The Secret Familiar

  But really, I had no choice. And I told myself that, the moment I felt in any way threatened, I would leave. I would collect my bundle of secret things and slip away. God knows, I have done it before. And always I have found temporary refuge in Toulouse, under my master’s protection.

  I was reluctant, however, to bring him only half the story. I still wanted to know what had happened to Jacques Bonet. That is one reason why I did not pack up and go this very morning. My intention was to see if I could wring any further information out of Berengaria Donas, since she is obviously better acquainted with Berengar Blanchi—and therefore, perhaps, with Imbert Rubei—than I had at first anticipated.

  It was a sensible strategy, I think. It would have worked. But now, God help me, I am completely undone. Everything is ruined.

  I went to the Donas house directly after Mass. I took the forged letter with me. Before leaving, I saw Martin returning from church with his grandmother, and was pleased that he had taken my advice to heart. So I admitted him into my workroom, hoping (as ever) to shield him from his father’s dubious influence. I told him that he could remain in my quarters while I was out. Though I did not think it altogether proper that he should engage in anything resembling his usual work on such a holy day, I did give him a job to do. A very beautiful and ancient codex had been left in my custody, because one of its pages had been damaged beyond repair. The chapter of Notre-Dame La Major had asked me to match the old vellum as best I could, in order that a new page might be copied and inserted into a rebound volume.

  I therefore instructed Martin to sift through my stock in search of a possible replacement folio. This, of course, meant that I was entrusting to my thirteen-year-old apprentice an object that is almost certainly worth more than this entire house and its contents put together. Be assured that I did not do it lightly. I impressed on him the value of the codex. I reminded him that if he should damage or harm it in any way, I might very well end up on the street.

  Martin solemnly promised that he would refrain from touching the book unless absolutely necessary. He swore that he would go nowhere near it with any candles, lamps, drinks or foodstuffs. He would blow his nose and close his mouth, he said, before leaning over its pages.

  Then he asked me where I was going.

  ‘To visit some friends,’ I replied, studying him closely. He turned his face away, but not before I saw his mouth twist.

  To my astonishment, he actually muttered something under his breath.

  ‘What was that?’ I queried.

  ‘Nothing, Master.’

  ‘You spoke.’ If there is one characteristic that I absolutely detest in an apprentice, it is a tendency towards muttered asides and half-concealed reprobation. This must have been evident in my voice, for its sharpness unnerved him. He tensed, and looked at me with the most unconvincing show of bravado that I have ever witnessed.

  ‘If they are your friends, then why are you so afraid to visit them?’ he croaked, unsuccessfully attempting a tone of careless flippancy.

  I could have hit him, at that moment. For it was true: I was afraid. Though I had spent a good portion of the night weighing risks and judging possible outcomes—though in my head, I was certain that I would be safe at Berengaria’s house—my heart still betrayed me. My pulse was jumping. I was undoubtedly paler than usual. And I was hiding my apprehension behind an expressionless face, as always.

  It became suddenly clear that Martin knew me too well. Much too well for my peace of mind. Much too well for my own protection.

  Why in God’s name did I fail to realise this before?

  ‘Forgive me, Master,’ he whispered. Staring into his eyes, I saw tears there, and knew that I must have frightened him with my silent, stony regard. ‘I—I am so very grateful . . .’ he stammered.

  ‘Yes.’ I knew that. In fact, he was far too grateful. ‘Gratitude is no excuse for insolence, my friend.’

  ‘Master—’

  ‘Take care of that codex. Tell me if anyone comes. I shall return shortly.’

  I need hardly add that I was fully armed with knife and needle. I had the forged letter concealed in my clothes, and the burned finger in my purse. I remember thinking, as I walked towards the Rue Droite, that I would be sorry to leave Narbonne. Though I was born in a village, I find city life more to my taste—and Narbonne is a city that suits me very well. The people here are less passionate than the people of Toulouse. While they have a well-developed understanding of what is due to them, the Narbonnaise are at the same time practical; they would far rather negotiate than fight, and were never attacked nor besieged by the French, since they realised very quickly that no good would come of resistance.

