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CHAPTER THREE

Choices

Pope Innocent, wearing a violet cope, entered his chapel accompanied by the Abbot of Cîteaux. Twelve cardinals bearing lighted tapers surrounded Innocent as he intoned the solemn words of excommunication:

‘Wherefore in the name of God the All-powerful, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, of the Blessed Pierre, Prince of the Apostles, and of all the saints, in virtue of the power which has been given us in binding and loosing in Heaven and on earth, we deprive Raimon, Sixth Count of Toulouse, himself and all his accomplices and all his abettors, of the Communion of the Body and Blood of Our Lord, we separate him from the society of all Christians, we exclude him from the bosom of our Holy Mother the Church in Heaven and on earth, we declare him excommunicated and anathematised and we judge him condemned to eternal fire with Satan and all his angels and all the reprobate, so long as he will not burst the fetters of the demon, do penance and satisfy the Church; we deliver him to Satan to mortify his body, that his soul may be saved on the day of judgement.’

He slammed shut the fat black Bible in his hand. One of the Cardinals rang a bell – a mournful tolling for the Count of Toulouse’s lost soul – and then the Pope led all twelve in turning their tapers upside down and dashing them out on the ground. The snuffing out of the light left the chapel in temporary darkness until a priest opened the door and the solemn procession filed out again.

It was not the first time that the Count had been cut off from the sacraments of the Church. It had happened first twelve years ago when he had crossed the old Pope Celestine III. That had been over land disputes and he had been absolved two years later.

But, as Innocent disrobed, he was remembering the more recent occasion, less than a year ago. The Abbot was remembering it too. One of the Count’s crimes then had been appointing Jews to high office in his city.

‘Our brother Pierre – may God rest his soul,’ said the Abbot, ‘had not lifted the Count’s last excommunication before he was so vilely murdered, had he?’

‘No,’ the Pope shook his head. ‘But it will do no harm to renew it. I want to send a strong message to the Count that he must hand over the murderer and fulfil his promises to root the heretics out of his lands before he enjoys the comforts and favours of the Church again.’

The Abbot had reached Rome only days after the first messenger and told the Pope what little he had been able to find out about Pierre’s death. The Abbot was a Legate too, and now that his senior partner was dead, it would fall to him to lead the persecution of the Perfects, as the leaders of the heretics of the south were known.

His eyes gleamed at the thought. The heretics needed uprooting just as surely as the Saracens did – more, really, because they shared the same land as the French. The Fourth Crusade against the Saracens had been disastrous. But here was a crusade that could be waged and won much nearer home. They wouldn’t call it a ‘crusade’; instead they would talk of ‘the business of faith and peace’. All the Abbot needed was an army and the Pope would get it for him. He and the Pope were of one mind in this.

‘I have tried writing to the French King,’ continued Innocent. ‘Three years ago. And nothing happened. This time I will write directly to the barons of the north, offering a full indulgence if they join us in our campaign.’

Neither man mentioned the even greater incentive to war – that the northern barons would be able to take the rich lands of any heretic nobleman they displaced – though they both knew this would be the best recruiting sergeant they could find.

Once Elinor had decided that she would definitely not marry old le Viguier, no matter what her parents said, she became much calmer. At the same time, she completely lost her appetite, which was noticed by no one but Hugo, who missed her visits to the kitchen. The less she ate, the more clear-headed Elinor became. Although she spoke to no one of her dilemma, she was in no doubt about what her alternatives might be.

They narrowed down to two choices: enter a religious house or kill herself.

Elinor had never thought of becoming a nun; she was far too strong-willed and restless of spirit. But now she had to ask herself whether it would be preferable to spend a lifetime of prayer and deprivation in the company of other women, rather than bringing that lifetime to an end while she was still a girl.

And there was something else which made this option more attractive. Elinor knew, though she couldn’t say how, that her father was of a different religion from her mother. It was a secret and somehow dangerous faith and she knew that many people in the castle shared it. Aimeric, her brother, for example, and some of the knights and joglars, but not Lady Clara. So the daughters of the family had been brought up in ignorance of what it meant.

But Elinor knew that there was a house of sisters nearby who were always referred to as Perfects and that was not just because they were devout Christians. She had heard the word applied to them and it sounded so peaceful and welcoming. As yet, Elinor had no idea what you had to do to become a Perfect but if it was something her father would approve of then it might soften the blow when she refused old le Viguier.

It was at dusk that she thought about the other way out. How on earth could she, a healthy young girl, bring about her own death, even if that was what she chose to do?

I could starve myself, she thought, looking down at her gown, which had become quite loose on her of recent days. But there was a difference between losing one’s appetite and letting oneself waste away till the last breath left the body. Surely that would be a horrible way to die? But what was a good way?

