The Secret Familiar

  Bernard Gui stared after him, blank-faced, until the door slammed shut. Then he turned to me.

  ‘A little wine?’ he suggested.

  ‘No. Thank you.’

  ‘I assumed that you would be thirsty, after such a long walk.’ He fingered the neck of the pottery flask. ‘We always used to drink wine when we met.’

  ‘Please continue, Father,’ was my blunt response. It surprised him, I think. But he was neither dismayed nor insulted. On the contrary, he may have been pleased that I no longer required so many kind remarks and proofs of abiding concern.

  Without them, our business would be concluded all the more quickly.

  ‘To avoid punishment for his heretical views, Jacques agreed to act for Jean de Beaune,’ my master continued in a brisk fashion. ‘It was felt that, as a known sympathiser, Jacques would have no difficulty in seeking out and discovering other Beguins. You may not realise that this part of the world is infested with such people. Jean de Beaune has uncovered them in Béziers, as well as the smaller towns and villages.’

  I grunted.

  ‘It is a recent heresy, of course,’ he acknowledged. ‘So you may not know much about it. Do you?’

  ‘Hardly anything.’ I marshalled the facts in my head, trying to recall what Pons had told me in prison, and what little I had learned during my years in Narbonne. ‘They believe that Christ and the Apostles were the perfect poor, holding nothing personally or in common. And that the rule of St Francis is the very life of Jesus. And that the Pope, in allowing the monks of St Francis to wear long, full robes, and to keep wine and grain for future use, has fallen into heresy himself.’

  Bernard Gui heard me out with obvious interest. When I had finished, he observed, with a glint in his eye: ‘You still keep your ears wide open, Helié Bernier.’

  ‘I know nothing else about the Beguins, Father. Except that they hate your order with a vengeance.’

  My master shrugged. ‘They hate all the Church, save for the friars of their own persuasion,’ he replied. ‘You must understand, they err at the root. They have come to believe that the Pope, cardinals and prelates are the Carnal Church, whereas the Spiritual Church comprises only the Poor Brethren of Penitence and those who serve the poor. They say that our lord Pope can no longer appoint bishops, or wield any power, because he has fallen into heresy. They say that in four years, or perhaps nine, the Carnal Church will be destroyed and cast down before the preaching of the Antichrist, and that there will remain only a few chosen men, spiritual, poor and evangelical—themselves, naturally.’

  ‘Naturally,’ I murmured.

  ‘Then, after the collapse of the Carnal Church and the death of the Antichrist, the few remaining “spirituals” will convert all the world to their faith.’ Bernard Gui uttered a weary sigh. ‘Pride again. They think themselves greater than all other men, save perhaps St Francis.’

  ‘And where does Pierre Olivi fit into all this?’ For I had remembered one other fact, which confused me. ‘Were not his bones removed from their resting place at the Franciscan priory here? Because of the Beguins?’

  ‘Yes.’ Bernard Gui nodded. ‘Friar Pierre Olivi was their prophet. His treatise on the Apocalypse is their Holy Scripture. They have used it to spin many fabrications. And they revere him as they revere St Francis.’

  ‘Then he was a heretic?’

  Bernard Gui hesitated. Again, he seemed to choose his words carefully.

  ‘You must understand,’ he said, ‘that these Beguins have been led astray by their own imaginations. Much of what they attribute to Pierre Olivi may not have been his own words. Similarly, while they declare that he received his knowledge by direct revelation from God, there is no proof that he ever made the claim for himself.’ My master tapped his mouth with one finger, reflecting, before he proceeded in a firmer, surer tone. ‘But he had certain unreliable opinions, which were condemned by eight masters of theology at Avignon three years ago. So he was in error, though he did retract his views on at least one occasion before his death.’

  ‘After which his bones were dug up.’

  ‘And removed. Yes. They had become objects of pilgrimage. It was not thought wise to encourage such devotion.’ Bernard Gui waved his hand. ‘I cannot tell you where the bones were placed. But this is not important to you. Know only that Narbonne, for various reasons, has been a source of Beguin error since the heresy first arose. And as a consequence, Jacques Bonet was sent here to befriend whatever Beguins he could find.’

