Gordon Napier

In Medieval Toulouse, during the aftermath of the Albigensian Crusade, the Catholic Church is persecuting the last remnants of the Cathar sect with fire and torture. The ruthless Prior of the Inquisition dominates the city, and when he begins to suspect the wealthy widow Bernadette de Foix of heresy, her servants have to deal with the horrors that follow. Along the way the embittered manservant Gaston Cerbere and the beautiful young maid Marie Lizier find their lives their lives increasingly dominated by the shadow of the sadistic Prior. They also become embroiled in a chain of event involving the Holy Office, the Knights Templar, a Crusader king and the mythical treasure of the Cathars. It is not only a battle for truth but for survival.

The Cure of Souls

by Gordon Napier

Characters

Marie Lizier- An orphan girl, maid of Mme Bernadette de Foix

Madame Bernadette de Foix - an old widow of Toulouse, of noble blood.

Gaston Cerbere - head servant of Mme Bernadette

Jean Lovat: Tanner and parchment maker living near Toulouse.

Brother Ferrer - Prior of the Jacobins, head of the Inquisition in Toulouse

Brother Bernard de Caux- head Inquisitor of Carcassonne
Brother Guillaume de Pasigo: Inquisitor
Brother Eugene- Inquisitor
Brother Guidonis: Inquisitor
Henri Duloir: Aging inquisition guard
Antoine Fournier: Young inquisition guard
Pierre de Voisins: Seneschal of the Inquisition's prison and chief executioner.

Raimon d'Alfarno: Knight visiting Toulouse
Richard Porterhouse: The English knight
Alfonso: Raimon d'Alfarno's squire.
Joseph de Saissac: A Parfait (Cathar preacher) captured by the Inquisition in Toulouse.
Albert d' Albi: Another captured Parfait.
Maddalena Lamarchand: A young woman suspected by the Inquisition of heresy
Brother Saunier: Master of the Leper hospital.

Count Raymond VII of Toulouse: the defeated ruler, clinging on to power at the expense of subsidising the Inquisition. His Crusader ancestor had captured Jerusalem for the Christendom and whose father, Raymond VI had defied the Pope before being before being humbled by crusaders in his homeland.

Alaise Baudrillard: Farmer's wife living near Toulouse.

Esclarmonde de Foix: Cathar Parfait, daughter of Bernadette, sister of Lord Raymond Roger.
Bertrand Marty: head Parfait of Montsegur

Glossary

Albigensian: another name for an adherent of the Cathar heresy, after Albi, a town where they were prominent.
Black Friars: see Dominicans.
Calatrava: HQ of a Spanish Order of Warrior Monks. Spiritually led by the Cistercians of Morimond in Burgundy.
Cathars: Christian sect holding heretical beliefs. They were Dualists.
Cope: Ornate cloak worn by Priests during Mass.
Commandery: Templar or Hospitaller monastery, usually fortified. (Also called Preceptiories)
Consolamentum: Cathar ritual turning one from a mere Credente to a Parfait
Credentes: 'Believers' in the Cathar heresy. Lived in ordinary lay society.
Damianites: Franciscan Nuns (later known as the Poor Clares.
Dogs of God: refers to the Dominicans (play on words, Domini canes (Latin).
Dominicans: A society of monks set up by St Dominic (Domingo Guzman) to preach against heresy. They later staffed the Inquisition.
Dualism: Belief that there are two equal forces, good and evil. The Cathars believed that an evil god had created the material world and that the good god created the human soul.
Episcopal: Relating to Bishops.
Excommunication: Banishment from the Church. An Excommunicate could not receive the sacraments, consort with Christians or expect salvation.
Gonfalon: banner hung from cross bar.
Heresy: Belief contrary to accepted Christian doctrine, which in the medieval period was seen as a spiritual crime punishable by death.
Heresiarch: Term uses by Catholics for a preacher of heresy, esp. a Parfait.
Heretification: Term used by Catholics for the Consolamentum.
Holy Office: Another name of the Inquisition.
Inquisition: The Roman Catholic Church's organization to investigate and punish spiritual crimes and to suppress dissent.
Jacobins: The monastery of the Dominicans in Toulouse
Occitan: Distinct dialect of Southern France (the Langue d' Oc)
Order of Friars Preachers: Another name for the Dominicans.
Monseigneur: Term of address for a senior priest or monk.
Montsegur: Cathar castle, the last to be captured.
Parfaits: Cathar holy men and women. (Perfects). They were obliged to live extremely austere lives, generally shunning everything worldly. They were pacifist, celibate vegetarians
Psalter: Prayer book (containing psalms).
Release/relax/abandon to the Secular Arm: The Inquisition's euphemism for the burning of a convicted heretic.

THE CURE OF SOULS

The chaos of obscurity shall come forth out of the lower parts of the earth- that is to say the darkness ad the gehenna of fire- and shall burn all things from below even to the air of the firmament.

This is the pit of fire wherein the Sinners shall dwell. Satan and all his host shall be cast down; while the righteous will shine in the kingdom of their invisible father.

(from a heretical Cathar tract).

THE CURE OF SOULS

Chapter 1

Toulouse, October 29, AD 1246, dusk.