Elinor thought about death by drowning, burning, poison or a sharp dagger to the throat or wrists. She didn’t have a dagger and she doubted that the pin on Bertran’s brooch would be a sharp enough or deadly enough weapon. To cast herself in the well would pollute the whole castle’s water supply and she shuddered at the thought of the dark stone walls enclosing her while her head sank under the surface.

She could escape the castle and walk down to the River Orb and jump in; she couldn’t swim. But would it be deep enough and fast enough to take her away from the bank and whirl her to certain death? And what about being bruised and battered by the rocks?

As for poison, Elinor had no idea how to get hold of any. And burning? The only fires in the castle were in the kitchen and the great hall, but pitch-covered torches were lit regularly at those flames. She could steal one and set light to her loose gown. But the very thought made her want to jump in the well after all.

To burn, to feel flames licking at your flesh as they did the poor animals turning on the spit! And those creatures were dead and felt nothing. Elinor could imagine all too vividly the smell of her skin beginning to crackle, her flesh spitting and hissing with melting fat. Her hair would be aflame in seconds – a torturing, blazing crown around her head. Could she bear it? Would she pass out quickly and not suffer too much torment? She dared not hope so.

And so another sleepless night would pass and she would rise with the day and think that it would be better to become a Perfect sister after all.

Bertran did not linger in Béziers. His meeting with the Bishop had been strained on both sides. The troubadour was careful not to reveal that he had witnessed the Legate’s murder, portraying himself as a messenger only, reluctantly bringing news.

Bishop Ermengaud had crossed himself and prayed and Bertran had joined him. But he noticed that the old man had a fanatical glitter in his eyes when he rose from his knees.

‘We shall hear soon from Rome, I think,’ he said. ‘The Pope will not let the Count of Toulouse get away with this crime. He has gone too far this time. This means the end for the heretics.’

Bertran had been glad to leave without having to express an opinion. He had gone straight to the leader of the Believers in the city. The one thing that he had in common with the Bishop was that they both knew the murder marked a change in the persecution of the heretics.

It was vital to spread the word among their other communities in the south. Bertran had some hard riding ahead of him. Puisseguier, Saint Pons, Narbonne, Minerve – all the towns on the way to Carcassonne would have to be visited. And with every day that passed there could be orders from Rome against the Believers, rushing north and west and overtaking him.

But Bertran was welcome at every court. His life as a troubadour was not a disguise but his real profession and even though it was unusual to get a visit from a lone troubadour in winter without a train of joglars and joglaresas attending him, the many lords and castellans of the Midi would be sure to open their doors to him.

He might have private audiences with a few nobles, like Lanval de Sévignan, who were known to be Believers, but even more people would hear the message through his new song that spoke of war when it appeared to be about love. The heretics of the south were well attuned to every nuance that carried a threat to their religion and their lives.

But there were two problems, only one of which Bertran was aware of. The Believers were peace-loving and would not willingly take up arms to fight for their rights and their homes and families. The troubadour respected that; he was of the same persuasion himself. But he must encourage them at least to hide a portion of their wealth and goods in far off places so that if they had to flee they would not wander penniless in the world. And also to build up their defences. The hill towns and cities of the south were all fortified with strong walls and, if only the inhabitants had enough warning, could store defences and water enough to withstand a long siege.

The second problem was that, as Bertran rode towards Puisseguier, messengers from the Pope were on their way to Saint-Gilles charged with finding out the name of the unknown witness to Pierre of Castelnau’s murder.

‘No, really? Is that what it’s like?’

Elinor was talking to Miqela, an old serving-woman in the castle. She had been wet-nurse to all the children but now helped with sewing and other light duties. She had a sister who was a Perfect in a sister house nearby and Elinor had come to ask what the life there was like.

‘Oc,’ said Miqela. ‘I wouldn’t lie to you, my dove. It is a hard life for a young woman to bear. But like many of us,’ she lowered her voice, ‘I hope to come to it at the end.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Elinor.

They were sitting in the solar, Miqela benefiting from the light while she hemmed a sheet with Elinor threading her needles for her and snipping ends with her little scissors to save her old nurse’s eyes.

‘Only that I will come to perfection on my deathbed,’ said Miqela calmly. ‘I hope to receive the consolamentum then before I die. But I don’t think I could live like Joana before then.’

‘No meat,’ said Elinor woefully, remembering the turning spits with their fearful but delicious burden. ‘No fish, or cheese, or eggs?’

‘Nothing that has been the result of any coupling,’ nodded Miqela. ‘And of course no coupling for the Perfects either, no love, marriage and childbearing. But I think I shall be past all that on my deathbed. Indeed it is many years since it has been behind me! It is the good food I should miss.’

