LE PÈLERIN, MINERVE—DECEMBER
A path of sunlight fell through the skylight to the polished pine floors and tracked across Lia’s bed, pouring white light over her. She burrowed deeper, but thirst and heat pulled her from the harbor of sleep. Her hot skin clung to the damp sheet, and her tongue swelled inside her rough mouth. Her head clanged with the effects of three-quarters of a bottle of the Hiverts’ potent Corbières wine. Lia sat upright and kicked away the duvet. Shading her eyes, she stood on the bed and cracked open the skylight. Cold air rushed in, smelling of wood smoke and frost.
Downstairs, she filled the coffee press with scoops of Italian roast. Her last infusion of caffeine had been at least twenty-four hours before, and she whimpered with relief as the aroma bloomed under the hot water, the grounds black and thick like soil after a heavy rain. Filling a large mug nearly to the brim, she took a tentative sip and then a deeper swallow, relaxing as the caffeine constricted the blood vessels pushing knives of pain into her temples.
At the windows overlooking the Cesse River, Lia stared out at a world that had been a black void the night before. Flocks of bleached clouds gathered in a cerulean sky, and winter’s diaphanous light glinted off the traces of mica in the limestone of the canyon’s sides. She stepped onto the terrace enclosed by wrought iron. Below, the cliff sheared away to the riverbed, and a thin ribbon of turquoise shimmered as the Cesse traveled south.
Turning to face the house, she saw a handprint etched into the glass door like a white tattoo. Each line of the palm, each whorl of the fingertips, was outlined like a spider’s web. Setting the coffee mug on a small table, Lia hovered her hand over the window; the fingers of the print extended far beyond hers, and the palm dwarfed her own. It was a man’s hand.
Last night’s vision of a face marred on one side came to her just as a ray of sun hit the palm print and evaporated the fine lines. Lia stayed outside, staring into the river canyon, until she could no longer feel her bare toes.
She retrieved her laptop from upstairs and sat at the kitchen table, skimming through the emails she’d received since leaving the States. The last one, its subject line written in Occitan, caught her eye. It had arrived just as her plane was rising into the sky above Seattle.
My dear Lia,
My heart rests easier, knowing you will soon be in the embrace of friends here in Languedoc. I went to Ferrals-les-Corbières recently in search of that outstanding Mas Hivert wine, and Rose Hivert gave me the news that you were returning to France.
Lia’s head filled with the warm voice behind these words and the anguished memories of her first encounter with Father Jordí Bonafé, archivist at Cathédrale Saint-Just et Saint-Pasteur in Narbonne.
Three days after Gabriel’s death and in deep shock, Lia had insisted on going through with a presentation at the Institut de Recherche Cathare—the Institute of Cathar Studies—in Carcassonne. Rose and Domènec had pleaded with her to cancel, but at the time, the lecture had given her a reason to continue breathing.
Father Bonafé had approached her after the talk, and over coffee, he offered words of solace as she spilled out her grief. In the week that followed, as the investigation unfolded and the details of transporting Gabriel’s body to his family’s home in Mexico were arranged, Lia spent many hours in the comfort of the priest’s office at the cathedral and in the cool, quiet archives below.
She returned to Father Bonafé’s email. He continued with additional poetic words of condolence and caught her up on the gossip in Languedoc’s small world of medieval France researchers. Then the tone of his message changed.
Rose told me your teaching contract has not been renewed. It’s an unfortunate decision by your university, but I hope your enthusiasm for your research has not diminished.
I know the circumstance of our meeting is painful to recall; please forgive me for bringing it up. But your lecture at the institute and the questions you raised surrounding Pierre de Castelnau’s death and the origins of the Cathar crusade are things I haven’t been able to set aside.
Since that night, I’ve wondered if your theories might not be possible. What seemed like legend carried through time on the flimsy backs of folktales and rumor now appears plausible as history. I wonder if you’re still pursuing this research.
When you are rested from your travels and ready to visit Narbonne, I hope we can meet.
Lia drew her legs into the chair and rested her chin on her knees. Why was the priest wondering about all of this now? Yes, she had her doubts about the true nature of Pierre de Castelnau’s assassination—the event in 1208 that spurred the bloody Cathar Crusade. She’d been pursuing this tangential line of research before Gabriel’s death, but her doctoral adviser had swooped in and pulled her back, warning about lack of credibility in anything that smacked of medieval conspiracy theories. The recent popularity of books and movies that mentioned the Knights Templar, the powerful military order of medieval religious crusaders, and their connection to the legend of the Holy Grail threatened to reduce serious research to swords-and-castles pop culture.
And indeed, modern Languedoc had become newly captivated by the tragic story of its medieval countrymen, conquered eight hundred years earlier by those legendary Knights Templar and the Catholic Church. A tourist industry had sprung up around the theme of the Pays Cathare—Cathar Country. Summertime found Languedoc’s compact roads filled with camper vans and cyclists traveling the Route des Cathares between castle ruins and the ancient fortified villages that were still vibrant with commerce.
Lia had relented to her adviser’s demands, agreeing that any change of direction would mean starting her dissertation over nearly from scratch; she couldn’t afford the distraction, not when she was so close to the end. She’d mentioned her thoughts about Castelnau’s assassination during that lecture two summers ago as a rhetorical aside, to show there was still so much about Cathar history that remained unknown and probably unknowable.
She replied to the priest in Narbonne, giving him her cell phone number. Lia couldn’t resist any mystery Languedoc offered.