Gaston Cerbere looked down into the old lady's face. Despite the firelight from the corner of the chamber, Madame Bernadette de Foix's complexion looked paler than he had ever seen it. Her skin had a greyish hue, and seemed taut on her wasted form. There was something missing in her eyes, as they fixed on him- something difficult to define. Marie, the young maid, hung back on the other side of the bed, saying nothing, her lips quivering slightly. On a side table sat a bowl of soup, now tepid, and other simple foods, for the mistress of the house, despite Marie's urging, had been refusing sustenance for several days. Gaston looked across into the maid's large brown eyes, then down into the faded blue ones of the mistress, as Madame Bernadette tried to speak.
'Gaston,' she said. It was the first time, as far as the young man could remember, that she had used his first name. 'You have always been faithful, but I think the time is here me to issue my last instruction to you…'
Gaston shook his head. 'My lady, no…'
'Yes,' she cut him off, 'it is my time, and I am… glad. I have seen too much of this world, and its evil. But I want to make a good end.' She grimaced, pitifully, from some inner pain, screwing shut her eyes, then looked at him again, beckoned him closer, her already faint voice lowering. 'Gaston…' Her misty eyes dropped, once more, she gasped and part of him hoped that she might expire there and then. However after a moment she rallied a little more energy, and reached feebly for his hand. 'Do this for me; hurry to the house of the de Torenes, the… guest there- if he has not yet returned whence he came- , you must fetch him… hurry- I know I have not long.' Her skeletal, age-pocked hand dropped. 'Go now, please…' the strength and presence of mind seemed to abandon Bernadette again, 'please' she repeated, and began to murmur softly and half coherently.

Gaston straightened and stepped away from the bed. Marie, meanwhile, knelt again at the bedside and once more began gently to dab her mistress's brow. She raised her solemn eyes to meet Gaston. 'Go' she mouthed.

Gaston stepped out into the night, charged with finding the man his mistress needed, the Parfait, one of only a couple of Cathar preachers who had escaped the swords of the northern crusaders and the torture chambers and flames of the Inquisition. Gaston could not recall a time when terror and death had not held the land in their grip. The faith his ailing mistress followed was all but extinguished now, but fear was still a vicious dog that held Toulouse and the lands surrounding it in its teeth. Gaston himself was ruled by fear. Truly this world was hell.

It did not look like hell. The spires of Toulouse's churches, and the turreted towers of the city walls, were silhouetted against the evening sky. The last streaks of crimson and orange were fading on the western horizon and the stars were beginning to shine above. It was a beautiful autumn night. Gaston left his mistress's two-storey brick and stone house, with its carved escutcheon above the door bearing the ancestral arms of the Lady's family. He passed down the shadowy streets. As chilly breeze began to blow- the first breath of winter. Gaston folded his arms and pulled his tunic tighter about himself. He came to a crossroads and stopped; then looked down into the town, nestling against the wide watery sweep of la Garonne. The old, octagonal tower of the basilica of St Sernin rose over the terracotta rooftops. By day, Gaston knew, the belfry was a magnificent sight, like a wedding cake, with bands of white stone and of the pinkish coloured local bricks that defined the rose-coloured city: Tolosa'l ros in the Occitan dialect. Now, though, it was too dark to discern colours. Somewhere below the great church lay the modest house that sheltered the fugitive Parfait. The wind blew Gaston hair across his face, as he looked the other way, to the newer, sterner, fortified towers of the Dominican monastery, the Jacobins, which had arisen in the wake of the Catholic triumph, and which now dominated the town, in every sense. Gaston shuddered, feeling sick in his soul and weary of the world. He looked around, to ensure that the streets were as deserted as they seemed, and then hurried towards the forbidding gates of the monastery.

Chapter 2

The Prior of the Jacobins strode into his sacristy, from the cloister that connected it to the abbey church. He barely acknowledged the novice friar who waited to assist him out of the ornate liturgical garb he wore. Instead he greeted the magpie, chained by gold links to its stand by the narrow gothic window. The bird cawed as its master's finger stroked the sable feathers over its proud head. The Prior looked into the bird's knowing black eyes. 'Good evening, Dominic, my pretty one, and what splendid mischief might you be plotting tonight?' The Prior's voice was low and smooth, and he was answered by the bird's familiar 'chacka-chack.' Dominic, when unleashed, routinely terrorised the monks of the Order that the bird's recently beatified namesake had founded. Most of the abbey's servants had learnt to hate the bird too, and to regard it with a superstitious dread, since the night of it's mysterious appearance here. It seemed to delight in delinquency, from pecking at clothes, faces and hair, to moving things and hoarding bright objects; and all this was the least of its sport. None, though, dared protest to the Prior, and the Prior seemed pleased to indulge his pet. After all, the bird had its uses, and sometimes the prior felt a greater affinity with it than with any human creature.

