As Vespers came to a close, the sleepy villagers filed out through the rear doors of St. Volusien’s Lady Chapel. Esclarmonde arose slowly from the front kneeler, extending her prayers so that she would be the last of the congregants to depart. The distant splash of holy water confirmed that the priest had retreated into the sacristy. She lingered a few steps behind the others and eased the doors shut in front of her. Alone in the dark chapel, she retraced her steps and felt her way along the wall until she found one of the Stations of the Cross: Christ was being nailed to the beams. The altar, she calculated, was only a few paces away.
After her contretemps in the Court of Love, the Bishop of Toulouse had confiscated her missale plenum. Fortunately, he did not inquire as to how she had come into possession of the rare compilation of gospels and epistles. During his service to the Cross, her father had become an admirer of Eleanor of Aquitaine, the erudite wife of King Louis. Detecting the same precocious talent for letters in his daughter, the elder Count of Foix had secretly employed a Catalan Latinist from Montserrat to catechize Esclarmonde in the trivium of Latin grammar, rhetoric, and dialectic. After the Count’s death, the Marquessa had continued the private tutelage, but with suspicions recently aroused, she deemed it prudent to terminate the monk’s services with an annual benefice conditioned on his promise never to divulge the arrangement.
Esclarmonde, however, would not be so easily thwarted. She remembered that the parish priest often left his breviary on the altar for dawn service rather than lock it in the vestibule library. Although it was rare for the village clerics to sing their Office in public, Father Jean was so proud of his voice that he would open the chapel on Sunday evenings and permit the parishioners to sit in and admire his chant.
Bone-weary from the chase that afternoon, she was nevertheless determined to find evidence of the heretic bishop’s assertion that Jesus had possessed an older brother. Why had she not been told of this brother’s existence? And how could the Blessed Mother have been a virgin? She crawled down the side aisle to avoid being seen should the priest return. A few coals still flickered in the hand-warming dish. She lit the candle that she had hidden under her cloak and followed the eyes of the pedestaled Madonna toward the altar.
The breviary was still on the lintel—with its clasp unlocked.
She held the candle above the tome and turned to the first gospel. The historiated calligraphy was in a strange hand, most likely from a northern abbey. It had never occurred to her that two versions of Holy Writ could appear so different. She pored over the Latin, slowly gaining speed, but she found nothing about Our Lord having a brother. If St. Matthew made no such reference, certainly none of the other saints would have done so. The words of Scripture were divinely inspired. God was neither forgetful nor inconsistent.
The Cathar hermit was exposed as a falsifier. Disillusioned, she prepared to leave when a dollop of hot wax dripped onto her hand. She stifled a scream—her elbow knocked the breviary from its perch. She snuffed the candle and hid behind the altar. When the priest did not return, she thanked the Madonna for the protection and relit the candle. The tome had landed face down. She turned it aright and was confronted by a passage from St. Mark:
He went away from there and came to his own country; and His disciples followed him. And on the Sabbath He began to teach in the synagogue; and many who heard Him were astonished, saying, “Where did this man get all this? What is the wisdom given to him? What mighty works are wrought by his hands! Is not this the carpenter, the son of Mary and brother of James and Joseph and Judas and Simon, and are not his sisters here with him?”
Four brothers, and sisters, too? She read on:
And they took offense at Him. And Jesus said to them, “A prophet is not without honor, except in his own country, and among his own kin, and in his own house.”
How could Christ’s own family not believe in Him? And why had St. Mark recorded such an important incident when the other saints had not? She could not remember seeing these passages in her own copy of Scripture. The scribe at Montserrat may have considered them too blasphemous to record. Her thoughts turned to the many arguments that she had waged with Roger. The same blood in siblings, she knew, could run hot and cold. But Our Lord had worked miracles in His own family’s presence. Why had they not accepted His teachings? She reread the passage to make certain the Devil was not playing tricks. Perhaps this passage was the amendment of a renegade scribe. If this James did in fact disown Jesus, why would he have felt the need to write his own gospel? And why was it not included in the New Testament? Whom could she consult about this? The Marquessa had no expertise in theology. The local priest might report such an inquiry to Toulouse. She had to find the old Cathar mystic again. She turned to leave and saw a shadowy figure standing at the far end of the aisle. With trepidation, she raised the candle for more light.
“Father?” she asked.
Through the murk of incense, Folques took an unsteady step toward her. His unshaven face was the sickly color of cider pomace and his black eyes swam with pain. In a hoarse voice, he rasped, “It was not my intent to frighten you.”
Recovering from the fright, Esclarmonde cursed her carelessness in failing to bolt the rear doors. “Is it your practice, sir, to remain in the shadows of a closed church while eavesdropping on a lady’s private supplications?”