Elinor looked solemn. She had understood about the living a clean life; that was true for all holy sisters, not just the Perfects. And wasn’t it exactly the carnal knowledge of Thibaut le Viguier she would be fleeing from?

But to be forbidden wine, to pray fifteen times a day, to fast three days out of seven, and for forty days three times a year! Elinor did not see how she could bear all that. It would be better to die swiftly and cleanly than to live out her days in such deprivation.

Miqela looked up at her sharply; her eyesight might be failing but she had known Elinor from birth.

‘Don’t tell me you are thinking of entering a sister house,’ she said. ‘I thought it was a wedding gown I was to stitch for you, not the black robe of a Perfect.’

‘Oh, you heard that, did you?’ said Elinor casually. ‘It might be that I am to be married, indeed. And no, I am not thinking of joining the sisters. I just wanted to know what it was like.’

Later that day, with her blood pulsing loudly in her ears, Elinor crept into the kitchen. Food was being served in the great hall but she had absented herself on the grounds of feeling unwell. The room still smelled strongly of roasted meat and Elinor felt her empty stomach rumble. She tore a bit of bread from an unused trencher and stuffed it in her mouth; it tasted better than anything she had eaten for weeks. Her last meal.

She had to hurry before Hugo and the kitchen servants came back for the date sweetmeats and apples dipped in honey that were spread on a table. Swiftly she crossed the room and took one of Hugo’s knives, with a horn handle. It was an old one, thin in the blade from having been honed against the whetstone so often. And it was sharp as any dagger.

Alys had been allowed to eat dinner with the local nobility in Elinor’s place. She said little but watched and listened. Le Viguier had good manners and was no fool but he was old; she could understand why Elinor would not want to marry him.

And his daughters were cross-grained, froward creatures. Lord Lanval and Lady Clara were polite to them but Alys could see that her parents did not regard the Viguier women as good models for their daughters. Perhaps their mother had been dead too long and they had been allowed too much freedom by their quiet, grey father?

Alys was worried about Elinor. She had seen her wasting away and thought at first it was because she was missing Bertran. But now she was sure that her sister’s decline was because she didn’t want an old husband and had realised it was her parents’ plan to give her one. Alys shuddered and drank some hippocras to disguise her trembling.

Suppose they had such a fate in mind for her too? She had hoped for something better. And what would Elinor do if she were forced to marry old Thibaut? Alys couldn’t imagine her sister just giving up and settling down. She had been watching her and had come to some conclusions of her own.

When the dinner came to an end and just a few men were left drinking and listening to the musicians, Alys passed close to Huguet and whispered that she would like to talk to him on the battlements when the evening’s music was over.

She passed a cold hour walking up and down on the walls, in spite of her fur-lined cloak. She kept herself warm by blowing on her hands and wrapping her arms round herself. After a long wait, a whistle like a bird’s single note told her that Huguet was near.

Alys was suddenly shy. The joglars were Elinor’s special friends and she felt all at once the scandal of meeting a young man alone in a secret tryst. She was very aware of his presence, even though she was still a little girl, and was glad to be able to pull her hood over her face.

‘What can I do for you, my lady?’ he said and his warm and friendly voice allayed her fears. Huguet was a friend.

‘I am worried about my sister,’ she said. ‘She is so unhappy I fear she will harm herself in some way.’

‘She has certainly looked pale and thin of late,’ agreed Huguet. ‘May I ask what you think is wrong? What is it that has taken her appetite away? I thought it was – forgive me – some ailment of women.’

Alys sighed. ‘It is in a way. If marriage is a woman’s ailment. I’m not sure but I think our parents intend her to marry old Viguier. I know that’s what Elinor thinks he has come here for – to ask for her hand.’

‘The Lady Elinor and that stick!’ said the joglar. ‘Never! Besides,’ he hesitated. ‘Forgive me, not my place to mention it, but I have always thought your sister looked with favour on Bertran de Miramont?’

Alys smiled inside her hood; did everyone in the castle know of her sister’s preference?

‘My sister might not be able to act upon her own wishes,’ she said. ‘If our father says she must marry Thibaut, then what else can she do?’

She heard Huguet gasp.

‘No, surely she couldn’t . . .’ said the joglar anxiously.

‘What? What are you thinking?’ said Alys, his panic infecting her own mood.

‘That as I passed the kitchen, Big Hugo was bawling that someone had stolen his boning knife.’

Alys suddenly felt a lot colder.

And then she was flying along the wall to the little chamber she shared with Elinor, Huguet at her heels.

They burst into the room and found Elinor slumped on the bed, the knife in her hand and the front of her chemise stained all red.