The Prior looked out at Toulouse, through the window, as he released the bird from the chain. He reflected that this city, once the capital of heresy, was now the seat of the Holy Inquisition. Its population crawled around in fear of denunciation, and even the Count, once the bold champion of his people's religious nonconformity, had lost any real power to the King of France, and to the Inquisition.
A year ago, the Prior had experienced his moment of triumph, when he had urged the King's soldiers on to take the last Cathar castle, Montsegur, that stronghold built by Satan for his followers, perched on its remote mountain top, as though to mock the Catholic faith. Its defenders had deserved no mercy. A year before that a force of credentes, heretical believers, had ridden down from there to ambush a party of the Prior's fellow Inquisitors in Avignonet. Not only had they butchered the Prior's brothers in Christ Guillaume de St Thibery and Guillaume Arnold and their scribes, but they had burnt their chest of papers. Up in smoke had gone the product of much labour extracting confessions and lists of names from those suspects previously called to the Inquisition's secret tribunals. The Cathars had sealed their own doom, that fateful night. What else had the wretches expected but to go up in smoke themselves? The Inquisitor monks, since then, had gone about their pious business accompanied by armed minions, and more than reconstructed their register of names and records of confessions. Finally they had brought about the capture of Montsegur, and had made a living sacrifice of the Cathars' demagogue Bertrand Marty and his fellows.
The Prior himself had ordered the forest of stakes to be raised below the towering Montsegur. After the castle fall, the last two hundred Parfaits in the land had been marched down from the aerie to this ominous glade. They had perished in the flames, and along with them the two-dozen fools who had elected to undergo the consolamentum, the heretification ritual. Why these people had chosen death alongside their preachers when they had been offered a chance to live, albeit providing they submit to the inquisition, had baffled most of the victorious Catholic troops. Some onlookers had attributed it to a wicked spell that the Parfaits had cast over their followers, or to Satanic brainwashing, or merely to wicked obstinacy. The Prior himself had not cared, whatever the case. So be it, he had decreed- let the credentes show their solidarity with their holy leaders. If there were demons possessing them, the flames would smoke them out.

The Prior was hardly aware of the serving brother fussing around him. His mind had gone back to that fateful night. The image of the multitude of men and women, young and old, corralled and chained together in that glade below the mountain, burning, came back vividly. A smile wavered on his lips. He recalled the sounds, too, hymns turning to screams and moans, amid the crackle of the flames that had cooked the flesh of feet and legs and groins before reaching any vital organs. The smell of the smoke came back, also. The priests of heresy had been exterminated, the Prior had believed. This is the lord's work, and marvellous in our eyes. Thus he had exclaimed, as he had held his crucifix triumphantly aloft and as the smoke had risen high. Only later, during the process of interrogating the defeated heretics (those who had survived the siege and lacked the conviction to die with their leaders), had the Prior learned that he had not completely eradicated the Parfaits. The Inquisition's operatives had extracted intelligence that Bertrand Marty, on the eve of surrendering Montsegur, had sent four of his most trusted Parfaits scrambling down the mountain to bear the Cathars' greatest treasure away. Two of them the Prior had since tracked down and seen burned, but two still eluded him, as did the treasure, whatever it might be and wherever it might be hidden. The treasure had obviously been a closely guarded secret, known of only by the highest parfaits, and all the prior had managed to glean regarding its nature were vague hints at an object of great power and sanctity, something not of this Earth. The mystery tantalized the Prior. It felt like unfinished business. The thought caused a frown to replace his fleeting smile.

The Prior had not long changed out of his gold-embroidered cope and the other vestments of the mass, and was just waiting while his attendant straightened for him his black Dominican cloak and the hooded cowl over the long white cassock he wore, when there came a commotion, disturbing his train of thought. Three brother Dominicans, after knocking and being admitted by the novice, ushered in a youngish man, in humble attire.
'Forgive our disturbance, Monseigneur Ferrer,' the first of the monks, brother Guillaume de Pasigo said. 'This is…'
'I know this creature,' the Prior interrupted, fixing his stare on the servant of the old widow Bernadette de Foix. Gaston blanched at the sight of the Prior's pale, piercing eyes. 'You have information for us, Cerbere?'
The Prior listened to the servant repeating his story, that his aged mistress, long suspected as a secret heretic, lay a few blocks away from the monastery, in the delirium of her death agony.
The Prior seemed interested. 'Incidentally, how long have you known of her heretical beliefs?' he asked. There was something sinister in his tone.
Caught off guard, and suddenly aware of the danger to himself, Gaston Cerbere found himself shaking. 'Only a few days, may it please you Monseigneur, she kept it secret from her household until she needed us to fetch the man. She sent me out to find the good man, as she called him, who she knows is staying somewhere in Toulouse, secretly visiting other Cathars in the city.'
'I knew it! The heresiarch sneaks back to his adherents like a dog returning to its vomit!' the Prior hissed. A look of fury, but also animation flashed in his eyes. He leant closer 'She has no other manservant, your mistress, I believe, and besides you only a maid in her household. No surviving kin in the city either, I gather. So were you the only one your mistress send out to seek out this good man?''
Cerbere gawped, reminded that there was little the Inquisition did not know. 'Yes sir. She's only employed two of late, and the maidservant stayed at her bedside. I did not go where she sent me, but came str…straight here instead, may it please…'
'Tell me the address you were given, quickly now!'
Cerbere relayed it.
'Good. Now, listen,' the Prior said, now addressing to the monks present. 'Summon the men at arms, this is what will be done…'

