With the dreaded hour of their departure for Gascony fast approaching, Esclarmonde emptied her closets while the Marquessa packed the trunks, cursing and sighing at every folded bundle. It would be the first year in memory that the matriarch did not preside over her court. The calamity in Toulouse had thrown her into such a gloom that she could find no reason to celebrate the ideals of Courtesy that were passing away with the century. They hurried to finish their tasks before an autumn snowstorm blocked the passes, for they knew that Roger would be in no mood to tarry at dawn.
“Please don’t attempt this journey,” said Esclarmonde.
The Marquessa stripped the ornaments from the walls with a surging vehemence. “Perhaps I can yet reverse this misfortune!”
“The Lord L’Isle is not a man to be swayed by threats or entreaties.”
“Had I accompanied you to the baptism, I might have shamed Count Raymond into standing up to those Cistercian thieves! Puivert and Perpignan have also cancelled their courts rather than risk accusations of heresy.”
“Folques is much behind it, I fear.” Esclarmonde immediately regretted that indictment. She had been careful not to mention the former troubadour’s name for fear of sending her godmother into another fit of apoplexy.
“If I meet that crowing rooster again, he’ll prefer the presence of Satan!” The Marquessa watched Esclarmonde halfheartedly pick through the array of bright dresses she had worn in the courts. None seemed appropriate. Observing her dilemma, the Marquessa went to her chamber and returned with an emerald satin dress embroidered with a fleur-de-lis brocade and gold meshwork. “Your mother’s wedding gown. Your father imported it from Cyprus for her.”
Esclarmonde held the dress to her shoulders and tried to imagine her mother walking down St. Volusien’s in its sweeping lines. She fought back emotion as she returned the gown and chose an austere black dress in its stead.
The Marquessa smothered her with a tearful embrace. “I’ve instilled you with hopes much too lofty. All of this talk of chivalry and romance was a blind path to disappointment.”
“Corba has found happiness.”
“She is a simple girl. You have always longed for the unreachable. Your mother had the same dangerous yearning.”
Esclarmonde retreated to the window and watched the snow drifting high against the walls. The last ships en route to the Holy Land had launched from Marseille a month ago. Guilhelm was likely on one if he had not already succumbed to the gangrene. Still, she was grateful for the six months she had been granted to prepare for the marriage. All she had once taken for granted was now burned into her memory: The sunset walks along the rustling Ariege, the riding excursions to Montsegur, the smell of baked bread in the market ovens. What she missed most was Corba’s companionship. They had planned their weddings together in this room, but perverse Fate had denied them both their dreams. Corba and Raymond married soon after returning from Toulouse, foregoing a fete for a modest ceremony. Corba had visited Foix only once since. Radiant and joyously in love, she had transformed Raymond’s austere chateau in Mirepoix into a home of felicitous warmth.
The Marquessa broached a subject too long delayed. “Child, on your wedding night—”
“Do not speak of this now!”
“The man will expect the marital duties to be consummated.”
“I cannot!”
“It will go worse for you if you do not submit. Men become savage when denied. You will learn to distance yourself from the act.”
“I will endure it only until Guilhelm comes for me.”
“You must give up that fantasy. It will only prolong your sorrow.”
“He promised to return.”
“Return to what? You have foolishly sworn him to a doomed errand.”
“You cannot take this hope from me!”
The Marquessa captured her shoulders to enforce the admonition. “Never mention that Templar’s name again. We must take up our crosses. Look forward to children. They will be a comfort.”
Esclarmonde pulled away. “You talk to me of children? By that man?”
The Marquessa grasped the bedpost for support. “Corba is gone. Now you. How will I manage to—”
At the door, Phillipa appeared with a steaming pot of jasmine tea. Embarrassed at having intruded on their conversation, she hastened away.
Esclarmonde rushed to stop her. “Please! Don’t leave!”
The Almighty, it seemed, never took with one hand without giving from the other. This wispy spirit was the only glimmer of light in the chateau now. After the tournament, Roger had insisted that the Cathar girl come to Foix and live as part of their family. Phillipa at first declined his offer, fearful that the Cistercians would learn of her whereabouts. Hospitality to a heretic, even one legally released, would only bring more trouble. But Roger would not take no for an answer. The Marquessa had found it difficult to accept the girl whose faith had brought such sorrow to her family, but Phillipa’s selfless ways soon won her over. Under her tutelage, the docile creature who once spoke hardly a word had miraculously bloomed into a winsome lady.
Phillipa poured two servings. “I can finish the preparations in here. I’ve already packed what little I need.”
