sleep while I tend your arm. You are safe. Close your eyes, and sleep.” As Esterelle spoke, she gently lifted Raphaëlle’s head enough so that she could swallow a hot, herbal brew. She slept so soundly that when she awoke a day later she could not recall any of her dreams. Esterelle was adding logs to the fire. Raphaëlle’s arm was bound in strips of linen and a poultice of boneset. Her hair felt matted with perspiration. She must have had quite a fever. “How are you feeling?” asked Esterelle, coming over to the pallet where Raphaëlle was blanketed by goatskins. “I am weak, and my arm throbs, but I am much better. How did you find me?”
“I was abroad by night in the forest,” replied Esterelle, sponging Raphaëlle’s brow with a linen cloth that smelled of peppermint. “There was great unrest among the forest creatures. When one lives alone in the wood, the slightest change is noticeable. I knew that the pilgrimage had departed without you, and that Raoul de Cambasque and his men were lurking in close proximity to the château. I left the Vallée des Dracs and walked along the river, on the opposite shore from where the robbers would be, but close enough to watch what they were about. I heard a moaning, and saw you in the moonlight, prone upon a rock in the water near the riverbank.”
“How did you bring me here?” asked Raphaëlle. The lamps before the icons glowed with a mystic warmth as the fire snapped; the redolence of herbs comforted her. She began to feel secure in the cave of the hermitess.
Esterelle smiled. “You are heavier than you seem, but I am stronger than I appear. I half-carried, half-dragged you through the forest to the Vallée des Dracs and the hermitage.” Raphaëlle realized that she was no longer in her wet clothes, but in a rough, linen tunic. She saw her clothes and purse hanging to dry on a line suspended by the fire. “Thank you, Lady Esterelle,” she said. “I suppose I had a fever.”
“Yes, you are very ill, mostly from exhaustion. Also, you have many bruises from your trip down the river, and your wrist is broken. There now, sip some broth, and when you have recovered more of your strength, you must tell me what transpired at the château.”
She assisted Raphaëlle in raising herself up enough to sip some hot chicken broth, flavored with thyme and sage. After sleeping a while longer, she awoke much refreshed. As soon as Esterelle finished chanting the hours, Raphaëlle related to her everything that had occurred during and after her meeting with the “Good Men” in the forbidden tower. “I had no idea the beliefs of the Cathars were so outlandish, especially what they believe about Christ. And yet they call themselves ‘Christians’ and from the outside seem so good and pious.”
“It is easy to appear good,” said Esterelle. “It is much harder to truly be good. The problem with the Cathars is that they center too much upon themselves. They are enthralled with establishing their own divinity through the gnosis, the journey to self-knowledge.”
“But, Esterelle, I thought that coming to self-knowledge was the way to grow in holiness,” queried Raphaëlle.
“Yes, we must know ourselves, our strengths, our weaknesses, but then forget ourselves in the love of God. The Cathars fall into the same muddle that happened in the Garden of Eden. Remember, when the serpent tempted Eve to eat the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and of Evil, he told her that she and Adam would become ‘like gods.’ But if they had obeyed the divine command, and not eaten of the fruit, they would have remained in Paradise. The way to the Tree of Life would not have been barred by the angel with the flaming sword.”
“What is the difference between our way of praying and theirs? The distinction eludes me.”
“It is for us to eat of the fruit of the Tree of Life, which is the fruit of the Virgin's womb, Christ Himself in the Blessed Sacrament,” replied Esterelle. “When we pray, we dwell not upon ourselves, but upon Him.” She displayed a chaplet composed of five sets of ten beads, carved of olivewood. “A friar gave this to Abbé Paul, and he gave it to me. It is a special way of praying called the rosarium or ‘rose garden.’ It can lead the soul to the heights of contemplation by journeying through the mysteries of the earthly life of Christ. Abbé Paul says that such contemplation is the true means of loosening the hold which the Cathars have upon this land; not force of arms.” Raphaëlle told her of the sick child in the village. “Why did Lady Esclarmonde tell them to let the child starve to death?” she asked Esterelle.
“It is called the endura,” explained Esterelle, with her calm serenity. “I saw both of my parents die in such a manner. After receiving the consolamentum, the dying person is refused all food and drink. My father died a few hours after his consolamentum, and did not suffer long, but my mother's agony lasted for three days. The endura hastened her death. We accepted it at the time, being staunch Cathar Believers.”
Suddenly Raphaëlle remembered the jewel. “I found something in the cave. It was a large emerald, the like of which I have never before beheld. I hope I did not lose it in the river.”
Esterelle leaned forward. “No. You did not lose it,” she almost whispered. “I took it from your mantle while you slept. I buried it under the great sycamore at the entrance of the Vallée des Dracs. It is the best thing to do with something evil – to bury it. Tell no one!”
“What! Why?”
