Stories from Heaven's Library
Vol. 4
The Perfect Ones
As told by Sir Walter Scott
BOOK 1
"Above all these things, put on love, which is the bond of perfectness" (Col.3:14).
PREFACE BY THE AUTHOR
I am Sir Walter Scott, and this is my first attempt to write a story through the medium of a helper on earth. This helper has argued with me that my style is a touch old-fashioned for this day and age, and so I have attempted to bring my style of writing a little more up to date, so it's more contemporary. And yet, I feel that I must also stay true to the way that I have been taught and the way I know how to write.
INTRODUCTION
The story is set in southern France, in the Languedoc (lng-dk") area. The time is the early 13th century, and the place is the great city of Toulouse (t-lz"), from where Count Raymond rules a prosperous region. The country is rife with religious dispute, for here is the stronghold of the new religion of the Cathars--otherwise known as Albigenses.
There is not just one great movement of Cathars, but many and various small groups, holding diverse doctrines--yet all united in their love for God, for His Son, Jesus Christ, and their disdain for the rich and pompous church that masquerades1 as mediator between man and his Creator.
The Catholic church rules in the temporal, but the love and truth and spirit of the Cathars has captured the hearts and minds of the common people.
* * *
Now let us look at the protagonists2 of this story. First is Guillaume, (g-m") nephew of the Count of Toulouse, a young man raised in riches, trained in the way of a medieval warrior, tall, good-looking, fair-haired but used to an idle life and regarded by some as dissolute3 of character. Having tasted of the pleasures of life, he is now seeking for something deeper.
Then there is Esme (s"-m), a stranger in a strange land, the daughter of gypsies, an outcast. The most striking feature of Esme is her eyes--dark and beautiful. Swarthy-complexioned and so different from those whose land she roams, yet she is an object of desire for many who look upon her. Her parents belong to a band of wanderers, and the roving life is all Esme has known. At the moment her family is alone, and at the beginning of this story they are camped a little south of the city of Toulouse, on the banks of the Garonne (g-rn") River.
In Toulouse, at a small inn, we find Guy, the son and oldest child of a widower, his mother having died when he was six or seven.--He is not sure when. Guy is 22 years old, a tall, good-looking man, strong from countless long days of manual labor. He has a ready smile and eyes that sparkle--similar to Guillaume, but different.
His younger sister, Heloise (l"-wz"), is a pretty and rather delicate girl. What Guy has in physique and stature, Heloise has in petiteness and daintiness. She is three years younger, Guy's only sibling. Having married late in life, their father is now old and not as strong as he once was. His children run the inn. On the side, Guy works as a laborer to supplement their meager earnings.
Now, we move to a road north of Toulouse, and here, on horseback, is Malcolm--a Scottish wanderer, formerly with the Royal Guard of Philip Augustus, king of France. Distrustful of his own countrymen, the king had surrounded himself with a royal guard consisting entirely of Scotsmen.
Now the king, as a token to his rich noblemen, has dismissed the Scottish guard and is under the protection of an elite French force. And so, the young Scotsman, who had not been long in the service of the king, is now traveling south from the great city of Paris, in search of adventure and gainful employment.
Once well provided for in the king's service, he now has little money to his name. Disdainful of the label "mercenary" and not willing to become a hired thug or another sword for some local chieftain, Malcolm has come to see if he could not find a respectable position with Count Raymond, ruler of Toulouse.
He is also curious to see for himself what he has heard sung around campfires and whispered in the halls of the great castles--the many tales of the Cathars. He has heard many stories, and he knows not what to believe. Are these a Devil-worshipping people who practice the dark arts of sorcery and engage in those despicable acts attributed to the pagans beyond Christendom? Or are they indeed the kind and love-filled "pure ones," as their name declares?
* * *
Soon these five people would have their lives thrown together in a way none of them could have dreamed.
I -- MALCOLM
Malcolm MacAlpin is a veteran of war, who, at the age of 28, has seen more of it than he would have wished. He was raised in Scotland, the son of Kenneth MacAlpin, laird4 of a small, impoverished estate near the rugged western coast of Scotland. Malcolm had loved it there but creditors forced his esteemed father to sell off his land. The old man, a direct descendant of the first Kenneth MacAlpin who united the Scots and Picts of Alban (for that was the ancient name of the first kingdom now known as Scotland) had died broken-hearted and was buried on a lonely crag overlooking his beloved Irish Sea. To the east, the desolate, rocky hills that marked the border between the lowlands and the highlands stood in silent watch.
The MacAlpin brothers--for Malcolm was the youngest of five brothers--were a close-knit lot. But needing to make ends meet, they had gone their separate ways, vowing to reunite when each had made his fortune. His older brothers had headed for the cities and towns of Scotland--Edinburgh, Dundee and Glasgow. But young Malcolm, intrigued by the prospect of finding fame and fortune on the Continent, had set sail for France.
Malcolm reminisced on these things as his horse trotted south on the dirt road that wound alongside the Garrone River that flowed past him on its way to empty into the Bay of Biscay to the west. (Malcolm would not come across the gypsy camp before he reached the city, for that camp lay further to the south.) As he traveled, he saw rich farmlands and forests full of game. It was pretty country; idyllic.
He had been traveling all day by the time he rounded a bend, and saw in the distance the faint shapes of the buildings of the great city. As he came nearer, the dim objects took form. He could see the castle where Count Raymond, renowned throughout France as an enlightened and noble man, lived and ruled. Then, the giant cathedral, its spires thrusting upward like daggers into the indigo sky. There the bishop--mistrusted and disliked by many, hated by others--held sway over the soul and body of nobleman and peasant alike.
The bishop's name was Odo--and he hailed5 from the Norman aristocracy that ruled many of France's northern dukedoms. The people of this region considered him an intruder from the north, one sent to serve the interests of the great barons at the expense of the local people.
The relationship between Bishop Odo and Count Raymond was a prickly one of mutual dislike.
Malcolm's horse kept up its steady gait. Soon he was amongst the cottages and hovels of the poor that spread out from Toulouse.