Marie kept a vigil by Mme Bernadette's bed, trying to conceal her own anxiety, and to comfort and reassure her troubled mistress as her last moments passed by, lifting a cup of water to her dry lips whenever bade. The old lady had drifted in and out of consciousness, when awake asking, in a voice frail yet filled with yearning, if the Parfait was yet here, speaking of her wish to receive the rite that would free her soul from the snare of incarnate existence and allow it to be one with God. She fell back into a soft delirium again, then looked around with unfocussed, fearful eyes.
'Who is that, is that Marie?'
'Yes madame, I'm here.'
'My eyes… ah, I can't see your face... oh dear… Are they here yet?'
'Not yet Madame, I'm sorry.'
'Where are they, girl? Why don't they come?'
So much desperation was condensed into those words. Though Marie did not understand the profound significance of the process her mistress wished to undergo, she sensed the force of her yearning. The girl felt pity for the old lady, and regretted that there seemed to be little that she could do or say to help. 'I'm sure they won't be long, Madame,' she said, eventually. 'Don't worry, they will surely come soon.'
'Sing something for me, Marie.'
'Madame?'
'I've heard you singing a psalm while your work…' the old woman looked kindly in the girl's direction, though her eyes were still unfocussed. She tried to smile, though it turned into an exhausted wince of pain. 'Please, my dear, sing. If they… don't… come in time, at least I can drift away to a soothing voice.'
'Yes Madame,' Marie nodded, though she had never realised that she had been overheard singing to herself while about her chores, much less that her mistress hadn't minded it. The maid started to sing one of the religious song she had been taught as a small child. 'Bless the lord, o my soul,' she sang softly, ' and all that is within me, bless his holy name. Bless the lord, o my soul, and forget not all his blessings, who forgiveth all thine iniquities; who healeth all thy ills…' Marie paused, realizing that she had chosen a psalm. She feared her Mistress would disapprove of this, for the lady had never seemed to care much for the Old Testament or its stern and jealous god.
The old woman closed her eyes, though, sighing. 'Please, go on.'
'Who redeemeth thy life from destruction; who crowneth thee with loving -kindness…'

At that there was a low knock on the door. Bernadette did not seem to register it, Marie, though, seized by some sudden premonition of dread, fell silent and froze where she sat. The knock came again, louder.
'Let them through, dear child,' Bernadette whispered. 'The good man has come! And don't… be sad, not for me, he's come to lead me out of the darkness!'
'Yes madam,' Marie nodded, rising to her feet and passing around the bed to the door. The hall beyond was dark and shadowy. The girl's gazelle-like eyes widened as she saw the men crowded there, a cluster of friars in Dominican habit, hooded and cloaked in black with white robes beneath. She gasped and was about to exclaim something when Gaston stepped between them and put his finger over her lips.
'Marie, please, hush,' he urged, in a hiss. 'It has to be this way.'
Marie's eyes fixed on his, questioningly, searchingly, then darted to the side as she saw the Inquisition's men at arms coming slowly up the stairs with all the stealth and caution they could muster. They wore casque helmets and tunics of dark leather, each with a narrow white cross, sewn across the breast. Each carried a halberd.
One of the monks stepped forward, tall, gaunt, with frosty blue eyes. He was pale and clean-shaven, with a patrician air. His thin lips parted as he smiled with sinister charm and reached out to stroke his fingers through Marie's dark hair. 'Have you been a good girl, and kept the old harridan alive for us?' he asked. He twisted her hair in his grasp, and then cast her by it to the grip of one of his brethren, a corpulent and stinking monk, who caught her in his crushingly strong arms, and covered her mouth with his grimy sleeve.
The Prior looked at Gaston, and gestured through the door. 'Go to your mistress. Tell her that the man she wishes to see is here.' He lowered is voice. 'Woe betide you if you have wasted our time this night.' He drew his hood up, and his black cloak around himself, knowing that it was the custom of the heresiarchs that he hunted also to robe themselves in black. He was careful to conceal the gold crucifix that hung around his neck, too, knowing that the heretics, in their perversity, repudiated the cross and never displayed that which they called the 'murder weapon.'

The old woman, in the room beyond, thought that someone was here to open up for her the way to salvation. In a sense that was true, but first, instead of the heresy-monger she expected, a servant of the true Church had come- and, with any luck, the Prior though- he would hear her damn herself.

Chapter 3

'I am here,' the visitor said, in a soft but clear voice, sitting down. 'Your servant found me, and I came as quickly as I could.'
'Thank… God,' the old woman said, her frailty evident in her whispered words. Her eyes could not focus clearly; she could see only the dark silhouette of a man, a hooded head bowed by her bedside.
'What do you require of me, good sister?' the man's strangely beguiling voice asked. 'Ask it, and I will do it, if it lies within my power.'
'Lord, pray… for this sinner,' the old woman whispered, 'that God might… deliver her from an evil death and lead her… to a good end.'
The man nodded gravely. 'I promise you, sister, that before much time has passed, God will have cleared the way for the salvation of your soul. But first, tell me, do you have a copy here of the Holy Scriptures?'
'Third… panel… to the right of the fireplace…' the old woman said, her finger twitched as she tried to point. 'Please… hurry!'
The man gestured to the servant Gaston Cerbere, who rushed across to the fireside, and felt for the hollow panel. At length a section of wainscoting opened and revealed a space where a black bound book lay secreted. Jacque brought the book to the visitor, who opened it and flicked through the pages with a secret smile. It was a copy of the gospels in Occitan French, the dialect that had given its name to the region, the Languedoc. At the recent Council of Toulouse, the Catholic Church had forbidden these translations, only the Latin scriptures were allowed, and these mediated through the Latin priesthood. This volume, the word of God in the vulgar language, was all the evidence the Inquisition could need to convict a heretic. But there was more. Here, in the Gospel of John, were the forbidden, apocryphal passages, which the Church Fathers had long expunged from the received Bible. This was diabolical heresy indeed!

Gaston stood back, his eyes downcast, his arms folded. There came a rustling sound, and he looked up to see the magpie that has alighted on the ledge of the open window. A candle's light had appeared at the window of a house across the street behind. The bird hopped through to the inner window ledge, and folded its wings imperiously, as though it had arrived to bear witness to the unfolding travesty.