“Because it is a thing of evil.”
“But what is evil about the jewel?”
“It is what the Cathars believe to be the ‘Grail Stone,’ the jewel that fell from Lucifer's crown when he was cast out of heaven. Once the angel of light, Lucifer is now the prince of darkness. The Cathars believe there to be a power linked with the stone. It is a key to forgotten knowledge and a means of unlocking hidden forces, at least in their view. If so, it is a black power, leading only to the diabolic.” Raphaëlle did not think that a gem could have power; to believe so she thought mere superstition. But she said, “Very well. I trust your judgment.” At that moment, Esterelle froze like a statue. “What is it, Lady Esterelle?” asked Raphaëlle.
“I hear footsteps! Someone is coming! Someone has entered the Vallée des Dracs!” In a few moments, Raphaëlle herself heard the tramp of feet and the clank of chain mail. In spite of her weakness, she sat up in terror, just in time to see Sir Jacques d’Orly enter the cave. Two knights flanked him.
“Monsieur, how is it that you have found me?” asked Raphaëlle, falling back onto the pallet from exhaustion and relief. At first it was difficult to see his face, but as he stepped into the light of the lamps she noticed again the scar that rent his face, giving him a grim and twisted visage.
“I led him here,” came a voice, and Bertrande appeared in the entrance of the cave as well, from behind the knights. “But, oh, we are all in trouble now.”
“It is the Baron who is in trouble,” said Sir Jacques striving forward. “The royal seneschal shall deal with him. I regret, Mademoiselle, that I could not have come to your aid sooner, delivering you from this place of heresy.” He bowed to Esterelle. “You are the holy hermitess, the one who was said to be lost. How is Lady Raphaëlle?”
“She is weak, and her wrist is broken, Monsieur. I fear that she should not moved.”
“Alas, Madame, I regret that she must. She is coming with us. I have sent some men to get some mules from the village, and we are setting up a litter.” He knelt at Raphaëlle’s side and gently placed his hand on her forehead. “She is a bit feverish. It is regrettable. But there is no other way. They are searching for you.”
“Where are you taking me, Monsieur?” asked Raphaëlle. His face reminded her of flint, and chilled her, although not in the same way that Raymond did. “To the royal seneschal, Imbert de Beaujeu. I will present your case before him, and he shall decide what course of action to take, in the king’s name.” Sir Jacques spoke firmly. His dark eyes were difficult to fathom as they looked into hers.
“I wish to enter a monastery, Monsieur,” declared Raphaëlle. “There is a new monastery of nuns in Toulouse. You will do me a great kindness if you would escort me thither.” Sir Jacques rose to his feet.
“Forgive me, Mademoiselle. As much as it might please me to increase the number of consecrated souls by depositing you in a monastery, I have not the authority to do so.”
“Where, then, is the royal seneschal? Where is he to be found?” asked Raphaëlle. “He was last seen besieging a castle called Bécède in the Lauragais region of Aude, southeast of Toulouse. We shall ride due east. I have with me only a small company; we shall be hard put to avoid the men of the Count of Toulouse and the bandits. If it would please you, Lady Esterelle, I think it would be best for you to come as well, for your own safety.”
“This is not just,” declared Raphaëlle. “I am the Vicomtesse de Miramande in my own right. I am no royal ward. I do not require the permission of any royal seneschal to dispose of my affairs.”
“Mademoiselle, when you sought my protection then you placed yourself under the royal jurisdiction,” stated Sir Jacques. “Nonsense. Protecting me is merely your duty,” retorted Raphaëlle, sharply. “It does not make you my keeper.” Sir Jacques ignored her. There was a noise outside and he strode to the mouth of the cave. “Ah, here are the mules for the litter. But where is my knave Robert? I sent him to infiltrate the castle to fetch the necessaries for my lady.” Raphaëlle wondered what he meant by “necessaries.”
“It is a difficult castle to breach, Monsieur,” said Esterelle, who was gathering some belongings into a sack.
“Nothing is beyond the reach of Robert, Madame,” explained Sir Jacques. “I found him in the gutters of Paris, a thief with a price on his head. I saved him from the scaffold, and he repays me with constant and faithful service. And here he is at last!” A wiry, scruffy young man appeared inside the cave, a large bundle thrown over his shoulder. As he bowed to Sir Jacques he released the bundle, which stood on two legs. It was Jehanette, her dark head tousled and wide face flushed, eyes blazing with annoyance. She clutched a parcel to her bosom with one hand while she struck out at Robert with the other. The knave laughed, as he countered her blow.
“This Auvergnaise wench was more than a handful.”
“Jehanette!” exclaimed Raphaëlle, joyfully.
“I feared that Mademoiselle might not get on well without your personal handmaid. So I sent Robert to fetch her. He did a superior job. Thank you, Robert,” said Sir Jacques. Robert grinned; his teeth were horrendous. He winked at Jehanette, who glared at him, then ran forward to Raphaëlle.