As he entered the city gate, Malcolm warily eyed the raised portcullis6. For an instant he imagined the menacing contraption falling as he trotted underneath, impaling7 him on its sharp iron points.
The city was well-fortified. The high walls of the city were gray and forbidding. Huge towers were interspersed along the walls at regular intervals, so that the archers manning the walls could trap any attackers in a withering crossfire.
A city had stood on this point since well before the Romans had made it a stronghold. Malcolm thought for a moment of how Roman legions had displaced the early Celtic Gauls who had inhabited this area for hundreds of years previously, of how Visigoth hordes from the north had sent the legions scurrying back to Rome, and of how the Visigoths, in turn, had been destroyed by the Franks. Now, this cosmopolitan city was called home by descendants of them all.
"You, there! Fellow!" cried Malcolm at a rather sorry-looking man, stooped under a load of hay. "Where can I find an inn?" he demanded.
Without a word, the fellow pointed a crooked finger in the direction of some small, winding streets that led out from the main market place.
Malcolm trotted on. He knew that being a stranger in a strange city was a risky undertaking. He imagined rogues and vagabonds peering from the shadows to see if he was worth robbing. The sword hanging from his waist, and his other accouterments of war which hung on either side of his saddle--a shield, a double-bladed battle ax, and a mace--would probably cause most to have second thoughts.
But Malcolm knew that desperate men would try desperate things, for he had been set upon before in years past as he had wandered into another city, unprepared for the rough reception that he was to receive. He had been robbed, beaten, and left for dead. If it had not been for the kindness of some gentle folks, he would not be riding in Toulouse today.
Now, wiser for that experience, Malcolm was circumspect, eyeing every secret place and hidden shadow from where a man--or men--could leap suddenly.
The street narrowed till the tall buildings on either side allowed no direct sunlight to reach the cobblestones. The horse's breath was now visible in the cool evening air. The hairs on the back of Malcolm's neck raised. His sixth sense alerted him to lurking danger.
In practiced nonchalance, Malcolm's hand slipped over the hilt of his broad sword. The sword could be unsheathed in an instant--a skill honed by years of fighting.
The road was too narrow to turn around easily and go back; he had no choice but to press forward. He moved on, steadily but slowly. Being unfamiliar with the street, he did not want to spur his horse on and risk the animal slipping or stumbling.
As the road twisted to the left, the sound of metal scraping against rock caught Malcolm's ears. Those who stalked him in the shadows were getting closer. He moved steadily on.
Now the sounds of the market had all but disappeared. Inside the houses he could hear the clamor and clatter of cooking, and of dishes being placed on tables. He could also hear indistinguishable voices, speaking in Langue d'Oc (lng dk"), the dialect of southern France.
The shadows grew deeper still, as the sun was now setting. What little diffused sunlight that had managed to illuminate the street moments before had left.
Suddenly, with another twist in the road, he came upon a courtyard. Light streamed forth through an open window. A fire was burning in the giant hearth in the middle of an inn.
"Who goes there?" shouted a voice.
"A stranger," Malcolm shouted back.
"And what can I do for a stranger?" the voice called out.
"I seek lodging," said Malcolm, still not able to make out exactly where the voice was coming from.
"Welcome, then, stranger," the voice shouted back, the apprehension evident in the first two exchanges now absent.
A tall young man stepped out from behind the door of the inn. "Welcome to our humble lodge," shouted Guy in a voice that to Malcolm seemed a little too loud.
"Thank you," Malcolm replied in his thickly-accented Langue d'Ol (lng doil")--the spoken language of northern France. (The two dialects, Langue d'Ol, and Langue d'Oc were similar enough for the speaker of one to understand--though sometimes imperfectly--the speech of the other.)
Malcolm's keen ears picked up the sounds of several sets of feet scurrying back down the narrow alley from which he had just emerged.
Guy strode up to Malcolm, his hand reaching up to grab the bridle of the horse. "You may wonder, sir, why I spoke in such a loud voice, but I tell you, it is dangerous here. There are those who will prey upon strangers, even ones as well-armed as yourself. For I daresay that it was looking at that sword partly unsheathed in your hand, and the other fine armaments hanging from your horse's saddle, that held them off this long from attacking."
"I did sense their presence," said Malcolm, "but I had thought that this area was known for the true and honest people that inhabit it."
"It is," replied Guy, "but there are those who have come from the north, who have attached themselves to Bishop Odo, and are his servants by day, while at night ply their trade as robbers and cutthroats. A stranger is a tempting target. But come, they have gone now. Make yourself welcome. I will take your horse and tether him in the stable."
"Thank you," said Malcolm, as he dismounted, his joints aching slightly from having spent the last eight hours in the saddle. "A good meal and a good rest is what I need. Just see you be careful with the weapons. They are my livelihood, for I am a soldier. Once the beast is fed and watered, could you please bring the weapons to my room."
"Certainly, sir," Guy answered. The beast, relieved of most of his burden, walked more lightly as Guy led it to the stables behind the inn.
Malcolm strode into the room, brightly lit by a fire in full blaze. Its flames leapt and licked the air, casting shadows all around. There were several tables near the door, but the place was deserted. For several minutes Malcolm stood and warmed himself by the fire. He then made his way over to a corner table, stretched once more, and sat down wearily.
By now, Heloise had emerged from the kitchen in the back, bearing a pitcher and a goblet. Malcolm did not notice her until she was there by his table. Looking up with a start, his eyes were even more surprised to see what a beauty stood before him.
Heloise's golden hair cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. Her pretty face and delicate features were enhanced by the noticeable blush that resulted from the Scotsman's stare. Her simple brown dress, obviously well-worn, seemed stark in contrast to the beautiful figure that it enveloped.
"Wine, monsieur?" she said, her eyes cast down.
"Yes," replied Malcolm. He tried to think of something more to say, but was unable to find the words.
"I will bring you some soup and bread."
"Yes," Malcolm replied, once more reduced to the same monosyllabic8 answer.
Heloise whirled around, and quickly headed back towards the kitchen.