“You are not the only one who seeks spiritual comfort,” said Folques. “And from my vantage, you were doing more reading than praying.”
“I thought you had departed Foix weeks ago.”
“I came here this night to petition a miracle. The novena was still warm on my lips when you appeared before me like an angel.”
“A miracle? For what purpose?”
He captured her hand. “I beg you hear me out. I am trained in locution, but I know not how to commence. Sleep has abandoned me since I failed you.”
She glanced nervously at the sacristy door. “Please, lower your voice.”
“I ask only to be given another chance. The court at Puivert convenes next month. I shall raise you to the heavens with song so bold that all shall forget my abject fall from grace.”
She drew him toward the rear of the chapel to prevent the priest from overhearing. “We must not be found here.”
“I care not who hears me! I’ll scream it to the world!”
She gathered a shallowing breath for resolve. “Sir, I owe you an apology. I accepted your attentions without regard to the consequences. I cannot continue to give you hearing.”
Folques descended to his knees. “I live only for you! A sign of your affection is all—”
“Please, no ... I have no feelings for you.”
The troubadour’s face turned slate with harsh accusation. “You are not betrothed! What has caused this sudden change of heart?” He tightened his grip on her wrist. “That Templar has beguiled you!”
“You do me grave injustice!”
“I saw your heated glances at him!”
“I will not be interrogated!”
Folques arose in a pique and circled her. “There are rumors of a sordid history with that ogling celibate.”
She tried to escape, but he blocked her path.
“Are you not curious why the monk no longer fights the infidel?”
“Enough!” she screamed, forgetting the proximity of the sacristy.
Folques stepped back, repulsed by her raw fury. He stood aside and left her an opening toward the doors, then smiled grimly when she refused to leave without hearing the rest of his report. “Montanhagol was assigned to guard the King of Jerusalem. During his watch, assassins infiltrated the royal confines and cut out the monarch’s heart. As punishment, the Lionhearted ordered the Templar’s beard be sheared. The Grand Master banished from Palestine.”
In truth, she had found the Templar’s breach of custom passing strange, for it was common knowledge that the monk warriors were required to wear beards, even in the stifling heat of the desert. This information would have been of great value to her that day at the court.
“That treacherous monk will guard your heart with the same dereliction.”
She slapped him. “Base indictment from a man who has never raised a sword in the defense of person or principle!”
Folques clenched his fist but held back from striking. Instead, he took satisfaction at having elicited some emotion from the woman he loved. He captured her shoulders and pulled her closer, lusting to taste her lips.
She looked up at the Blessed Mother to remind him that he stood in a house of God. “I pray one day you’ll find a use for your talent in a cause more noble than slandering those who exceed you in chivalry.”
Heaving with anger and arousal, Folques drove her against the wall and tongued her ear in a taunt. “You’ll never have him,” he whispered hotly. “You may be the most beautiful woman in all the Languedoc, but you stand no chance of winning that Templar from God. Mark me, one day you’ll know the agony I now endure.”
She fought off his clutches and rushed crying from the chapel.
Folques staggered to his knees and slumped in self-loathing. He gazed at the icon of the Virgin and begged, “Why am I afflicted with this fever?”
The Blessed Mother’s eyes remained cold. She too had abandoned him. Resigned to his wretchedness, he arose and turned to leave when he saw the breviary on the altar. He examined the page that had so intrigued Esclarmonde:
A prophet is not without honor, except in his own country ...
That passage had not been meant for her! No, the Almighty had left it for him! What was a troubadour if not a prophet? He had been rejected by his fellow Occitans just as the biblical visionaries had been shunned by the Israelites. The divine message was clear: He must renounce his profligate ways to regain his good name. But what profession would have a ruined man with no skill but the clever crafting of words? He looked up at another icon above the altar: Jehovah, the God of Judgment, was calling to him.
“My life for an answer!” he cried. “Why does this disease burn in me?”
He pressed a coin between the Scripture’s bindings as an offering for the oracle, then he opened to the page chosen by the Almighty. Before him appeared a verse from the Song of Songs:
Set me as a seal upon your heart,
As a ring upon your arm;
For love is strong as death,
Jealousy is cruel as the grave,
Its flashes are flashes of fire,
A flame of the Eternal.
He was shattered by this revelation. His best years, he realized, had been wasted in frivolous versifying. With the sneer of a jilted lover, he cursed the Virgin, “Inconstant woman! I sang your praise! And you turned against me! I am forever finished with you!” He looked to the towering Jehovah for sustenance. “To you, Father, I now devote my life. In Your name, I will cleanse this pernicious land of the Serpent’s harlotry.”