Esclarmonde nearly dropped her cup. “Go with us? I’ll not hear of it!”
Phillipa tightened the trunk straps. “The Gascon lord would not jeopardize his bargain by arresting me. Besides, you must have a maid of honor.”
Deeply moved, Esclarmonde tried to think of a way to repay the kindness. With a glint of mischief, she sized up Phillipa’s lithe figure and brought forth a gown of burnt rose from the wardrobe. “Do you like it?”
Phillipa admired its luxurious sheen. “It’s beautiful.”
“It no longer fits me. We’ll wrap you in disguise.”
Phillipa removed her tunic and stepped into the gown. While she shuffled across the floor for Esclarmonde’s inspection, the Marquessa slipped out of the room unnoticed to give the two of them a few moments alone.
Esclarmonde so wished that Bishop Castres could see his little priestess in training now. Her thoughts often turned to the enigmatic Cathar leader and his unsettling prophecies in Lombrives. She did not want to leave Foix until she had gained some understanding of the man who had shaken her life to its core. “Have you heard any news of your bishop?”
Phillipa’s smile vanished. She hurriedly removed the gown, thrust back into the world of denial. The expensive dress was a temptation dangled by the Lords of Darkness so despised by her faith. While she was lodged and well-fed, the Bishop and her fellow Cathars endured harsh deprivations in the caves and forests, constrained even from enjoying the warmth of a fire for fear of being captured. She placed the gown on the bed and stepped away as if its very touch was fraught with sin. “I was wondering when you would ask about him.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“No, it’s good you wish to know more about him.”
Esclarmonde helped Phillipa into her bare tunic and retrieved the sewing basket to repair a tear in its sleeve. “How did you find him?”
“He found me,” said Phillipa. “I was ten years old. Turned out into the streets of Albi after my mother died. He took me to one of his safe houses.”
“He spoke with a strange accent.”
“His people were called Bogomils,” said Phillipa. “They migrated to Bulgaria from Jerusalem.”
“That’s halfway across the world. What brought him here?”
“He came to spread the true teachings of the Master.”
“Why didn’t he come to your aid in Toulouse? He must have heard that your burning was to take place.”
“He did come.”
Esclarmonde was so astonished that she nearly pricked Phillipa with the needle. She could remember no one that day who remotely resembled the bishop.
“When one of our people is led to the stake, the Father is always in the crowd offering prayers and comfort. He takes on disguises to avoid the Cistercians.”
“If he was hidden, how did you know he was there?”
“We have a sign,” said Phillipa tersely.
Esclarmonde recalled the nimbus she had seen around Castres’s head in the cave. She wondered if the Cathars identified their fellow believers by second sight. Phillipa was doing her best to put up a stoic front, but Esclarmonde sensed that her new friend was deeply distressed by the Bishop’s absence. “He was in tears that day at Lombrives when he thought you had perished.”
Phillipa smiled sadly. “He was the kindest man I’ve ever known.”
“Why does he not come to us now?”
“He always chooses the right moment to appear.”
“I don’t understand. How could he just stand by and watch you die?”
“Our faith is difficult for many to accept. We do not seek death, but neither do we fear it. We won’t cling to life if it means compromising our beliefs.”
“Why must you give up all that is pleasurable?”
“The Master said His Kingdom was not of this world. Your Church insists that our way is perverse, but we only follow the Master’s example.”
Esclarmonde marveled at how two faiths could interpret the teachings of Jesus so differently. The more she learned about these Cathars, the more she questioned what she had been taught by the priests. She looked down at the trunk that held the linen nightgown she would wear on her wedding night. Her stomach knotted with revulsion. There were so many questions that she could not ask the Marquessa. “Have you known a man ... intimately?”
Phillipa’s face darkened. “You’ve heard the slanders.”
“I was told your people do not believe in such relations.”
Phillipa flashed with uncharacteristic anger. “If that were true, the Pope would not need to burn us! He could just wait until we all died out!”
Esclarmonde suddenly recognized the absurdity of the claim. How could there be Cathar families if they did not procreate? They both enjoyed a rueful laugh, chasing the momentary tension.
“The Romans twists our beliefs,” said Phillipa. “We’re no different than your monks. If a woman or man wishes to become a perfecta—”
“A nun?”
“A priestess. In our faith, women are treated as equal to men in the eyes of God. Some accept a life of celibacy to meditate and perform good works, but it is never forced on them. Those who wish to remain believers are free to marry and bear children. They are called credentes. We seek to avoid the wheel of rebirth. To return to the Light, we must escape the bonds of this existence.”