Suddenly, Malcolm became aware that another figure was in the room, and turned to see the young man who had met him outside, surveying the scene with a subtle, bemused smile.
"I put your saddle and your weapons in your room," Guy said.
Malcolm, embarrassed at having been caught staring at the girl, and not knowing if she was the man's wife or sister or merely a scullery9 maid, grunted out an appreciation and stared down into his wine goblet. Guy strode past the fireplace and into the kitchen.
Shortly, Heloise returned, this time carrying a tray with a bowl and some bread.
Malcolm, never fully at ease around women, continued to look down at his goblet.
Heloise set the food before him and turned to leave.
Malcolm got up. "Stop!"
Heloise froze, then turned slowly to face him, fearful as to what this man's intentions could be.
"I-I-I thank you!" Malcolm stammered. "Thank you. I just wanted to say thank you!"
A glimmer of a smile flashed across Heloise's face, as she turned and hurried back out to the kitchen. Her brother Guy, peering through the window that looked from the kitchen into the main dining area, had observed the awkward encounter and let out a laugh as she came back in.
"Well, that was embarrassing."
"Stop it!" chided Heloise.
"It looks like you've caught a fine-looking soldier--as far as soldiers go. Most of them are nothing but ruffians who come down from the north to exploit the people here."
Heloise knew well what Guy meant. These northerners were not as the gentler and more chivalrous people of the south, but were rougher, more war-like and given to temper. But this young man with the strange accent seemed different. Heloise sank into a chair in the corner of the kitchen.
"I wonder what he wants here?" she said. "I wonder if he has come to work for the mad bishop."
"Shhh," said Guy. "Don't talk about him like that. You never know where his spies are."
"Oh, why do we have to always be in fear of that man?"
"Because," answered Guy, "he is powerful. And he is the voice of the church that tries to rule our lives. But come, let us try and finish up early tonight. The meeting is at nine."
Heloise got back to her feet and hurried about the rest of her chores.
Meanwhile, Guy strode into the dining area.
"Will there be anything else you're wanting tonight, sir?" said Guy.
"No, thank you," Malcolm sighed. "I just need a good night's sleep."
"Very well," said Guy. "Your room is up the stairs. Turn to the right and go down to the end of the hallway. It is our best room. I think you will find all that you need. My sister and I are soon to go out, but if you need anything, my father will be here."
Sister! thought Malcolm, not hearing anything after that word was uttered. So she is his sister!
"Thank you," Malcolm blurted out. "I will be fine."
"Very well," said Guy. "Sleep well, and we'll see you in the morning."
"Thank you," Malcolm muttered again.
The two nodded to each other, and Guy disappeared once more into the kitchen.
Malcolm drank the last of the tasty mutton and vegetable soup, and sopped up the dregs with his bread. Finished with his meal, he grabbed the wine pitcher and the goblet and headed towards the stairs.
Finding his room, he looked around. A single candle illuminated what was a bare but pleasant room with a straw bed in the corner.
Malcolm unbuckled the belt that held his scabbard10, and then placed the sword on the floor, next to the bed. It would be at his right hand, should he need it in the night. This was an old habit, for a man in his profession must be prepared to grab his sword and to use it at a moment's notice--even when awakened from a sound sleep. The ability to react quickly often meant the difference between life and death.
Malcolm took off the rest of the bulky clothing that he had learned to live with--the chain mail shirt that was worn under his surcoat, and the loose-fitting breeches. Down to his simple under-tunic, he collapsed on the bed and soon fell into a blissful sleep. His dreams that night were populated by beautiful young ladies--all of whom bore a striking resemblance to Heloise.
II -- THE MEETING
Two figures, barely distinguishable in the shadows, crept along the side of the alley and paused at the entrance to the main road which ran north to south through the city. The sound of marching soldiers coming down the cobbled road prompted the two to slip back a few yards into the darkened alley.
The rhythmic tromping grew louder as the troops approached. For a few moments they were visible from the alley, but soon they had passed and disappeared down the road.
"Almost nine o'clock," said Guy. "The changing of the guards."
These guards had come from the barracks adjacent11 to the castle of Count Raymond, and were marching to relieve their comrades who had stood watch on the city walls by day.
The two turned into the main road, and headed north. Soon they were outside the door of a small bakery. Guy knocked on the door three times, paused, then knocked twice more. A peephole opened, and Guy could make out two eyes peering at him. The peephole closed, followed by the sound of locks and bolts being unlatched, and the door swung open.
"Welcome, Brother Guy! Welcome, Sister Heloise," said the kindly voice.
"Good evening, Brother Francis!" the two replied in near unison.
"Come! The rest are here," said Francis, as they moved to the back of the shop, past the huge baking ovens and into a room where fifteen other people sat and talked.
"We are all here now," Francis proclaimed.
A man from a corner of the room moved and took his position at the head of the table where the others were seated.
"Welcome, brothers and sisters! May the peace of God be with you, and may He bless our congregating together and fill our hearts with His love. In the name of His beloved Son, Who came and died and rose again. Amen."
"Amen," they all echoed.
"Well, my brethren," the man continued, "He is blessing us and keeping us."
"Yes!" chorused the people again.
Guy stared at the kindly, worn face of the speaker. The light from the candles in the middle of the table sparkled in his eyes. Guy knew the man's life history well. Giles (jl")--for that was his name--had been a tailor for many years. He had become one of the most prosperous tradesmen in all of Toulouse. His clothes had been sought by the city's aristocracy; he had even tailored clothes for the Count!
Through hard work he had amassed a small fortune, but in his later years he grew dissatisfied and so had decided to devote the remainder of his life to seeking truth. He was a learned man, knowing how to both read and write, and so he had begun his search by studying the works of Augustine and others of the church doctors. However, he found that much of their writings left him confused. And so, he continued his quest for knowledge and truth in other areas.
He had even read translations of some of the Moorish writings that had made their way into France from Cordoba and Granada and the other Iberian kingdoms still controlled by descendants of Muslim invaders of centuries past. The Muslims had become familiar with the writings of the ancient Greeks through their contact with the Byzantine Empire, which still existed in Greece and in Asia Minor, and had translated many of those writings into Arabic. In turn, these Moorish works had been translated into Latin by people thirsting for more knowledge than was afforded them by the Catholic church.