'Good,' the visitor said placidly to the old woman, touching her frail hand. 'I see that you have kept the faith and are a true believer. Are you ready to pass beyond the ranks of the worldly, and to receive the Holy Spirit?'
'Pray God that he might… give me… strength.' She said, her eyes closing.
He took her hand and placed it on top of the Bible.
'Will you swear the only true oath, and renounce the eating of meat, through respect of the spirit which passes through all beings, and through contempt of matter begotten in sin?'
'Yes.'
'Will you renounce the flesh, and the vile act through which flawed creation is procreated, and by which angelic spirits are trapped in bodies of clay? Will you embrace chastity for the rest of your days, so that your soul may find release in paradise?'
'Yes.'
'Will you surrender your heart and soul to the love of the God whose kingdom of light lies beyond all visible things, and renounce the impostor god of the Old Testament?'
A faint nod.
'Do you renounce our persecutor, the harlot Church of the Rome, with its replicas of the cross, sham baptism and other magical rites?'
'Yes.'
A pause. 'Oh dear. Then may the Lord have mercy on you, for we will not!'

The visitor's words, suddenly sharp, cut through the Bernadette's delirium, and her eyes fixed on him. He snatched the Bible away from her and stood up, pointing an accusing finger at her. His pale eyes burnt into hers. 'Heretic!' he pronounced. The door behind him opened and the other black robed friars of the Dominican Order and their guards entered the room.
'She has unwittingly confessed, get her up!' the Prior commanded his minions. The armed men came forward and began to manhandle the stupefied old woman from the bed. 'Oh no! Oh Lord, no!' she whimpered.
Marie, the young maid, struggled in the grasp of the burly monk who still held her, seeing what they were doing to her mistress. 'What are you doing?' she shrieked. 'Leave her alone! In God's name! Look at her! An old lady! Can't you see she's too weak to leave her bed?'
The Prior turned to face the girl. It was remarkable for anyone, let alone a mere serving maid, to dare question the workings of the Inquisition, but the Prior concealed any astonishment behind a cold, implacable mask. Something in his eyes clearly warned Marie of the danger of going on in such a tenor, but it did not silence her altogether. 'Gentle sir, please, show mercy!' she pleaded in a softened tone. 'She is dying; she will not see the morning. Can't you let her be, for pity's sake, can't you let her die in her bed?'
The prior laughed, as the magpie flew across to perch on his shoulder. 'Very well,' he said. 'He turned back to his men. 'Lift the bed, you four, and bring it down!'

The guards rushed to obey, dropping the hapless Bernadette back onto her pillows and heaving the bed off the floor. The Prior growled at them to be gentler.
Somehow getting the bed through the doorway, the company passed down the stairs and out into the night. Marie's shouts of protestation had roused some of the neighbours from their slumber. More lamps appeared at windows and apprehensive faces around front doors and window shutters. Word spread quickly through the neighbourhood. Marie cried again, but the monk who she struggled against this time got the better of her and covered her mouth, after bundling her down the stairs after the others. 'Keep making a noise, wench, and you'll be making it in our dungeons!' he told her under his breath. 'Be good and we might yet let you go- after we're done with the old crone.'

A tearful Marie found herself being jostled along in a surreal, makeshift procession. It was led by the Prior of the Jacobins, followed by the men at arms, carrying the bed where Mme Bernadette lay shivering and groaning, followed by the chanting monks, and the rest of the guards. Gaston followed too and tried to hush Marie, who was still much distressed, but who had been subdued slightly by the monk's threats. The heavyset monk still watched her closely from the other side. Gaston reached out to put a supporting arm around her.
'Don't touch me!' she hissed, recoiling from him. The guard behind smirked, and pushed her on. She looked around at the people watching from the roadsides, some expressions showing sympathy. Most, though, looked away from her imploring gaze. Gradually it began to dawn on Marie what it was to belong to a people broken in spirit, and resigned to the presence of their oppressors. She felt the sick realization that the Inquisition had defeated her too, that she would resist no more. She just wanted this over, and to be let go. The thought of ending this night in a Dominican dungeon, awaiting the tender mercies of the notorious jailers, was more than she could face. They were approaching the square in front of the Dominican monastery. She had only been within once, taken there on her twelfth birthday, like every girl on reaching that age, to make the obligatory pledge of loyalty to the Roman Catholic Church and to recite the Apostles' Creed. Still she remembered the low moans rising up from their dungeons, and the grim atmosphere in that place. Part of the oath Marie had taken there involved abjuring heresy and promising to inform the Inquisition of any people that she might know of, discover or suspect to be Cathars. Failure to do so invariably carried the same penalty as did heresy itself. Marie had never betrayed her mistress, though, and Bernadette had even taken the time to teach her to read using the illicit Bible. Now, as the towers of the Dominican monastery began to loom up over the rooftops, Marie, still fearing for her mistress, began to feel very afraid for herself. Few of the accused that were taken through the Dominicans' gates left acquitted, absolved or alive; everyone in Toulouse knew that.

As the Prior glanced back from his place in the lead, a sense of gratification welled up within him. Across the town, he knew, more of his agents would meanwhile have swooped on another house, bursting in and seizing every member of the household to be found. They would tear up the house looking for hiding parfaits. This night, already fruitful, would doubtless bear more fruit and there would be interesting inquisitorial business to attend to in the coming days. Soon he might have his long-hunted quarry in his clutches. But first the night's events must reach their satisfying climax.