  ‘Whereupon he disappeared,’ I concluded. Once again, I was anxious to discover what part I was to play in this business. ‘Do you mean that he ran away? That he broke his promise, and relapsed?’ It had happened before, as I knew only too well. Repentant Cathars are sometimes not as repentant as they appear.

  My master winced. He has never liked to be reminded of his failures in judgement.

  ‘It may be so,’ he admitted. ‘Jacques may have escaped. On the other hand, his secret may have been discovered by the Beguins, who may have killed him.’ A measuring look. ‘You know yourself that this also can happen.’

  It was my turn to wince. I turned my face away, and studied the floor. For a moment there was silence. Then Bernard Gui proceeded with his narrative.

  ‘Some thirty years ago, a woman called Rixende was tried for heresy in Narbonne,’ he recounted. ‘She was a Beguin, of sorts, and one of her followers, Jacquette Alegre, married a man named Guillaume Hulart. Though this man is now dead, his son, Vincent, is a merchant of the Bourg. Jacques was given Vincent Hulart’s name as a starting point.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Jacques was told to make his confession at Christmas, to a priest of the church of St-Paul. During this confession, he was also expected to report on his activities. But he never approached the priest, who had been instructed by Jean de Beaune to watch out for him.’ Another sigh. ‘We need to find this missing familiar, Helié. We need you to hunt him down.’

  ‘If he is in the city,’ I amended. ‘If he has left, I cannot help you. I am no longer a travelling cobbler.’

  ‘I realise that. But his heretical friends may know where he went. For if he has escaped, it may have been with their connivance.’ My master reached into the purse at his waist, drawing out a pair of little books. ‘Here are some of the works that circulate among such people,’ he explained. ‘One is a portion of Pierre Olivi’s postilla on the Apocalypse. The other is entitled The Passing of the Holy Father. It is an account of Pierre Olivi’s death, and very short, as you see. The Beguins call him “The Holy Father who has not been canonised”. They say that there has been none so great in sanctity and teaching.’

  ‘I cannot read Latin,’ I reminded him, eyeing the books doubtfully.

  ‘They are translated into the vernacular. They have to be. Such people are not truly literate.’ My master’s crooked smile emerged for a fleeting instant. ‘I would not distribute such texts to all and sundry, my son. One could argue that I was disseminating error. But your faith is strong, I know. You will not be led astray.’

  ‘You want me to read them?’

  ‘For your own protection.’

  ‘And then approach Vincent Hulart?’

  ‘Whatever your instinct tells you. It has never failed you before.’

  I received the books, which felt slightly greasy to the touch, as if they had passed through many hands. I wondered which Beguins had been forced to surrender them.

  ‘What does Jacques Bonet look like?’ I asked. Whereupon my master’s eyes flickered, as he reviewed his mental register.

  ‘Rather a tall man,’ he replied. ‘Black hair. Green eyes. Big nose. Pockmarked face. One thick and crooked thumbnail on his right hand.’

  ‘Has no corpse been found in the area that matches this description? Perhaps an unclaimed corpse buried in a field, or pulled out of the river?’

  Bernard Gui shrugged. ‘I shall make inquiries,’ he promised. ‘There is a fellow on the Archbishop’s staff—by name Germain d’A
lanh—who has served as an archiepiscopal inquisitor once or twice. I shall enlist his help. He can ask some of the hospitals and churches. Perhaps the city militia.’

  ‘There is a brotherhood in Narbonne known as the Good Works of the Poor Dead of the Cité.’

  ‘Then I shall have him ask this brotherhood as well. And report to you his findings.’

  ‘Not directly.’ I was alarmed at the very prospect. ‘No archiepiscopal inquisitor must come anywhere near my house.’

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  ‘He must order some parchment. Then hide the report under the third folio, and send back the delivery. With some sort of complaint.’

  Bernard Gui inclined his head. It has always been thus; despite his lofty rank and many talents, he has never once challenged my wishes on the subject of communication. For the preservation of my alias has always been paramount. And only I know how that should best be done.