  I have learned that lesson myself, over the years, and can sympathise with their point of view. For a small man, open defiance is never a sensible option. There must always be a certain measure of cooperation if one is to survive.

  At the Donas house I was admitted by Blaise Bouer. When he glanced from left to right, it became obvious that he was expecting four blacksmiths as well.

  ‘Blessed be the name of Jesus Christ,’ I observed, adding: ‘There has been a complication.’

  I have no doubt whatsoever that he was genuinely disappointed. His thick black brows snapped together; he screwed up his mouth and stuck out his jaw. But he said only, ‘Blessed be the name of Jesus Christ,’ and walked ahead of me through the dim shop into the kitchen.

  Here I found the lady of the house, together with Guillaume Ademar, Perrin and Guillelma. Their eyes, too, skipped from my face to the empty space behind me, as if expecting it to be filled. The same question was written upon every countenance.

  ‘My friends are not coming,’ I explained, responding to this silent interrogation. ‘I thought it best not to invite them after all.’

  Na Berengaria blinked. She was sitting on a stool with Olivi’s postilla cradled in her lap. I was struck anew by her noble mien and luminous, fine-grained skin.

  ‘Why is that?’ she asked. ‘Has something happened, Master Helié?’

  ‘Yes.’ I advanced towards her, conscious of Blaise’s looming form behind me, and Guillaume hovering at my flank. I remember being aware that, if suddenly leapt upon, I was well positioned to duck under the table and use it as a shield while I plucked my knife from its place of concealment.

  Producing the summons, I laid it gently on top of Berengaria’s book.

  ‘This arrived yesterday, while I was away from home.’ With my right index finger, I drew attention to the seal— and then to the name at the bottom. ‘You see who sent it.’

  Berengaria’s breath caught in her throat. Her hand went to her mouth, before tracing a cross over her breast. I stood aside as her friends gathered about her, jostling each other for a look at the document that most of them could not even read.

  Only Blaise was literate enough to extract meaning from the text. He hissed through his teeth, and swore an oath that attracted many accusing looks. Berengaria simply raised her eyes to mine.

  ‘Bernard Gui!’ she exclaimed—and a gasp was wrung from every person present. I saw nothing but the most convincing exhibitions of shock and horror, wherever I turned. I thought: They are ignorant of this. They must be ignorant. Only look at their faces!

  ‘Is this a summons?’ Blaise demanded, as if truly uninformed. Meanwhile, Guillelma was tugging at my sleeve; she wanted to know what Bernard Gui had said in his letter. So did Guillaume. The sudden babble of questions briefly masked the sound of knocking, and only when Blaise called for silence did a steady tap-tap-tap become audible from the front door.

  There was a squeak of alarm—uttered by Perrin, I think. He had been goggling like a fish, confusion writ large upon his face; now he covered his open mouth with one hand.

  Every head swivelled.

  ‘Surely not . . .’ Berengaria murmured, and clutched at my arm. ‘No one followed you? From your house?’

  ‘No.’ I was confident of that, if nothing else. ‘I would have seen.’ r />
  ‘It is Berengar Blanchi,’ said Blaise, in an authoritative tone. ‘I know his knock.’

  Berengar Blanchi? I absorbed this unexpected news in silence, as around me the Beguins expressed doubt and consternation in low-pitched voices. Blaise left the kitchen. My hostess stood up, apparently at a loss. In one hand she held her book; in the other, my forged document.

  ‘Perhaps you should hide them,’ Guillelma suggested. But I did not want to lose sight of my letter.

  ‘No.’ I retrieved it from Berengaria’s slack grip. ‘This was sent to me. I may need it.’

  Guillelma shook her head, however.

  ‘Not if you leave the city,’ she said, and turned to Berengaria. ‘He should go. He should leave Narbonne.’

  ‘It is Berengar Blanchi,’ announced Guillaume, who had stationed himself at the door to the shop. ‘Only he won’t come in, for some reason.’

  ‘Wait. Hush. Let me think.’