There were more people assembled in the square. Bleary eyed and solemn-faced, they were gathered around a great pyre which had already been assembled and lighted. Beyond the crowds, several mounted men looked on from their saddles. The Prior's instructions, issued before he left for the house of Bernadette de Foix, had been followed to the letter, and things were timing well. The orange glow of the flames illuminated the austere façade of the Dominican monastery, the Jacobins, towering behind. To Marie's fancy it resembled, more than ever, something demonic. Its twin rose windows seemed like sunken eyes, its three pinnacles like horns.

A prefabricated dais, with a lectern, had been put up before it. This the prior mounted when his procession halted.
'Citizens of Toulouse,' his voice rang out, imperiously. 'We are here to witness and perform an act of faith, made possible by the hand of Divine providence. We bring before you Bernadette de Foix. This woman is an apostate and a heretic, condemned by her own tongue, in my presence, and before other witnesses. Mistaking me for a heresiarch, she asked to undergo the rite of heretication! It is, as you all know, the sacred duty of the Inquisition to detect, prosecute and punish spiritual crimes. It is our solemn task to root out heresy from the homes, minds and spirits of men. We must be ever watchful for threats to the faith of Christ, and unstinting in our fight, in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.'
While he was speaking, his men had produced a length of chain, and had tied the old woman to her bed, securely fastening the coils in place. Others, masked executioners, stoked the flames, which began to crackle loudly and to rise high, silhouetting the robed form of the Prior.
'Behold!' the Prior said, holding aloft the book he carried, 'in the heretic's den we found a Languedocien Bible. This is an insult to God, a thing forbidden to all true children of the Church, who know that the Almighty appoints a Pope and priests to guide his flock. This is a thing for wolves that would lead the sheep away from their shepherds, to the eternal peril of the soul. And so we condemn this wicked woman to the flames, according to God's law, as it says in the first book of Corinthians, chapter 5: … "to deliver such an one unto Satan, for the destruction of the flesh, that the spirit may be saved in the day of the Lord Jesus".'
The Inquisition's henchmen lifted the bed up onto its end, and hauled it into the fire with a resounding crash, which made Marie wince and shudder, and cover her face. A terrible moan was heard from Bernadette as the flickering flames started to lick around her, and as the cold chains heated into branding irons.
This book…' the Prior brandished the Bible, 'I consign to Hell along with its owner…' he cast it into the flames. 'The other properties of Bernadette de Foix, I declare forfeit and confiscate them in the name of the Inquisition and the government of Toulouse. Their value will be divided between the church, the state and our good Christian informant.'
Gaston stared into the flames, which reflected in the tears in his eyes, which stung, not helped by the smoke that the wind blew into them. He did not look towards Marie, but imagined her accusing eyes on him. Madame Bernadette, still alive, coughed, choked and groaned as her white hair singed and then caught fire, as her bedclothes burned, an her flesh blackened and blistered. Her manservant watched her with tears in his eyes but a strange numbness spreading from his heart.

Chapter 4

In the event, Marie had not been arrested as a suspected accomplice in her late mistress's crimes of belief. Instead, stunned and shaking, she had been escorted back to the house, along with Gaston Cerbere, by two of the Inquisition's mercenary guards.
Cerbere told her to prepare some supper for the men, who sat in the hall. One of the hirelings, a grizzled, older man, demanded she bring them some wine too. 'There's none here, I'm afraid,' Gaston answered for Marie. 'The mistress doesn't… didn't approve of it.'
'No beer either no doubt. Bah! I've heard these heretics never drink alcohol…' The guard sneered, rdonically. 'Probably trying to make themselves less flammable!'
'You think it's something to joke about, friend, burning old women on their beds?' Gaston said.
'I don't give a damn about that, friend, but if you ask me it was a sinful waste of a good bed!' The man looked to his younger accomplice, whose dark eyes betrayed little, though he gave a brief nod of agreement. 'We don't get beds like that!'
Marie, biting her tongue, retreated into the kitchen in disgust and dismay.
Almost in a trance, and feeling faint, she heated up a pot of broth over the fire. She felt sick and could not face food herself. As she stirred the pot, she heard Gaston trudge up the stairs, to his attic room. So he had lost his appetite too, it seemed- she hoped because of shame over what he had done. Maybe he was just loath to share the company of the inquisition's callous men. If that was it, then Marie was hardly grateful for being left alone with them down here. The guards' muffled conversation, in the hall, continued- it was audible through the kitchen door. Marie could not hear what they talked about, and did not really cared to listen, trying instead to shut out all sounds and all feelings. She poured the mixture into two wooden bowls. With all the forbearance she could muster she took the food out to the men, but kept her head down when serving and avoided talking to them. She felt their eyes on her and it did nothing to ease her trepidation. She left their presence as speedily as she could. She was keen to bed down in her usual corner of the kitchen, and only wished there was a bolt on the door between the rooms.
A rat had appeared on the tabletop. All she needed! It watched her with its mean, dark eyes, rearing up on its hind legs. Marie picked up a broomstick but before she could do anything the rat had darted down the table leg into the shadows and disappeared into a hole in the wall.
Marie shivered, but not entirely with cold. The small fire in the kitchen was dying, now, but it had taken the chill off the room. Rats had always frightened her, and the thought of the rodent returning in the night made her skin crawl all the more. There again, she supposed, a rat was the least of her worries. Taking solace in routine, the girl fetched the brick she had set to warm by the fireside. A glance at the fire brought the fresh horror of her mistress's fate back to the forefront of Marie's consciousness. One of the thoughts that passed through her troubled heads was how fire, like water, though usually helpful for people, sometimes swallowed them without mercy. Water, she supposed at least returned a body, sometimes… Another horrible image flashed into her mind - the discoloured corpse of a suicide, which she had once seen being dragged from the river. She also recalled the priest who had afterwards declared the poor man's soul to be damned. According to the Prior, her mistress, Mme Bernadette, would now be joining that suicide in Hell… Marie sniffed, and wiped her eyes, and tried to shut out such bleak thoughts. She picked up the heated brick in a small woollen blanket and wrapping the fabric around it a few times before pushing it down into her nest of straw and bedding in the corner. The scrap of blanket was one of her few real possessions, and was at least as old as she was. The nuns who ran the city orphanage had found her as a baby wrapped in it, abandoned at their gate, one morning, some fifteen years ago.