“I brought Mademoiselle’s jewels, some clothes, and your wedding gown in this parcel. Margot insisted,” gasped Jehanette. “Where are we going?”
“On a journey,” said Raphaëlle.
“We should depart at once, Monsieur d’Orly,” insisted Robert. “The Baron and his men are in pursuit.”
“Follow me,” said Esterelle. “I know the forest better than the Baron does.” Raphaëlle fumed as she was loaded into the makeshift litter. For all she knew, she was exchanging one bad situation for another. She did not understand why Sir Jacques would not agree to escorting her to a monastery. They set off through the forest, with the Frankish knights and men-at-arms, about a score all told. Esterelle, Jehanette, and Bertrande were given mules to ride. Esterelle took the lead. She led the party directly into the thick of the forest, where there was no trail. They entered a narrow pass in the high cliffs, through which the litter could barely squeeze. The morning light suffused the colored leaves into gold and amber. As they slowly started to climb, Raphaëlle realized that they were leaving the valley, even as she drifted off to sleep. When she awoke, the sun was high and so were the mountains. They had come upon the road to Carcassonne which wound east around cliffs and precipices. The forest gradually slipped away, as the terrain became more arid. Raphaëlle’s heart leapt to her mouth as they passed along the edge of a steep ravine, whose depths were too steep to plumb. In the distance, beyond the valley to the north of the road, built into the side of a mountain, was an ancient monastery. She wondered who occupied it, and wished she could visit there, but it was too far off the road.
Sir Jacques allowed only a brief halt by the mouth of a trickling stream, in order to water the horses and nibble some rationed bread and cheese. As the afternoon dragged on, Raphaëlle’s arm began to throb. Soon the pain became intense.
Esterelle was concerned. She complained to Sir Jacques. “We must stop, Monsieur. Lady Raphaëlle must rest. She fares poorly, and stands in need of treatment.” Sir Jacques said nothing, but a few minutes later she heard him conferring with one of his knights. Raphaëlle could not stop worrying about Margot. What was happening to her? Would they beat an old woman, or starve her in a dark cell? The thought of Margot suffering made her feel even more ill, because she was responsible for her. They rode on for another quarter of a mile, and then left the road, taking a winding path which led to a vale of pines. There, from a high precipice, thundered a waterfall into a deep and rippling pool. The party halted at last. It seemed an eternity before a fire was built; Raphaëlle shivered, for as soon as the sun started to slant, a chill enveloped the mountains. Meanwhile, Esterelle rebound Raphaëlle’s arm. “Your fever is returning. It is not good. Jehanette, boil some water! I need to make a tea to bring the fever down.”
Sir Jacques hovered near her with unabashed concern, and insisted upon binding her arm himself. “Be at peace, Mademoiselle. I know what I am about. I studied for a brief time under the Hospitallers in their house in Paris.”
“You did?” asked Raphaëlle. “Were you planning on joining their order?”
“I contemplated it. I was a younger son, with a small inheritance, and no lands. The girl I sought to marry became the bride of my eldest brother. I had to make my own way in the world, through either the Church or by my sword. When I discerned that I had no religious vocation, I eventually entered the royal service with the recommendation of the Grand Master of the Hospitallers.”
“I waited upon Queen Blanche before the King died. I never encountered you in the royal household,” mused Raphaëlle.
“Because I was at the King’s side, fighting in the south,” explained Jacques. “I had the honor of meeting your father and your former betrothed several times. They were brave knights. Furthermore, as you are aware, my father had traveled to the Holy Land with your father when they were young.”
“Indeed, I did not know that they had been to the Holy Land together,” said Raphaëlle. “There appear to be many connections between our families. It is odd that we have never met before.”
“Ah,” said Jacques, as he finished binding her arm. “But we have met now, and what a fortuitous meeting it has been. I have already sent missives to Queen Blanche informing her of your plight. Her Majesty’s seneschal at Bécède will be able to advise you; the Queen trusts his judgment completely.”
“Hark!” shouted the watchman. “Someone is coming!”
Raphaëlle saw Sir Jacques leap to his feet, sword drawn. “Who approaches? Identify yourself at once!” The archers drew their bows.
“It is I, Revel-Saissac!” called a familiar voice. Raphaëlle’s heart leaped in spite of her weakness, as she saw Sir Martin step into the light of the fire. Bertrande jumped to her feet as if about to caper with joy. Sir Gaston was at his side. “We heard that Lady Raphaëlle was in dire need,” Martin explained.
Sir Jacques strode forward and gazed suspiciously at the tall knights. “Ah, Martin de Revel-Saissac. I remember you. Did you not fight against our late sovereign King Louis on the side of the Cathars? I think we may even have crossed swords at one point.”