Though he had found them interesting, these writings had left Giles more confused. The Bible was not readily available to be read by common men such as Giles. Some of the potentates of the church were even campaigning for the reading of the Scriptures to be the exclusive domain of those who had taken Holy Orders. Giles had read small portions of the Bible but had concentrated his search for truth in other directions.
However, in Lyon (l-'") he met Peter Waldo, a former merchant like himself, who had given up all he had to become an itinerant lay preacher. Peter had taught him about the simplicity of Christ, and how Jesus had not lived the life of the rich and powerful, as those who claimed His heritage now did, but was a simple carpenter Who lived with the common folk and preached freedom and truth.
One day, as Giles sat listening, particular words struck deep into his heart. These were words the man had quoted from the Bible, "But as many as received Him, to them gave He power to become the sons of God."--Words which were to become the center of his life. Giles devoted himself to preaching. Yet after a while Giles grew homesick for Toulouse, and finding himself not in total agreement with all Peter Waldo did and preached, Giles returned to his home town.
It was then that he began to associate with several of the Perfect Ones, the Pures, those who led the Cathar sects. These had abjured12 the ways of the world, and had set themselves to living an ascetic life. From them, Giles had learned much. For they indeed were true and honest men, and their lifestyles contrasted sharply with the champions of Catholic orthodoxy, who lived in luxury and misused their religious offices for political purposes.
In his discussions with the Perfect Ones, Giles had difficulty accepting some of the doctrines they propounded. He also found that they often disagreed amongst themselves, but their disagreements did not give rise to fiery altercations13. Instead, they were accepted as mere differences of interpretation.
Giles had rejected some of the ways of the Perfects, for he did not think that fasting from meat was necessary, nor that he would need to give up the marital companionship of his wife. But many of their other teachings--living simply, rejecting earthly possessions, and devoting oneself to a religious life--these he had embraced.
And so, his group regarded him as a Perfect One, although he had not gone through the consolomentum, the rite of initiation to the Perfect life through which those Cathars who wished to enter the ranks of the Perfects had passed.
A great anathema14 had been proclaimed on all the Cathars by the previous Pope, and their movement had been suppressed. And so these met in secret, drawing comfort from each other's faith, companionship and fellowship.
While Guy was reviewing all this in his mind, he missed much of Giles' homily15. His thoughts came crashing down to earth when he heard all the others saying, "Amen, and so be it."
Now everyone was up, embracing one another.
"Go in peace, Guy," Giles said.
"Thank you, Brother Giles," Guy answered. "It is a comfort having one as you to lead us."
"Find your comfort in God, young man--not in me," said Giles. "He it is that truly leads us. We are but His servants, groping to do His will."
"Amen," Guy replied, knowing that Giles hated any sort of flattery. He didn't want to pursue the subject further, but Guy greatly admired Giles.
Giles turned to Heloise. "And bless you, too, my child. How have you been?"
"Well," said Heloise, "God has been good to us, and kept us."
"Amen," said Giles, "but I must warn you, this will not last forever. For I have heard rumor that he who sits on Peter's throne wishes to do us harm in some greater way than has already happened. We must prepare now, that we may be able to stand in the evil day."
A look of fear flashed across Heloise's face.
"Oh, don't worry, my dear!" Giles said. "I am sure that God will take care of us, just as He has done so many other times."
"Amen," replied Heloise, a little hesitantly.
Giles realized that his little reassurance hadn't been as effective as he had hoped, but not wishing to take the matter further now, he kissed Heloise on both cheeks, and bade her godspeed and goodnight.
Francis the baker was leading the other people out the front door. "Quiet now!" he said. "And stick to the shadows until you are well away from here. We don't want the bishop's 'eyes and ears' seeing us tonight."
"Amen, brother," said Guy, as he slipped out the door. Heloise followed close beside him as the two made their way silently down the street. They were soon at the alleyway that they had come out of earlier. They turned and disappeared into the night.
* * *
The smell of incense was almost overpowering in the small back den that Bishop Odo used as his sanctum sanctorum17. Quill in hand, he sat huddled over papers. The light from the oil lamps on the wall reflected off his bald cranium18. The few white hairs that were left around his ears had been closely cropped. He continued to write as the two men in front of him stood in silence. One of them was a huge brutish-looking fellow. A broad scar, long as his crooked nose, traversed his cheek and disappeared into a scraggly black beard. The surcoat he wore bore the arms of Bishop Odo, signifying that he was sergeant of arms, in charge of the bishop's own small retinue19 of private troops.
The other man wore the garb of a priest.
"We must make preparations," Bishop Odo was saying, "for the papal legate20 will be here in a week to present Count Raymond with the Pope's command that we once and for all suppress the heretics."
The other two remained silent.
"We have a glorious opportunity here to redeem this country from the curse of this heresy, and to turn it back to the truth and the arms of Mother Church. The papal legate is on his way, and I want you to take him this document. It is my personal pledge to assist him all I can, and to commit all my resources to helping him convince Count Raymond of his error in tolerating this heresy. And then, if his argument is successful, I will further commit all that is in my power to actively suppress and root out these infidels. For they are in grave error in challenging the authority of the church in matters both spiritual and temporal."
Bishop Odo's eyes flashed upward. The tall man with the scar flinched. Even though he had been in the service of the bishop for many years, he had never gotten entirely used to the coldness that emanated from the prelate's21 eyes.
Bishop Odo rose with some difficulty, revealing that he was a rather corpulent22 fellow. He was the youngest son of a northern nobleman and, as was the way in those days, in order to ensure the inheritance of his elder brother, he had been sent into the priesthood. At the age of 15 he had entered the monastery at Reims (rmz), where he had received the tonsure--a small circular shaven patch on the back of the head--signifying that he was destined to a cleric's life.