She did not like the thought of undressing with those men out there, so got under the covers as she was, removing only her shoes. The warmth that soon came through the old blanket to her tired feet with their cold toes was a comfort. She had thought she would be too upset to sleep that night, but as it turned out, she was too emotionally exhausted not to. She decided to worry about tomorrow when it arrived. She pulled herself into a huddle amid her bedding, and had almost escaped into oblivion when a knocking at the door brought her back into harsh reality. 'Girl! Oi, you in there!' one of the coarse voices shouted through.
Marie raised her head, looking at the door. 'What do you want?'
'It's cold, sweetheart, we want a fire. You've got one going in there, let us through.'
'Hold on…' she sighed and got up. She passed across the flagstones to peer around the door into the large-nosed face of the guard who had spoken- the one who did most of the talking, it seemed.
'Hello again, little miss' he said, his smile was broad and rotten-toothed; more of a leer. 'You weren't very friendly earlier on.'
She frowned a little, glancing past him to the other guard. That one was younger, with a pug face and very intense dark eyes; which were fixed on her in a way that caused her to flinch, despite her effort at composure. She looked back at the first man.
'I'll light a fire for you out there,' she began, 'just let me get…'
'Wouldn't you rather have some company in there?' he cut in, acerbically.
Marie sucked in her cheeks and folded her arms across her chest. 'I suspect your masters would rather you were out there, guarding the front door.'
'Oh ho!' The first man glanced over his shoulder. 'Hear that, boy? The little wench fancies telling us how to do our job now!'
'Told you she was like that,' the young one said, in a flat voice. She was giving the Prior himself an earful earlier. Someone should teach her a lesson, I reckon.'
The older one pushed the door open, leaning over the girl as he did so. 'You know, sweetheart, you almost give the impression our presence here ain't to your liking. Is that right, my pretty? Don't you relish playing hostess to heroes like me and him?' he moved closer, his voice lowered. 'I bet you like it really. Eh! You're nice and dark… I bet you've got gypsy blood, and we know what gypsy bitches are like. I bet you're a hungry little gypsy whore, deep down. I think it's your lucky night!' His big hand pushed into her hair and wrapped around the back of her head. As he came closer she felt the full repulsive force of his breath. She squealed and tuned her head away. She tried to pull free of him but his fingers had closed around her hair and he pulled her back, pressing her body against the door. He bent over her once more, his mouth moving into the nape of her neck. She felt his rough tongue lap up from her chin to her cheek, and the damp of his vile saliva on her skin.
He, in turn, felt her knee rise sharply up into his groin, and staggered backwards, letting her go as he clutched his tender region. 'Aaaagh, you witch!' he winced, 'You evil little witch!'

Before Marie could capitalize on the situation, the younger guard had sprung on her. His rat-like eyes burned into hers. He moved his leg across both of hers, pinning them rigid, and simultaneously caught her wrists, pushing them hard against the wood of the door. 'You need teaching,' he said, shaking his head slightly.
The first guard recovered his breath, and staggered upright again. He came back to her, slowly, and thrust his arm forward, his fingers closing around her throat. She felt her heart beating, looking back into his eyes and saw the burning rage, burning indeed, but somehow coldly. It reminded her of the Prior, somehow, as if some similar demon had control of the man. 'Yes indeed, you're going to learn now, gypsy bitch!' He released her neck only to smack her brutally across the face with his hard knuckles. 'Jesus Christ, but we'll teach you!'

Between them, the two men hauled the maid over to the kitchen table, pushing her down, sending pots and trays to the floor, with a clatter of metal and a shattering of ceramics. Vainly Marie struggled as they bent her over, face down, the younger, taller one holding her hair with one hand and, with the other, twisting her arms behind her back, allowing the senior guard to take position behind her. Vainly she struggled, as the older man began to gather up her skirts. She screwed shut her eyes, crying, feeling tears burn down her cheeks.