  Na Berengaria laid her book down on the table, frowning. She stood for a moment in an attitude of deep concentration, her brow furrowed and her mouth shielded. For my part, I had missed nothing of importance. I had made a mental note of Perrin’s bewildered expression, and the way Guillelma was wringing her delicate hands. I had marked the sick look on Guillaume’s face, as he swallowed repeatedly. Not a trace of calculation was visible in the eyes or actions of anyone in that room.

  Guillelma said to me: ‘What does the letter say? Read it.’

  So I did, though I would have preferred not to. With my gaze on the text, I was vulnerable to attack. But nobody moved during my brief recital. And when I finished, the silence—the stillness—caused me to hold my own breath.

  At last Berengaria roused herself from her reverie.

  ‘Could your friend be responsible for this? The blacksmith?’ she inquired. Whereupon I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she was innocent of all duplicity. Even I could not have formulated such a disarming response, delivered with such perfectly expressed indecision.

  It was an immense relief, of course. Yet also strangely saddening.

  ‘You mean—he might be an informer?’ I asked. Berengaria winced, as did her three companions. Perhaps they were not accustomed to naming their fears so bluntly.

  I was beginning to wonder what had happened to Blaise.

  ‘What do you think?’ said Berengaria, addressing me. ‘Can you understand this?’

  ‘No.’ And I was speaking the truth. ‘I cannot tell you why this has happened.’

  ‘Could you have been recognised? By someone from Carcassonne?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘You should leave,’ Guillelma reiterated. ‘Do not wait to be caught. He should leave Narbonne!’

  ‘Shh.’ Berengaria captured her young friend’s restless, twisting hands, quieting them with a gentle pressure. ‘These decisions cannot be made in haste. They must be carefully considered.’

  ‘Something’s wrong!’ said Guillaume.

  I had already sensed this; Blaise had been away for too long. The sound of a cry, muffled and cut off short, confirmed my misgivings. There followed a flurry of movement. Guillaume disappeared into the shop. Berengaria released Guillelma and moved after him, passing through the doorway. Then I heard a sharp bang and I tensed, ready to face whatever might ensue. I can honestly say that I had not the slightest inkling of what my response should be. Would a man under threat of internment seek to satisfy his curiosity? Would he pursue his friends, or remain skulking inside?

  Watching the two women hurry away, I realised one thing. No one doubting my intentions would have left me alone with the unworldly Perrin, who seemed finally to have grasped that all was not well. ‘W-what is it?’ he stammered, looking to me for enlightenment. ‘Is it Bernard Gui? Has he come here?’

  ‘I think not,’ was my dry retort. I considered moving the concealed knife from my boot to my belt. And then I heard something terrible.

  It was Martin’s voice.

  My body recognised that high-pitched babble before my brain did. I distinctly recall the way the blood rushed up to my head, even as I was still engaged in analysing—and identifying— the sound. For a moment I convinced myself that I must be mistaken. An angry growl had replaced the shrill yammer; scuffles and grunts from somewhere nearby propelled young Perrin across the room, towards the back door.

  Then, as he unbarred it, Martin’s muffled voice became audible, from outside in the courtyard.

  ‘He knows me! He does! I’m a believer, too!’

  My knees betrayed me at that point; I staggered, as if from a blow. Fortunately, no one observed it. Perrin’s gaze was fixed on the back door, which burst open to admit a tangle of bodies. Three people lurched over the threshold: Blaise Bouer, Berengar Blanchi, and—between them—my unfortunate apprentice.

  Blaise held him by one arm, twisting it. Berengar’s fingers were entwined in his thick black hair. Tugging and jerking, the two men hauled Martin into the room. He was grimacing with pain, his eyes screwed up, his head bent back, his legs buckling.

  A door slammed. I took note of that, though otherwise I stood frozen and speechless.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Na Berengaria’s sharp inquiry preceded her. She must have closed the front door and returned through the shop, because all at once she appeared beside me, flapping her hands. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘A spy!’ snapped Blaise. Or perhaps it was Berengar Blanchi who spoke; I cannot be certain. I was distracted at that instant by the force with which Martin was abruptly thrown to the floor. Yet I remained where I was. Motionless. Mute.

  ‘A spy?’ Guillelma echoed, from somewhere behind me. And our hostess said: ‘He is only a boy.’