  ‘To whom should I make my report?’ was my next question. ‘To you? To Jean de Beaune?’

  ‘To a priest, I think,’ he replied. ‘At your Easter confession.’

  ‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘Easter is too soon.’

  ‘Pentecost, then. Where do you normally go? St-Sebastien?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I shall arrange it.’

  ‘And after that, what will happen? A mass arrest?’

  He fixed me with his cool, grey stare.

  ‘That will depend on you,’ he said.

  My own gaze dropped before his. I felt breathless, as if I had been rushed along. It occurred to me that not once during our long exchange had the possibility even been considered that I would refuse to cooperate. Yet there would be inevitable consequences if I complied with my master’s request. In the past, when I had served him as an informant, I had always been arrested along with my fellow heretics. An explanation had then been provided for my subsequent release; I might pretend that I had escaped, or bribed my way out, or even been let off with a light sentence—crosses, perhaps, or a pilgrimage. Increasingly, I had been forced to change my name and identity.

  So I realised that, if the worst came to the worst, I might have to leave Narbonne. For I had no wish to become notorious in my neighbourhood as a traitor. Convicted heretics nearly always have relatives, and those relatives will invariably seek revenge on people like me.

  Though it might be different in Narbonne. The Narbonnaise do not seem to have memories as long as those I used to encounter in my own country. Where I come from, the children of heretics are punished for their parents’ crimes; they are forbidden to hold public office and deprived of their inheritance. In Narbonne, this is not so often the case— because there are laws against it. The citizens have many ancient rights, for reasons that I cannot fully comprehend. Perhaps it has something to do with the Archbishop? For Narbonne, after all, is this country’s archiepiscopal seat. Although the Viscount of Narbonne rules part of the city, the Archbishop rules another part, so neither can do exactly as he wishes with the whole. They are always arguing, those two. And whenever the citizens want something, they can easily get it from one if the other is not amenable.

  In a city such as Narbonne, whose people are so proud and defiant—whose Archbishop is so eager to win over the populace that he will sometimes turn a blind eye to heresy— in such a city, it may be easier to pretend that you have defied the inquisitors with money and power. It may be easier to stay on.

  ‘Where will I go if I have to leave Narbonne?’ I muttered, suddenly overcome by an immense weariness. ‘If there is common talk of betrayal?’

  ‘Montpellier would welcome you, I am sure,’ remarked Bernard Gui, who had been watching me closely. ‘With its university, it would always have a place for another parchment-maker. Or you could go further afield. To Marseilles. To Avignon.’ He gave a little cough. ‘If it becomes necessary, I will of course provide you with sufficient funds to move. Have no fear of that, Helié.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. But I was still tired. I looked down at the parchment in my lap. ‘Do you want this?’

  ‘Very much.’ Bernard Gui rose, and produced from beneath his habit a little leather bag, heavy with coin. ‘Take the price out of this sum, if you will.’

  ‘Bribe money?’

  ‘Bribe money. If any of these fools can be bought.’ He gave me his little bag, receiving the parchment in return. By this time we were both standing, almost toe to toe. He smelled of lavender. ‘Is there anything else you need to know?’

  ‘You have no other names? Beguin names?’

  ‘I fear not. Only Vincent Hulart.’

  I nodded.

  ‘You must be careful, Helié. If Jacques was indeed killed, then you could be risking the same fate. Do not put yourself in peril.’ He placed his free hand on my shoulder, lowering his head so as to catch—and hold—my gaze. ‘If you feel threatened, you must come here,’ he instructed. ‘Not to the Archbishop, or the Viscount, or any of the churches. You must come straight here. I shall have a word with the Prior, and he will speak to the porter, and these doors will always be open to you, day and night, for your protection.’

  This seemed doubtful to me, if the surly porter had charge of them. But I said nothing. For a moment Bernard Gui seemed to scour the inside of my skull with his searching regard. Then he leaned forward, and kissed me on both cheeks.