Chapter 5

Then there was a roar, rapidly followed by another crash, and a cry. The younger guard looked up, his rodent eyes widening, seeing a stranger standing where his colleague had been, and his colleague now lying across the room against the wall, where he had been hurled.
'Henri!' The younger guard gasped, but the older one just groaned. The newcomer turned to face the younger guard. He was a man of no great stature but of powerful build, with a white cloak hanging about his broad shoulders. His curling hair was cut short, and was dark but for the white at his temples. There was much more grey in his full beard. His teeth showed white amid the beard as he bared them in rage.
The young guard stepped back, his hand darting for the dagger at his belt, but before he could brandish it, a knight's sword sprang from the scabbard at the newcomer's side, and struck the guard's arm with the flat of its blade, knocking the arm outwards, and sending the dagger flying. The razor sharp dagger span through the air and neatly embedded itself in a loaf of bread, on the other side of the kitchen.
The next thing the startled guard knew, the knight had raised his sword, and delivered a blow to his head, again with the flat of the blade. It sent the youth reeling down onto one knee with a shout of pain. The pain throbbed, and all became a blur before him. Marie raised herself and looked around, through her tears, barely registering the form of the newcomer, but noticing the older of her attackers rising to his feet and reaching for his own dagger. The girl's glossy eyes widened, she tried to utter something, but found herself mute- for it was all too much. Even so, her look seemed to be enough warning for the newcomer, who swivelled to meet the assailant. He launched his fist into Henri's face, hitting the wretch hard under the chin with the pommel of his sword. The guard again staggered backwards, and was helped back onto the floor by the knight's boot, which ploughed into his chest. The heel of the other boot soon descended on the hand that still held the dagger, and the fingers opened, releasing the grip. The knight placed the sharp of his sword at Henri's throat, and keeping it there, stooped to snatch the guard's weapon before sticking it in his own belt.
The knight glanced back at the younger ruffian, who was still on his knees, clutching his dizzied head, then looked down at the older of the two. 'Both of you, get out!' he said, in a low, commanding tone.
'We are the Inquisition's men! The Prior will hear of this!' Henri growled up at him.
'He will indeed, by my faith!' the knight said. 'By rights I should have slain each of you blackguards on the spot after finding you as I did. And but for the fact that one killing is enough for that girl to witness in one night, I likely still would run you through. Be grateful you live to repent your crimes, and be gone!'

'What's all this?' Gaston Cerbere demanded, entering the room, shirtless, just as the two chastened guards were retreating, past the knight's young squire who watched them cautiously, standing over one of the spears they had left in the outer hall, and holding the other tightly, lest they try to reverse the outcome of the fight. Gaston looked across at the knight. His expression became wary. 'Who are you?'
The knight ignored him, instead turning his attentions on Marie, who had gotten back on her feet, straightened her dress down, and again crossed her arms over her chest, one hand covering her mouth, the other her heart, as though to stop it beating so hard. She trembled slightly. Her head was bowed forward, her eyes downcast.
'Are you alright, my dear?' the knight asked gently.
Her eyes, large, tearful and fearful, lifted to meet his. She found reassurance in his hazel eyes, which had lost their look of righteous fury and now looked kindly and protective. They seemed to bring Marie some way out of her traumatized state, and she nodded. She caught her breath, wiped her eyes, and found her voice. 'Yes sir, I… thank you for saving me,' she said, albeit falteringly. She blushed, dropped her eyes again and curtsied with all the decorum she could muster, which was to say, more alacrity than grace. He was obviously a noble knight, and she did not want him to think she had forgotten her proper place.
'Who are you, sir?' Gaston repeated, with irritation.
'And who is this man?' The knight asked Marie.
'This is Gaston Cerbere, sir,' she raised her still glistening eyes with a rather sad look to Gaston. 'Before tonight he was head servant to the late mistress. He brought the Inquisition here.'
The knight scrutinized Cerbere, for the first time, narrowing his eyes. 'Is that so?'
Cerbere found himself lost for words, reminded of his role in recent events.
The knight frowned. 'They reward their spies well, I'm told. You expect to rise in the world as a result of the information you supplied, no doubt.'
'I only told them the truth…' Cerbere paused… 'Anyway, who are you that I should justify myself to in my own…'
'Your own house?' The knight gave a low grunt of distaste. ' By my faith, sir! Your house, you knave?' He stepped close to Cerbere, lowering his voice so that the Maid could not hear what he was about to say: 'The fat from your roasted mistress's body is still warm on the besmeared walls of the square, whence it was carried from the flames! And already you think of her property as yours?'
Cerbere looked haggard, suddenly, the exhausting inner conflict, between guilt and self-justification, stultified him for the moment. It prevented him from giving any positive response. 'It is my right,' he muttered, eventually.
'Well, Master Cerbere, good luck to you as master of this house. You have bought it dearly enough if you sold your soul to obtain it! As the new master here you have responsibilities. For a start you can see that no harm comes to this girl. You know what you have done, and if you have any interest in atonement, I suggest you begin by behaving as a decent master.' The knight crossed the kitchen and retrieved the dagger that had flown into the bread. He turned back to the girl. 'Marie, by your leave, I will return to you some time soon. I have news for you, but it can wait for a more fitting moment. Take this, God willing you will not need to use it to defend yourself, but it may help you sleep more soundly knowing it is there.'
She looked at the weapon, the handle of which he held out to her, but did not move her arms. 'No, sir, I don't want it.' She shook her head, slightly. 'Please, take it away. I couldn't use it anyway, and they might say I stole it. Sorry sir, don't be angry with me…'
The knight smiled to reassure her that she had not offended him. 'As you wish.' He slipped it into his belt. 'I will let you rest now.' He then shot a final glance at Cerbere that cut to the depth of the informant's guilty soul, and when he spoke again his words carried some ominous trace of warning. 'Master Cerbere here will see to it that you are not disturbed again this night.'