“Our Lord established His Church to rule in tandem with kings and queens. He must have meant us to make the best of life here.”
“He did not establish a church.”
“The Scriptures say that St. Peter was chosen as the foundation rock.”
“I can only tell you what Father Castres taught me,” said Phillipa. “The Romans twist the Master’s words to fit their purpose. There were no churches in the time of Christ. He was a Jewish rabbi. If he had created a place of worship, He would have called it a synagogue. But He had no interest in erecting houses of worship. His disciples expected the world to vanish within weeks.”
“Are you saying that Jesus failed in His mission?”
Phillipa nervously regarded the door. “Why would He have created a church after promising those with Him that they would witness the End of Days? The Romans had to explain away this contradiction, so they falsely added the claim that He named Peter as His successor.”
“Why then did Jesus come to die for us on the Cross?”
“He did not die for us,” said Phillipa. “We do not glorify that rood of torture. What loving father would send his only son to suffer so horribly? The Master came to show us how to return to the Light before physical death.”
“Return how?’
“By meditation and healing and discourse with the angels. Only the Magdalene and His brother James understood these mysteries.”
“But the disciples saw Him resurrected in the flesh.”
“They saw only what their minds could perceive,” said Phillipa. “The Master returned to them in His Body of Light to demonstrate his teachings.”
This explanation transported Esclarmonde back to that day in Lavaur when the mystical orb had thrust her into a paralyzing ecstasy. Perhaps the Apostles had confronted the same ineffable radiance. If so, she could certainly empathize with their confusion. “Phillipa ... I think I’ve seen this Light.”
Phillipa showed no surprise. “Father Castres said you are one of us. Perhaps one day you will become a perfecta.”
“But I’m to be married.”
“Many hear the calling after their families are raised.”
For the first time, Esclarmonde began to understand how a life of a perfecta could attract a woman; no worries about men and their demands, to be left in peace to pray and seek God.
Seeing Esclarmonde’s eyes hood with fatigue, Phillipa locked the packed trunks and teased, “Last one up in the morning must wake your brother.”
Phillipa walked down the hall and tiptoed passed the sleeping guards. The kicking of the horses in the stable gave the only evidence of life in the shuttered castle. She came to the solar and discovered the door ajar. She cracked it open a bit more and found Roger standing at the hearth with his back turned. She inquired softly, “My lord?”
Roger whirled and let fly with a goblet. “Leave me be, woman! I’ll suffer no lectures this night!”
The goblet sailed past Phillipa’s head and bounced off the door frame. She allowed him a moment to recover his bearings, then replied with a hint of gentle reproof, “I am sorry for disturbing you.”
Only then did Roger realize that she was not the Marquessa hounding him again. “Wait ... I thought—”
“Is there anything you require before I retire?”
He stared at her, too long for discretion. “Do you have an army?” She melted him with that same tender smile. “No, you’d slay the enemy with that Greek fire you shoot from those eyes.”
Phillipa blushed from the strange compliment as she busied herself with cleaning up the mess that he had created. While sorting the papers on his desk, she saw the parchment that contained the terms of Esclarmonde’s dowry.
He detected her interest. “You know of Montsegur?”
“My people cherish it as a holy place.”
He hissed with contempt. “The rock has been nothing but a curse to me. I’ll be glad to be rid of it. It will be the Gascon’s problem now.”
“Will he build upon it?”
“The crest is too misshapen for a chateau. He’ll use it as stakes for a gamble and some other malcontent will stumble into its possession.”
“A treasure is often hidden in the most useless location.”
“Then the gold of Midas must be stashed inside that pog.” And yet, he was forced to admit that if this girl could be so wondrously transformed in the few months he had known her, perhaps even that misshapen thrust of limestone might one day prove of value. He staggered from the wine and lack of sleep.
Phillipa assisted him to the bed and removed his boots. She examined his ankle scar to ensure it was healing, then drew the covers over him and turned to leave. At the door, she hesitated. “My lord, I have meant to ask you ...”
“Will you not call me Roger?”
“Roger, then ... Why did you come to my assistance in Toulouse? You have made it clear how much you despise my faith.”
He looked away. “You reminded me of my mother. I chose not to abandon you, as she abandoned me.”
“I am certain she did not mean to leave you.”
Without warning, his mood turned black again. “Isn’t that what you Cathars do? Leave your families and go find God on some cloudy perch away from us flesh-eating mortals?”
She calmed him by tucking the covers to his neck. “Have I left you?”
Eyes closed, he muttered, “You will.”