However, being the son of a nobleman afforded some benefits. Soon after taking his vows, Odo was given a position in the royal courts. And so, he had come to the notice of the King, within whose power it was to appoint bishops within the realm of France.
Seven years earlier, after several appointments in the northern lands, Odo had been appointed Bishop of Toulouse. He soon found out with what scorn northerners were regarded. Now he saw his chance to exact revenge on these who had not treated him with the awe and respect that he thought he should have been afforded.
* * *
Count Raymond sat in the midst of a small group of counselors. Among them, his brother-in-law, Godfrey; his nephew, Guillaume; another nephew, Raymond-Roger Trencavel; and the Count's chancellor, a man of merit and ability but not of noble birth, known as Robert of Avignon (-v-ny'").
Count Raymond's grandfather, also known as Raymond, had been one of the leaders of the first crusade. He had earned the respect of the other crusaders--and the hatred of a few--because he had gone with a true and honest heart, and had not allowed the political ambitions of some others to materialize. He had tried to keep the crusade to its stated noble mission of liberating the Holy Land, and to return its administration to the Byzantine Empire which had previously ruled it. He had only been partially successful at this and several crusader kingdoms were set up in the supposedly liberated territories, but he stuck to his principles and refused the crown of the newly-founded kingdom of Jerusalem.
That was many years ago, but enmity still lay between the counts of Toulouse and some of the houses of the northern barons, whose ambitions Count Raymond's grandfather had thwarted23.
Now Innocent III, who had become Pope a few years earlier, wanted to raise another crusade to once again reclaim the Holy Land for Christendom. When the resultant crusader army, manipulated by the trading interests of Venice and the palace intrigues of Byzantium, attacked and sacked Constantinople instead of fulfilling its commission of conquering the Holy Land, he turned to matters closer at hand. Now he seemed intent on restoring southern France and northern Italy to the church, wiping out the "heresy" of the Cathars.
Count Raymond had a few hours earlier learned of the dispatch from Rome of Peter of Castelnau (ks"t-ln"), the papal legate.
The five men spoke in hushed voices, for they wished not what they were saying to go further than the room that they were in.
"We are soon going to be in a very difficult situation," said Count Raymond. "Castelnau is going to ask that I suppress the sects of the Cathars in my realm. But these sects have earned the admiration and respect of the majority of my people. Why, they even call them the bons hommes, the good men! If I suppress them, I earn the enmity of my own people. The prosperity of our lands would also diminish, because the adherents of this faith are some of the most industrious people amongst the inhabitants. But if I refuse to suppress them, I earn papal displeasure and risk censure24."
"It is indeed a most complex problem, brother," said Godfrey.
"Indeed it is, Sire," said Robert. "But there must be a way that we can turn this thing around. This is a thorny problem."
The two younger men remained silent, not having much that they could contribute to such a conversation and realizing that the problem would not be resolved simply.
Guillaume stifled a yawn behind his gloved hand.
"I see these things bore you," said Count Raymond to Guillaume.
"Not at all, Uncle," said Guillaume. "It is just that it is late, and I have had a long day. I see the intricacy of this problem and I fear I have not much advice to offer."
Count Raymond smiled affectionately at Guillaume, for even though he was a brash young man and given to the wild wantonness of youth, he was also kind and generous, almost to a fault. He was like a second son to the Count, and was the boon friend and avuncular25 mentor of the Count's son, also called Raymond, who was still a child and too young to partake of discussions of state such as this.
"Well, young man, that is how you learn to be wise, by listening to the wisdom of others. For one day, you will have to sit here as your father does with me, and act as my counselor and counselor to my son. The hour is late, but the problem is pressing and we have only a few days to come up with a solution. But then again, perhaps it would do us all well to sleep on it, and see if our minds are not clearer in the morning. We must meet again and try and sort out this mess.
"Oh, if people would just leave us alone, we would be a happy and prosperous area! Someone is always stirring up trouble for us, not the least of them being the mad bishop, as the common people call him. I wonder what he is going to do about this? You can be sure that he is going to try to stir up antagonism26 towards me."
"That crazy man!" said Guillaume. "I wish we could be done away with him once and for all!"
"Yes," said Raymond, "but it is a wise saying that the devil you know is better than the devil you don't. And at least we have been around him for seven years. We know how he thinks and how he acts. That is our protection. But see to it, Robert, that our 'eyes and ears' tell us everything there is to know about what Bishop Odo does, just as I'm sure his 'eyes and ears' tell him about us. Well, goodnight, gentlemen. And may God grant you all a good sleep. Until the morrow."
"Until the morrow, Sire!"
III -- THE MESSAGE
The sun had barely risen before Malcolm was up and ready to start the day. He was a country lad at heart, and had learned that one way to satisfy his longing and help him stay satisfied with city life was to take regular rides into the countryside, away from the hustle and bustle, the dirt and grime.
Leaving most of his armor and weapons in the room--except the sword, which was his constant companion--Malcolm made his way downstairs and over to the great hearth, where a fire was already burning. As he stopped to warm his hands, Guy walked in the front door.
"It will be a while before there is food for breakfast, sir," said Guy.
"Then I'll come back later," said Malcolm. "I want to go for an early morning ride and blow some of this city air out of my head."
Guy gave a friendly and knowing laugh, for he too found city life stifling.
"So, will you be staying with us when you come back?"
"I would like to, but I must see what this city holds for me."
"Hmmm," said Guy. It seemed to Malcolm that Guy was thinking about his last comment. "Your horse was already fed and watered this morning," Guy added.
"Good, thank you," said Malcolm. "Then I will make my way to the stable, and I will be seeing you later." Malcolm toyed with the idea of asking Guy to pass on greetings to his sister, but decided that it would appear too presumptuous.
"Very well, sir," replied Guy.
Malcolm found his horse in the stable, mounted it and was soon trotting down the main thoroughfare, and out the city gate, heading south.
* * *
Malcolm had not been the first horseman to leave that morning; three others had left at dawn, as soon as the city gates were open.
