For two endless years, I had suffered like a dumb animal. The gaoler had despised me. He had loaded me with heavy chains, because no one had bribed him to take them off. He had fed me crusts and offal, because my family cared nothing for my health. He had vented his frustrations on my unprotected limbs. And he had done all this without fear of reprisal, since there was no inquisitor to check him.
Then Bernard Gui became Inquisitor of Toulouse. I knew nothing of his appointment until he appeared before me, shining like a star in his dazzling black-and-white robes. He was about forty-five then, and still in his prime—tall, slim and vigorous. His long, pale face, somewhat blank in repose, was enlivened by a pair of large and piercing grey eyes. When he turned them on me, I knew at once that he was a man of immense learning and profound insight.
‘Who is this?’ he asked the gaoler. Upon being provided with my name the Dominican frowned, and his clear eyes flickered in a curious fashion, as if he was reviewing an invisible document. After becoming better acquainted with him, I realised that this is precisely what he was doing—for he had a remarkable memory, and seemed to keep an entire library of texts and lists inside his head.
‘Helié Bernier has not been condemned to the murus strictus,’ he declared. ‘Remove those fetters. Release him from this cell. I shall review his case when I am able.’
And with those few simple words, Bernard Gui changed my life. Though he walked off immediately to inspect the rest of the prison, his influence continued to be felt. The whole place became invested with a sense of purpose and direction. No longer were its inmates dependent on the gaoler’s whim. No longer did the guards wield their sticks without restraint. For they knew that Bernard Gui would only tolerate corporal punishment if he himself decreed that it should be inflicted.
He demanded utter obedience, and enforced his rule with iron resolve.
As for me, my life improved immeasurably. I could move about, and talk, and even perform various tasks in the hope of earning a few extra crusts. More importantly, I no longer despaired—for I had found a purpose to my existence. It seemed to me that Bernard Gui was my guardian angel. I watched for him always, and when he appeared, I tried to please him. My own father was long dead; perhaps I was seeking another. Whatever the reason, my thoughts were fixed on the black-and-white friar. I would hover in his vicinity. I would ask for his blessing. Nothing delighted me more than the sound of his mellifluous voice—unless it was the sight of his face, clear-cut and solemn, turned towards me.
Moved by such a passionate devotion, I would have done anything to win his approval. So when I overheard one of the prisoners speaking carelessly, I did not hesitate to betray her, though she had never done me any harm. By a lucky chance, Bernard Gui summoned me to appear before him only two days later. And I went to him dry-mouthed, bearing my gift, full of vague hopes and a desperate resolution.
He received me in an airy chamber, where a notary sat scribbling at a desk. The purpose of the meeting was simple; I was to be interrogated with a view to judging the extent of my guilt, so that I might be sentenced to a suitable punishment. The Dominican addressed me in the vernacular tongue. He asked me my name and birthplace. He consulted a register, and explained that a certain Cathar priest had identified me as the guide who had led him from one place to another, some five years previously.
‘From this man,’ said Bernard Gui, ‘you received a blessing at the request of your uncle. Is this correct?’
I agreed that it was. I also confessed to having given some bread and fruit to the same Cathar priest on another occasion. And I described my regret at having done so, though I was only a child at the time, and obeying my uncle’s wishes.
‘I was led astray, Father,’ was my heartfelt plea. ‘I know the Good Men are wrong. The earth is not the realm of Satan, and our spirits do not pass from one body to another on our deaths. It is not evil to kill animals, nor to eat meat or eggs or cheese. These are lies. I know that now. You have shown me the true path.’
Whereupon I offered up my gift of betrayal, recounting the exact words that I had heard three nights previously from the mouth of a Cathar believer who was sharing my corner of the prison. Bernard Gui listened in silence. His penetrating gaze never left my face as I spoke, and when I had finished he continued to regard me thoughtfully, his expression unreadable. At last he said: ‘How old are you?’
I hazarded a guess (even now, I am not quite sure of my age), and he lifted an eyebrow.
‘You look younger,’ he remarked. ‘Your term in prison has stunted your growth.’
‘Oh no, Father. I was always small and weak,’ I assured him. ‘Good for nothing, my uncle used to say.’
‘Indeed?’ The grey eyes narrowed. ‘I’m not so sure of that.’ And he asked me further questions about my father, and my mother, and my life at home—which had never been particularly enjoyable—and by this means must have deduced that I was bound by no strong ties of loyalty to the people who had raised me, and that my parents, being dead, could exert no influence on me, for better or worse.
Then he dismissed me from his presence. But afterwards I felt myself the subject of his constant attention, for all that he did not single me out in any obvious way. I recall that he would send me to fetch things, and stop to inquire about events within the prison, and sometimes give me books to carry. Once or twice I was summoned to an interview. These were not recorded, however, and rarely addressed the subject of my heretical lapses. Instead, Bernard Gui would have me describe in great detail all the villages I had seen, and the people I had met, and the slights that I had endured. He would praise my memory, and explain to me how it should be exercised, like a weak limb. He would speak persuasively of religious faith, and explain that true piety must walk hand-in-hand with humility.