“A truce still stands, sirrah, so do not raise your sword to me,” retorted Martin. “I seek only the well-being of Lady Raphaëlle.”
“I am in the service of King Louis of France, Sir Martin, and an officer of the royal seneschal the Lord Imbert de Beaujeu, the King’s own cousin. Sir Imbert has recently conquered the Cathar stronghold of Bécède, and I am taking Lady Raphaëlle there to place her in his care.”
Sir Gaston stepped into the circle of light and bowed. “Sir Jacques, I believe we once met in the Hospitaller commandery in Paris while you were an aspirant to our order. I had just become a novice, so we did not have much contact. Yes, most Hospitallers fought on the side of the Count of Toulouse, Monsieur. But that is in the past. We now work for peace. Sir Martin and I rescued this lady on the road from the gravest perils. We feel a responsibility for her fate, since when we left her at Mirambel with her uncle, we thought she would be safe.”
Sir Jacques bowed in return. “I do recall you, Sir Gaston. You once had some kind words for me, for which I am ever grateful. The lady is safe, but injured. She lies thither.” In the meantime, Sir Martin had hastened to Raphaëlle’s side, examining her arm, and feeling her forehead. He drew a small silver vial from inside his surcoat. “Here is a potion from the land of the Moors. It will dull the pain, and bring down the fever. Only a few drops are needed.” He gently placed his arm under Raphaëlle’s head, and gave her the potion. The pain soon faded. Her eyes followed Sir Martin as he went to tend to his steed, removing the saddle and rubbing down the beast’s hide. Sir Gaston, after conferring with Sir Martin a few moments, began to curry, feed and water his own horse. Sir Jacques was sitting on the ground beside Raphaëlle, but she was barely aware of him as she became overwhelmed with drowsiness. Esterelle sat on the other side and Bertrande was at Raphaëlle’s feet, already curled up and snoring. Jehanette poked at the fire, so that the flames leaped with crisp alacrity while consuming a log.
“How now, Sir Jacques, did you discern that you had no true vocation to the Knights of St. John?” Esterelle softly inquired.
“Well, Madame, since you ask, I will tell you. There was a knight whom I sought to emulate, until I discovered his weaknesses. He had fallen into attachments with women. I felt that if such a brave knight had such failings who was I to dare to take holy vows?”
“We cannot compare ourselves to others, and their weaknesses may not be our own. But surely there were many admirable knights worth imitating?” queried Esterelle.
“There were and Sir Gaston was among them. He is a model Hospitaller, and full of good cheer. I felt he was often overlooked by the superiors in favor of more talented knights not quite so meek.” He glared at Sir Martin, who was covering his horse with a blanket.
“It sounds to me, Sir Jacques, that you truly were not called to that way of life,” commented Esterelle after some reflection. “But here you are now, in the right time and place, as God has seen fit to ordain. But do not be too hard on clerics who fall through human weakness. Leave them to Heaven.” That was all that Raphaëlle heard of the conversation, for at that point she fell asleep, as the fire crackled and the crickets chirped mournfully throughout the night.
They rose at dawn. Raphaëlle’s arm did not hurt so much. She was comforted by Sir Martin’s presence. He had decided to accompany them, since the hills were riddled with faydits. Along the road sat a beggar. On his head was a sack with holes for the nose and mouth. Raphaëlle shivered to see that where his hands would have been were stumps wrapped in dirty rags.
“Mercy!” cried the beggar. The party halted.
“Give him alms, and some bread and water,” ordered Sir Jacques. Raphaëlle cringed with pity as the beggar held the tin cup between his stumps and sipped the water through the hole in the sack, sputtering a great deal. “Hoist him onto the back of the baggage cart. We will take him with us, to see that he is properly cared for.” The Frankish knights gingerly lifted the beggar onto the cart; the man did not protest.
“Is he a leper?” she asked Sir Martin, who had been riding at her side.
“No. I have encountered this beggar many times. He was one of those Cathar knights whom the crusaders took prisoner and mutilated, chopping off their hands, their noses, and gouging out their eyes, then sent naked into the wilderness. It was some years ago, and most are now dead, except for this poor soul.”
“Ah, but Sir Martin, you forget that there were great atrocities perpetrated by the Cathar side as well,” said Sir Jacques. “Things I would not dare mention in the presence of Lady Raphaëlle. Remember what the Cathars did to the legate Pierre de Castelnau. Their vicious murder of him was the deed which precipitated the war.”
“Yes, Monsieur d’Orly.” Martin’s voice was firm. “However, as a Catholic I would expect my brethren in the Faith to show more compassion to helpless prisoners.”
“War is war, Monsieur,” retorted Jacques. “To overcome the enemy, soldiers must often resort to all kinds of regrettable methods.”
“Regrettable indeed,” replied Martin, coldly.