The leader of the three was the sergeant at arms who had stood before Bishop Odo the night before. In the pouch around his waist was a sealed letter, intended for Peter of Castelnau, the papal legate. These three had gone several miles south of the city when they paused to let their horses drink from the river, before turning east on the road to Marseilles (mr-s"), the route they anticipated the legate and his party would be traveling.
The spot they had chosen to water their horses was only a few hundred yards from the gypsy camp.
Bernard--for that was the sergeant's name--was gazing nonchalantly in the direction of that camp when he saw what he thought was a woman's head poking out of the water. Squinting his eyes, he strained to get a better view. Apparently the person hadn't seen him.
Dismounting his horse, he motioned to his two companions to do the same. Quietly they moved along the bank. Coming to a point a little further on, beneath a weeping willow which overhung the riverbank, he spotted a pile of clothes. From the garments he deduced that it was indeed a woman and, what is more, she was swimming naked.
He and the other two exchanged looks that immediately betrayed their ignoble27 intentions, and slipped down behind the foliage28, their eyes glued on the distant figure. The woman was now swimming in their direction, not suspecting that three men were watching her with mounting anticipation. It seemed as if it took an eternity to the three men, but slowly she made her way to the shore.
Esme felt her feet touch the soft mud of the river bottom as she neared the bank. She stopped swimming and started to walk through the water toward the spot where she had left her clothes. The three men ogled29 her from their hidden vantage point. As she casually came out of the water, the sunlight reflected off her swarthy skin. At an agonizingly slow pace, more and more of her body was revealed as she came out of the water. Eventually her entire and naked body was visible. She slowly strolled over to her pile of clothes and as she bent down to pick up her dress, one of Bernard's companions could control himself no longer and let out a long-suppressed gasp.
Startled, Esme spun around, but before she knew it, the three men had surrounded her. Modestly, she tried to hide her nakedness by holding her dress in front of her.
"Come now, my beauty," said Bernard. "You don't have to be so shy with us. Let us see what we want to see."
"Pig!" she hissed. "You beast! You brutes!"
"Oh, she has some fight in her, this one!" exclaimed Bernard. His two companions giggled.
"Come on, let us have our way with you, for you are nothing but a heathen gypsy wench30!"
"I would rather die than let myself be had by you!" Esme hurled back in their faces.
"Ah, come on! Don't talk like that!"
"I said I would rather die!"
"Well, you just might, then!"
"Come near me and I'll scream my head off!"
"And what will that do?" said Bernard. "Will your papa or perhaps your brother come running? And then what? Will we have to kill them too?"
"Go away! Leave me alone!" Esme cried, as she tried to back towards the water.
Having anticipated that move, one of Bernard's men had slipped between her and the river, cutting off her way of retreat.
Bernard moved in towards the young woman, and reached out and grabbed the dress. A tug-of-war ensued, with Bernard trying to pull the dress away and Esme clinging to it furiously. Soon the poor dress split in two with a loud rip, and Esme was left with a small fragment in her hands.
"Aha," said Bernard triumphantly. "Grab her and let us all have our way with her."
"Leave the damsel alone!" came a stern voice from the top of a small hill about twenty yards from where this was happening.
Bernard whirled around to find himself staring at the lone Scotsman, his sword still sheathed and his arms folded in a cocky sort of way.
"Get away from here," said Bernard to Malcolm. "This is no business of yours. She is just a heathen gypsy whore."
"I care not what she is," said Malcolm. "But I do care that she is obviously displeased with your intentions."
"Look, this is not your quarrel," said Bernard. "Get out of here before you're sorry that you interfered."
"I dare say that it is you who are sorry that I interfered," said Malcolm back to the man, to whom he had now taken a particular dislike. "You know, that scar on your face shines red even from here."
Bernard loathed people who made fun of the way his scar flushed red when he was angry. "Look here, if you want to champion this slut, then you'll have three swords to contend with."
"You leave me no other choice," said Malcolm. "I am a man of honor, and if the dear lady would have me as her champion, then I should surely have to be."
Esme's mouth gaped open. To be the brunt of brutes like Bernard was nothing new, but to have a stranger not of her own people willing to champion her against three was completely unknown!
"So will you have me as your champion, ma'am?" asked Malcolm.
"Sir, I do not know who you are," Esme replied, "but I am highly honored that you would deign to defend one like me."
"Well then," said Malcolm, "so be it. I challenge you, knave, you sorry excuse for a man! In the name of this fair lady, who you have so rudely mishandled. To your arms, sir, for I have a lesson to teach you in manners!"
"You presumptuous nincompoop!" scoffed Bernard. "You are a fool! This morning you are a dead man! Hold the woman!" he ordered one of his men. "I think two of us are all that are needed to teach this foreign fellow a lesson. It's a pity he won't live to use it."
One of his companions grabbed Esme by the arms, as the other two men drew out their swords and made their way towards the top of the hill where Malcolm stood.
Malcolm slowly drew his sword and spoke softly to it. "Today we will teach these two brutish ruffians a lesson that they shall never forget!"
"So the two of you will fight me! Well, I guess that's fair odds for hired thugs as yourselves," Malcolm taunted.
Bernard and his companion circled 'round, so that they were directly opposite each other, catching Malcolm in the middle. Bernard's companion charged first, swinging his sword wildly towards Malcolm. Malcolm immediately parried31 the first swing, and then deftly stepped out of the way as the fellow, carried on by his own impetus32, charged past Malcolm and crashed into his own sergeant.
"You fool!" muttered Bernard at the hapless fellow, who sought to disentangle himself from Bernard.
Bernard attacked next. Malcolm and Bernard parried and thrust and crashed and swung at each other. Although Bernard had many years experience as a soldier, it was soon evident that he lacked the skill of his better-trained opponent.
The other guardsman again joined in, and soon Malcolm found himself being forced down the hill under the onslaught of the two men's blows. Malcolm quickly realized that he needed to get at least one of them out of the fight. Deftly moving to one side as the second soldier swung, Malcolm delivered a debilitating blow to the man's leg. The fellow let out a scream as he crumpled to the ground, blood gushing from the wound.