  ‘He was watching the door. Hiding and watching,’ Berengar offered, in an agitated voice. Martin, meanwhile, had looked up. I found myself staring straight into his eyes, which widened and dilated.

  ‘Master!’ he yelped. ‘I—I meant no harm, I was afraid for you—’

  ‘Master?’ said Guillaume, who had also reappeared.

  ‘I am no spy!’ Martin continued. ‘I believe what you believe! I do, I swear!’

  ‘Quiet!’ snarled Blaise and, seizing Martin’s collar, he yanked the boy to his feet in one swift, powerful movement. ‘Do you know him?’ Blaise demanded, practically shaking his captive under my nose, like a dead chicken. ‘Do you?’

  That was a terrible moment. One of the worst I have ever experienced. Above all else, I wanted to preserve Martin’s anonymity. It was crucial that no one discover his name because, once identified, he could (and would) be betrayed. I understood this. I could foresee the entire disaster unfolding in front of me: the arrests, the interrogations, the desperate denouncing of remote acquaintances. A young boy—he said he was a believer . . .

  Inquisitors have long memories.

  ‘Master!’ The poor child’s voice cracked. Finding me dumb— paralysed, if you will—he turned to Na Berengaria, his hands clasped together in supplication. ‘I am Martin Moresi! His apprentice! I believe everything—I have read it! Pierre Jean Olivi! He spoke the truth!’

  It is hard to convey what I felt, on hearing this. Yet all I did was bow my head, and blink once. I did not groan. I did not clutch at my hair, nor pound my own temples with clenched fists. Neither my wits nor my training deserted me.

  I took a deep breath, and spoke as calmly as possible.

  ‘He is my apprentice,’ I confirmed. ‘He must have followed me here.’ And I fixed upon Martin the most forbidding, coercive glare that I have ever employed. ‘Hold your tongue, now,’ I said flatly. ‘Or I shall deprive you of it.’

  But the warning came far too late.

  XIX.

  Good Friday (continued)

  I had to stop. Pure weakness. My hand started shaking; I was unable to write. Broke the nib and blotted the page.

  God grant me strength.

  I used up all mine today, standing in that dingy kitchen. Curious how the mind works at moments of intense strain
, when all one’s overwrought faculties are engaged in presenting a tranquil façade. Never in my life have I been so acutely observant—and I am not a man who normally misses much. I noticed the wine-stain on Guillelma’s sleeve, and the spot on Perrin’s forehead. I noticed the fibres adhering to Na Berengaria’s hems. I committed to memory odd things like the gleam of sweat on Guillaume’s double chin, and the pattern of red veins on Blaise’s eyeball. It was as if I hoped to prepare myself for any possible threat from every possible direction, without, at the same time, appearing to be on guard.

  Not that this was a decision consciously made. My instincts guided me, as they often do. My instincts and my training.

  ‘So this is your apprentice?’ Na Berengaria queried, after I had silenced Martin. ‘He’s telling the truth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I remember him!’ Guillelma suddenly exclaimed. ‘He was watching us from an upstairs window—when we left your shop, Master Helié. I looked up and saw his face!’

  ‘No doubt.’

  ‘Then why was he spying?’ asked Blaise, and went on to describe the circumstances of Martin’s apprehension. Apparently, when Blaise had emerged from the front door to admit Berengar Blanchi, he had spotted my apprentice peering around the side of the house. On catching the tailor’s eye, Martin had ducked back into the side alley where he had been lurking—and this suspicious behaviour had caused the two Beguins to give chase. They had caught him near the gate that opens onto the Donas courtyard.

  ‘If he is truly a follower of the Poor Brethren, why not simply join us?’ Blaise growled, still clutching Martin’s collar. ‘Why listen under windows?’

  ‘Oh, Master Helié,’ said Na Berengaria, in worried tones, ‘surely this boy cannot be the reason behind your summons? He—he cannot be an agent of Bernard Gui, do you think?’

  ‘No!’ My immediate response was much too loud. It made everyone jump. ‘No, no,’ I continued, speaking more quietly. ‘That is impossible.’