‘Pride is the root of all error,’ he expounded. ‘Pride and vanity are the Devil’s tools. Wherever there is heresy you will find proud men, who think themselves better than their fellows. Did not Christ wash the feet of his own disciples? How then can we set ourselves above all other men, each in our heart? Even where the whole world thinks a man great, if he shares this view, he will never find salvation.’ And looking me straight in the eye, Bernard Gui added: ‘Be always wary of the proud and headstrong nature, Helié Bernier. For it will lead you to hell.’
No one ever spoke a truer word, in my opinion. Every bad man in history has been eaten up with conceit, while there was never a saint not genuinely humble, and lowly in his own estimation. Bernard Gui himself was not proud. He did always as he was bid, whether by the Pope or by the Master General of his own order. He worked ceaselessly and devotedly, without complaint. When false accusations were made, and people were imprisoned as a result, he was not too proud to admit openly that he had been mistaken. There are many inquisitors who would prefer it that innocent people should suffer, rather than that they should admit to an error of judgement. My master was not among them. Though greatly feared, he was neither vicious nor inconsistent. His reputation was founded on his formidable memory, his administrative skills, and his unswerving commitment to the Church of Rome. He pursued heresy with a devout and single-minded determination, sinning only perhaps in the extent of the wrath he felt against lapsed heretics. This was not so apparent in the early days, but became more evident as time went on.
‘They have sought God’s forgiveness and received it,’ he once observed to me, in accents of deep frustration. ‘Why would anyone reject Him again, after being welcomed back into the fold like a lost sheep? It defies all reason.’
Only after several years did he feel confident enough to express himself so freely in my presence. That was after I had proved my worth, and served him as loyally as he had served his own masters. By then we shared a unique bond, unknown to anyone but ourselves. Though we met only twice during the last five years of my service, we understood each other very well. And of all the rewards that I received, upon getting myself arrested and making my reports, I prized none so highly as my sec
ret interviews with Bernard Gui, which always took place at night, in utter seclusion, over a modest repast of bread and wine. Then we would talk together as I have talked with no one else, before or since: not just about the heretics whom I had tracked down, but about the way their minds worked, and about the way all minds worked; about the labour with which Cathar perfecti earned their bread, and its influence on the wider question of trade and agriculture; about politics, and piety, and the latest gossip from Rome and Toulouse. We would talk until the bells rang for matins, whereupon my master would start, and blink, and smile his slow, lopsided smile, which was as rare (and therefore as precious to me) as sugar or cinnamon. ‘Helié,’ he would say, as we exchanged a farewell embrace, ‘you have kept me from my duties again. Would that we had more time to discuss these things: to whom else can I open my heart, if not to my secret familiar? But duty calls. We are both its slaves. And I would not endanger your safety for all the world.’
Whereupon we would arrange very carefully the circumstances of my next mission, which would occupy me for months—if not years. Only on the occasion of our final meeting did the procedure vary. For by then we knew that I had come to the end of my usefulness; that I was too well known among the Cathar remnants to pass unmolested through their midst. At last, after ten years, I had nothing left to offer.
I cannot pretend that I was sorry. Certain changes had taken place within my soul. I was no longer the boy that I had once been, and Bernard Gui must have sensed it. Though he heaped praise upon my head, and bestowed on me all manner of riches, and kissed me like a father, his eyes never strayed from my face, as if he was looking for something that he could not find. Finally he remarked, ‘I think it well that you have decided to abandon your former pursuits, Helié. Your face is no longer open and guileless. Once it was your greatest asset, but now it is shuttered, like a house full of secrets. You have built a wall between yourself and the world—and it is beginning to show, I fear.’
I should point out that this was the only time he ever reproached me during all my years in his service. Even when I was sentenced, in public, at one of his sermones generales, he passed over my crimes without comment. This was shortly after our first private talk together; I was condemned to wear yellow crosses, and to watch while three lapsed heretics burned at the stake. Afterwards, however, I was released with his blessing, and with a set of precise instructions that were engraved on my memory. And once I had completed that mission (which was the capture of Pierre Autier), I received nothing from my master but the most fulsome compliments. He respected me, I think. While he did not love me—I know that, now—he certainly respected my skills. He did not want to risk offending or frightening me: not, at least, until that final encounter, when he perhaps sensed that I was slipping away more quickly than he had anticipated.
But what can I truly know of his thoughts and feelings? If I have learned one thing over the last twenty years, it is that no one can be trusted. Though Bernard Gui has never betrayed me, what proof do I have that he would not, if given sufficient cause? No man is perfect. That is where so many heretics err; they look for perfection in man, when only God is perfect.
Once I confused God with Bernard Gui. Now I am older, and wiser—and more cautious, withal. While I might have bent my knee yet again, it was not through blind devotion. I did it because I had no choice. Because only a fool defies an inquisitor. And because I am getting too old for a fugitive’s life, however expertly I might have pursued such a life in the past.
Besides which, when my master walked into that little room at the Dominican priory, I felt a sudden weakness that had nothing to do with fear or shock.
It was a weakness of the heart, which will always betray the head, no matter how well prepared one’s defences.