"Leave the woman, and join me!" Bernard ordered the other soldier. Throwing Esme to the ground, the third man drew his sword and charged up the hill to meet Malcolm. Soon, Malcolm again found himself faltering under the blows of two opponents. Mustering all the skill that he had learned in battle, Malcolm side-stepped and tripped the newcomer, who went rolling down the hill.
At that moment, Bernard seized the opportunity to swing hard at Malcolm. Malcolm parried the blow with his sword, but could not help himself from being knocked over, his sword clattering to the ground, a few feet away from him. Unarmed and helpless, Malcolm looked up to see Bernard raising his sword for what the ruffian was anticipating as the coup de grce33 of the encounter. Just at that moment, as Bernard's sword was about to begin its downward swing, he was struck heavily on his helmet and fell in an unconscious heap beside Malcolm. Bernard didn't know what hit him!
Malcolm looked up to see a young man with a broad smile and a small yet weighty mace in his hand. "Well, we couldn't have the bishop's soldiers killing you, now could we?" said Guillaume.
"I'm much obliged," said Malcolm to his unknown deliverer.
"This is a fine mess! -- One, two, three Well that's about the odds the bishop likes to play with," said Guillaume.
"So these are the bishop's soldiers?" said Malcolm.
"Yes. You can tell by what they wear, this coat of arms on their tunics."
Malcolm looked around to find the girl. His eyes found her hiding behind the willow tree, having clothed herself in the remnants of her dress and the other garments.
"Are you all right?" Malcolm called out.
"Yes, sir " said Esme, as she slowly ventured forth.
Guillaume turned to see, and was at once thunderstruck at the dark beauty of the woman. Normally an ebullient34 young man, he found himself short on words.
Malcolm turned to him. "I found these three fellows trying to have their way with this young girl."
"I'm not a girl, sir," said Esme. "I'm eighteen years old."
"I beg your pardon, Madam," said Malcolm, a little mockingly. "Being the noble fellow that I am," he joked, "I couldn't let these three brutes carry out their intent."
Malcolm surveyed the scene. The soldier who had been wounded in the leg had passed out from the pain and loss of blood. The second one, who appeared to have knocked his head on a rock in his fall, lay in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the hill. Bernard was sprawled spread-eagled a few feet from the two men.
"I am much obliged for your intervention," said Malcolm, as he turned to see Guillaume still staring, transfixed, at Esme.
Guillaume snapped out of his trance. "It was the least I could do," he stammered. "I am not one to see a man set upon by people like these, and not intervene. Woman, what is your name?"
"I am Esme, daughter of Ricardo, the Spanish gypsy whose camp is over yonder."
"Ah, the gypsies! They say you are a vagabond lot, thieves and cutthroats, diviners and sorcerers."
"We are a simple people who make our livelihoods from being tinkers," said Esme, defending her family. "We are not cutthroats, nor liars, nor cheats, as your people suppose."
"Hmmm, I know not what to believe about these things," said Guillaume, "but one as beautiful as you needs to be careful around fellows like these. Quick, I advise you to go tell your father what has happened. You must be gone from here, for when these fellows wake up, they will no doubt seek to do you harm."
"But the one man is wounded. I must help him!" said Esme. "I cannot let him bleed to death here."
"Why? This man was trying to rape you!" retorted Guillaume. "Why should you help him?"
"Because he is hurt," said Esme, "and I cannot leave him here to die."
"The logic of this woman!" exclaimed Guillaume in wonderment. "But I wish if I were ever hurt, I would fall into the hands of one as tender and merciful as yourself, Madam."
"You mock me, sire," said Esme.
"A little," said Guillaume, "but many a true word is spoken in jest. Come, let us see if we can dress his wound, and when his companions wake up, they can take care of him from then on."
The cut was fairly deep, and the blood flow had been profuse35.
"I will need some herbs," said Esme. "I will run and get them."
Esme headed off toward the caravan. Meanwhile, Guillaume looked at the three men and scratched his head. "I wonder what brings Bishop Odo's men this far from town," he said.
Spying the pouch around Bernard's waist, Guillaume uttered, "Aha! The secret might lie in that pouch there!" He bent over, loosed the thong that held the pouch flap, and pulled out the sealed letter.
"Aha! A message to the papal legate!" said Guillaume. "I wonder what Odo was asking him, and I wonder what is so important that he had to send his men ahead to pass this to him, rather than waiting to have this letter delivered once the man reached Toulouse."
Looking around to make sure none of the three men had regained consciousness, Guillaume broke the wax seal and opened the letter.
"To his excellency Peter of Castelnau from Odo, Bishop of Toulouse." Guillaume ran his eyes over the Latin writing, for that was the official language for all communications, both religious and secular, at this time.
"It is from Odo, saying he is offering his full services in cooperation to the legate in persuading Raymond, the Count of Toulouse, into pressing a major persecution against the Cathars of the Languedoc region. Well, this we knew, that Odo would cooperate and even push for this, for this is what he has wanted for so long. But what is this? It says that he has someone, a close confidant of the Count, who is informing Odo of all the Count's intentions, and therefore could provide good intelligence by which they may be more persuasive in their arguments.
"By all the saints! There's a traitor! There's a traitor close to my uncle! A treacherous betrayer!" said Guillaume, the color rising in his face. "It goes on to say that this informant will be able to continue to give them valuable information, and has already drawn up a list of the leading Cathars and their secret adherents within the castle and the Count's retinue, and that he will soon be able to turn this list over to himself--that is, Odo--and that Odo will in turn pass this list on to the legate, as the representative of the Holy Father.
"My God, what treachery!" exclaimed Guillaume.
Malcolm had remained quiet through all this, realizing there was far more afoot here than he was at present able to comprehend.
At that moment, Esme arrived back with her father, and was preparing a poultice36 of herbs to place on the wound. The wounded soldier moaned as they pushed the poultice against the cut and began to bandage it.
Though the seal was broken, Guillaume slipped the letter back into Bernard's pouch.
Esme and her father finished dressing and bandaging the soldier's wound, and rose to leave.