  ‘I’ll not keep you any longer,’ he said. ‘It’s good to see you again—to know that you are faring so well. I was concerned about you, Helié.’ He squeezed my shoulder in a firm grip. ‘Next time, when you disappear, you should not do it with such efficiency. Or how shall I watch over my most valued servant?’

  His eyes remained fixed on my face for a long time. Then he straightened, muttered a quick blessing, and left the room. The graceless porter, Brother Henri, showed me out shortly afterwards, with a scowl and a grunt. Had he been tossing a bucket of nightsoil onto a dung heap, he could not have demonstrated less courtesy.

  There may have been some rule concerning the outer door of the priory, and who should have ready access to it; the Dominicans, I know, follow many strict rules. But I am inclined to believe that my master did not accompany me to this door for another reason. Unless I am mistaken, he was signifying his disappointment in me. For no inquisitor likes to lose sight of anyone. He prides himself on his unsleeping eye.

  He would not like his own familiar to escape him, as I myself had escaped for so many years.

  V.

  Last day of the first week of Lent

  This morning a priest was fetched for the mother of Hugues Moresi, my tenant. But she did not die. Hugues himself never believed for one moment that she was in danger. He resented having to fetch the priest, who (he said) would undoubtedly want ‘alms for the poor’ as a consequence. I was surprised at the way Hugues expressed himself on the subject.

  ‘Money, money, money,’ he growled. ‘All they want is money, those priests. And they wonder why so many people revere the Beguins!’

  ‘But that money is for the poor,’ his wife protested— perhaps with more courage than usual, since I was present. Whereupon Hugues snorted.

  ‘That money goes into the bellies of priests, and the poor might perhaps eat their turds,’ he rejoined. It is quite astonishing what people will say sometimes, in the presence of strangers. For what does he know about me, in all truth? Only that I make parchment. And that I own this house. And that I have no wife or children.

  His own wife and children were gathered by his mother’s bed when I arrived. I was looking for my apprentice, and stumbled upon a deathwatch—or so it appeared at first. The old woman was very ill. Her daughter-in-law was weeping. The children had been enjoined to pray. And Hugues Moresi was refusing to fetch a priest.

  ‘She will not die,’ he insisted. ‘Three times every winter, she thinks she is going to die, and she never does.’

  When her breathing became stertorous, however, he agreed—with very bad grace—to send for a priest. He told Martin to
hurry and ask at St-Sebastien. But I was firm. My apprentice, I said, had already been paid for his time. I needed him up in my workroom.

  So Hugues sent his eldest daughter instead. Martin himself did not express any passionate inclination to remain at his grandmother’s bedside. If he had done so, I might have allowed it—though on the whole I do not believe that children enjoy a deathwatch, nor profit much from the experience. One of my own most painful memories is that of attending the deathbed of my mother, who was blessed by a Cathar Good Man, and subsequently deprived of all food and water until she expired. This was considered a good death among the Cathars. In their minds, the blessing and the fast ensured that my mother would go straight to heaven. I must acknowledge that she would, in all likelihood, have been unable to eat or drink during those last hours in any case—since she was unconscious, and barely able to breathe, let alone swallow. Nevertheless, it was a great sin. And being only seven at the time, I was much haunted and troubled by what I saw.

  It seemed to me that Martin should be spared such a thing. For he is a delicate boy, who has clearly suffered under his father’s blows. The other boys in that family are more stalwart, and take care to pass the blows on to their sisters and friends. In doing so, their fear is transformed into anger. Martin simply absorbs each beating—or at least, he used to. Before I intervened. Now he talks more freely, and what he says can sometimes be quite sensible.

  He is not a child to be exposed to a lingering and painful death without consequence.

  Therefore I took him back upstairs, where I made him scrape the greasy parchment with chalk, while I cut and marked. I had not visited my own kitchen in some time, and was feeling pleased at how neat and well-scrubbed it had looked. Hugues’s wife is a good wife, for all the ill-treatment she endures. Perhaps the ill-treatment is at the root of her efficiency? Men like Hugues would certainly have one think so; there is always much talk among householders of how a wife must be beaten like an ox if a man is to get any work out of her. Myself, I can express no opinion on the matter—never having furnished myself with a wife.