IV.
First day of Lent
I had not the strength to finish my report yesterday, so must continue tonight. It is hard to sleep in any case. And if I must burn a candle to keep the shadows at bay, why not do something useful with the light?
I left myself in the Dominican priory, waiting in an empty room. When I heard Bernard Gui’s footsteps approaching, I rose to meet my fate. On seeing him, however, my knees gave way, and I sat down abruptly. Then I began to tremble from an access of emotion.
My master noticed this, of course. He is a good inquisitor.
‘Helié, my dear son,’ he said, in his mild, musical voice. ‘What a long time it has been.’
He is not much changed—in appearance, at least. Though all of sixty, he has worn well. A man with a tonsure does not age like other men, since any loss of hair is inconsequential; such hair as Bernard Gui is permitted has not turned white, but remained iron grey. He still holds himself erect, though his movements are not as swift and vigorous as they once were. His strength is perhaps retreating from his outer members, and concentrating itself in his eyes.
They have sharpened over the years; I saw no evidence of failing sight. From across the room he surveyed me, and I would be willing to swear that he missed nothing: not the state of my boots, not the chalk marks on my tunic, not the small scar near my mouth. In the last five years some grey hairs have appeared among the brown ones on my head, and I am quite sure that they were noted. So was my parchment-maker’s stoop, no doubt, and the roughened tips of my fingers.
I am no earthly ornament. It is a burden that I came to accept many years ago. But I have never felt so small and pale and insignificant as I felt then, beneath Bernard Gui’s searching appraisal.
‘You look very thin,’ he remarked. ‘City air cannot agree with you.’
‘I am well enough,’ I croaked, having found my voice at last.
‘Are you? I hope so. You have been in my prayers, Helié.’
He shut the door behind him, and advanced a few steps into the room. Overwhelmed by his presence, I was afraid that he might sit next to me—as he used to, during our long talks. But he knew me too well for that. Or perhaps he saw me flinch like a snail. Whatever the reason, he kept his distance, settling on a bench to my right.
‘What have you there?’ he asked. ‘The parchment?’
‘I suppose you have no real use for it,’ was my reply.
‘I most certainly do. The librarian here has shown me your parchment. It is of superb quality; you should be proud of your skill. To have mastered such a refined craft, after so many years as a cobbler . . . but it doesn’t surprise me. I always said that you were a man of hidden talents.’
He lifted both eyebrows, to emphasise his little joke. My answering smile must have been a sickly one. For he cocked his head, and studied me in quite the old way, as if making a mental note of every lineament.
‘Are you happy in your new life?’ he inquired. ‘Does it suit you, this existence?’
‘Well enough,’ I mumbled.
‘You have no wife? No children?’
I shook my head. Though Allemande’s face flashed into my mind, I quickly consigned it to the shadows.
‘No,’ said my master. ‘I thought as much. No wife would have allowed you to wear that tunic. Not now that you occupy such a respected position. That tunic is long past its prime, my son—you should dispatch it. A mercy killing, I assure you.’
I fingered my skirts, but said nothing. He was right. My tunic was a disgrace to the city of Narbonne.
‘You must forgive me for disturbing you, Helié,’ he went on, without a trace of irony. ‘It seems to me that you did not want to be disturbed. I can understand that. I can even sympathise. And I would not have troubled you, had I not been compelled by circumstance.’
‘What circumstance would that be?’ I said, forcing the issue. I did not want to exchange pleasantries with Bernard Gui. We were beyond such hollow etiquette, and had been for many years.
He nodded, as if conceding a point.
‘Brother Jean told me about you,’ he revealed. ‘Jean de Beaune.’
‘Yes.’
‘He wrote to me after he left Narbonne, confirming al
l that he heard from you. He is very thorough in his methods. Very distrustful. Which is not a bad thing, in this deceitful age.’
I remained silent. What could I have said, after all? If it is a deceitful age, then my master and I have added generously to the sum of its deceit.
‘Jean de Beaune has a great respect for the way I work,’ my master went on. ‘As a result, he has hired his own secret familiars.’ He cut me a quick glance, as sharp as any steel blade. ‘One of them is missing.’
At last we had come to the meat of the matter. I understood this immediately. And I looked up, waiting, as Bernard Gui began to choose his words with care.
‘This familiar was formerly a member of the Third Order of St Francis, or the Poor Brethren of Penitence—whatever you wish to call them,’ he began. ‘A Beguin, in other words. By name Jacques Bonet, from Béziers. Have you heard of him?’
Again, I shook my head.
‘No. Well. He was no heresiarch. Just a humble devotee, though he could be very persuasive.’ Bernard Gui stopped suddenly, having heard the sound of approaching footsteps. To my immense surprise, the door creaked open and the sour-faced porter appeared, bearing a tray on which resided two goblets and a flask of wine. ‘Ah, Henri. Thank you,’ said my master, as Brother Henri slapped his burden down on the nearest bench. Then, with a cursory bow (more like a jerk of his chin), the porter left, his heavy gait emphasising how extra duties of this type were the most dreadful imposition.