"Thank you again, fair gentlemen," said Esme, "for coming to my rescue."
"It was my pleasure," said Malcolm.
Guillaume gazed upon the beautiful gypsy girl once more. "Ma'am," said Guillaume, "I only regret that I was not here first, that I might have fought for your honor."
Esme blushed. Her father, grabbing her by the hand, pulled her away. "Come!" he urged. "We must leave now, and find a new camp. Surely these soldiers will have their revenge on us if we tarry."
Guillaume thought quickly and then said, "My father has an estate about ten miles to the north of Toulouse. Go there and you shall find a safe haven. Tell my father's steward that Guillaume has asked that you be given a place to camp. Take this small crucifix as a token. They will know it is mine. The steward of the place will not like this, but he will acquiesce37, for he will know that I have ordered it. Now go!"
"Come," said Esme's father, "we must go."
"Till we meet again," said Guillaume.
"Till we meet again, sir!" said Esme.
Malcolm nodded, and gave a short stiff bow, as Esme and her father headed off to the campsite.
"Well," said Guillaume to Malcolm, "we have uncovered a fine mess today! I could use a one such as you, for I saw your skill with the sword. If it had not been that there were three of them, I think you would easily have mastered the situation without my help. I would have intervened sooner, but I could not let these men know who it was who helped you, for then the word would have got back to the bishop and there would have been hell to pay. So I'm afraid, dear Scotsman--for I perceive by your accent that is what you are--that you shall bear the blame for all of this alone!"
"It is a blame I have no regrets to bear," said Malcolm.
"You say that now, but I think you might come to regret this day," said Guillaume with a seriousness not normal to him. "Come. Let us ride back to the city, for I have news to tell my uncle. And on the way back you can tell me about yourself and what brings a stranger such as you to our fair land."
"I will do that gladly," said Malcolm. "But pray tell me, whom do I address?"
"I am Guillaume, son of Godfrey, brother-in-law of Count Raymond of Toulouse," replied Guillaume.
The two mounted their horses and headed back to Toulouse. What had started as a leisurely morning ride for both of them had been transformed. Now these two young men were heading back with news that would change the lives of not only the nobility of Toulouse, but all the good citizens of the Languedoc.
To be continued ...
(Definitions box included within border on last page:)
Definitions*:
1 masquerade: a false outward show; a pretense
2 protagonists: main characters
3 dissolute: lacking moral restraint; indulgent
4 laird: the owner of a piece of land or estate
5 hailed: to come or originate from
6 portcullis: A grating of iron or wooden bars or slats, suspended in the gateway of a castle or fortified place and lowered to block passage
7 impale: to pierce
8 monosyllabic: consisting of only one syllable
9 scullery: a small room joined to a kitchen, for dishwashing and other chores
10 scabbard: a sheath to hold a sword or dagger
11 adjacent: located next to
12 abjure: to renounce or give up
13 altercation: a vehement quarrel
14 anathema: to be excommunicated, cursed
15 homily: a sermon
17 sanctum sanctorum: Latin term meaning the "inner sanctuary"
18 cranium: top of the head; the skull
19 retinue: company or band
20 papal legate: an official representative of the Pope
21 prelate: high-ranking member of the clergy; a bishop
22 corpulent: bulky, fat
23 thwarted: to oppose and defeat, prevent from occurring
24 censure: an official rebuke
25 avuncular: like an uncle, especially in being kind and caring
26 antagonism: hostility that results in active resistance or opposition
27 ignoble: mean, cruel, not noble
28 foliage: a dense collection of leaves on trees or plants
29 ogle: to stare at
30 wench: a young woman or girl, especially a peasant girl; sometimes a prostitute
31 parried: to deflect or ward off
32 impetus: the force or energy of a moving body
33 coup de grce: "stroke of mercy" -- finishing stroke or deathblow
34 ebullient: zestfully enthusiastic
35 profuse: a good amount, plentiful
36 poultice: a soft, moist mass of bread or meal, spread on a cloth, to cover a wound
37 acquiesce: to consent or comply; agree
*These words are only defined generally and according to their use in this story.
(End of definitions.)
(Fact boxes included throughout story:)
Page 1: (after mention of the Cathars and Albigenses in the first paragraph)
The Cathars: A Christian movement that flourished in western Europe during the 12th and 13th centuries. The name comes from the Greek word katharos, meaning "pure."
The Cathars were also known as the Albigenses, for the town of Albi in southern France where they were most numerous. They preached against the immoralities of the Catholic church, made great use of the written Scriptures, lived self-denying lives and had great zeal for moral purity.
Page 2: (after mention of Kenneth MacAlpin)
Kenneth MacAlpin I: King of Dalriada, and founder and first king of Scotland. After conquering the Pictish kingdom, he united it with his own to form the united kingdom of Alban, which later became known as Scotland.
Page 7: (after mention of Peter Waldo)
Peter Waldo and the Waldenses: The Waldenses were members of a Christian movement that opposed the established church.
The movement began with a wealthy French merchant, Peter Waldo, of Lyon, who gave up all his possessions and began a life of preaching in the second half of the 12th century. Waldo's followers became known as the "poor men of Lyon."
Their preaching kindled a great desire among people to read the Bible. Their teachings sounded similar to those of the Cathars, but proved to be more popular than the complex Cathar teachings.
Many of them later settled in the Cottian Alps, southwest of Turin. This area is still known as the Waldensian Valleys. The Waldenses are the only known medieval sect that has survived to this day.
Page 8: (immediately after paragraph mentioning Peter's Throne)
Peter's throne: This term refers to the seat of the pope, who is believed by the Catholics to be the successor of the Apostle Peter.
Page 10: (after mention of Pope Innocent III)
Pope Innocent III: One of the more outstanding of the medieval popes and arguably the most powerful, he was unanimously elected in 1198 and reigned until his death in 1216. He is probably most remembered for the many crusades he initiated, both against infidels in the Holy Land as well as heretics and non-conformists to the established church in Europe. He created many of the rules and doctrines of papal authority, defining the power of popes to this day.
(End of fact boxes.)
(End)
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