The Passion of Dolssa

  Leaping, dancing flames. Would all I loved be next to burn?

  “There’s nothing you can do for her,” he said. “There is a chance, though, that this woman’s death could save Dolssa, and you.”

  They hoisted the woman’s limp form into the air, and awkwardly, straddling the fire, they laid her down between the stakes. The posts, they’d become, of her final bed. She struggled and fought. A pitiable sight. Her dress was so wet that for a moment I thought she had put the fire out.

  Lop fanned the flames and loaded more wood.

  Then her hair flamed bright. Her clothing next caught fire. Even the gag burned at last, leaving her free to scream. And they, her murderers, dared demand that she be still.

  The stench of burnt hair and cloth reached my nose, and I vomited.

  Then scorching meat.

  Sizzling blood.

  And still the heretic screamed.

  I hid my face against Symo’s. He wrapped his arms around me and pressed his bristly cheek into mine.

  I thanked God for the comfort of a human presence, any presence, any beating heart.

  The tavern door banged open. We turned our heads to see someone hurry out. Too tall for one of my sisters.

  The friar Lucien de Saint-Honore. The sight of him drained the last dregs of life in me.

  He stood, smelling the air. His gaze went straight to the fire. He hurried down the slope toward the beach.

  We separated, Symo and I.

  In that moment, the bona femna’s screaming stopped. The fire and smoke had overcome her lungs at last.

  Men’s voices reached us, but I could not bear to hear. We crept back to the tavern.

  LUCIEN DE SAINT-HONORE

  ucien de Saint-Honore ran down to the pyre on the beach. When he collided with the full wave of odor from the burning body, he ducked his head to the side.

  “What is happening here?”

  The two men standing by turned to study him.

  “So young,” observed the younger of the two men, more finely dressed.

  “Who are you?” Lucien demanded.

  The speaker of the pair regarded him. His eyes were wide open, and horrified. As though the dead had been his own beloved. “I should ask that question of you.”

  Lucien moved uphill from the smoke. He looked at the scorching remains atop the fire, and grimaced. Unlike some of his older associates in the convent at Tolosa, he was still unused to this sight.

  “You laid this person in the fire,” he marveled, “like a roasting animal.”

  The other man, with thick whiskers protruding from every side of his face, like a lion’s mane, spoke. “Finishes the job faster,” he said. “Merciful.”

  “Who was executed here?”

  The younger man folded his arms across his chest. “You still haven’t stated your name.”

  Lucien gritted his teeth. “I am Lucien de Saint-Honore, inquisitor, and friar of the Dominican convent at Tolosa. I have traveled here in pursuit of a heretic, Dolssa de Stigata. My authority comes from Pope Gregory himself.” He held himself tall.

  The two men looked at each other. Then the younger of them extended his hand to Lucien.

  “Well met, inquisitor,” he said. “I am Guilhem de Bajas, and this is Lop, my bayle. Bajas is my holding, and you see before you all that remains of the heretic you seek.”

  Lucien forgot his companions. He took a step closer to the fire. There they were, the blackened, leering, smoking limbs, the bits of graying bone. How could they be she? He closed his eyes and saw her soft, living flesh, her red lips, the dark mark above them, reaching forward to kiss him . . .

  His eyes flew open. “You are certain it was she?”

  The wiry man’s eyes went to the younger lord.

  “We are a small community,” said Senhor Guilhem.

  The bushy man went silently back to the fire. He shifted logs around to speed the burning. Some, he placed over the corpse, obscuring it from view.

  Dolssa de Stigata. His heretic, his great mission, was now mere matter, like any other log in the fire.

  “Why did you execute her?” Lucien heard his voice ask. “I heard she was reputed a holy woman.”

  Senhor Guilhem turned to stare at him. “Was she, then?”

  Lucien stepped back from the heat of the fire into the cool dawn air. “No, she was a heretic. A great deceiver. I . . . I had heard, though, that she had grown a large following here.”

  “We don’t harbor heretics,” the young lord said too quickly. “Not here in Bajas.”

  The gray man watched.

  Dolssa de Stigata was gone from his sight now. Now and always. Lucien shivered. A welcome distraction appeared in his thoughts.

  “I saw a toza just now,” he told the others. “I met her once before. Her name is . . . Botille.”

  “The matchmaker,” said the gray man.

  “Matchmaker?” asked Lucien.

  Senhor Guilhem shot his companion a look. “Most meddlesome, fast-talking, lying little slut you could meet.”

  Lucien turned this intelligence over carefully. This sounded nothing like the half-witted girl he’d met.

  “And her brother . . . ?”

  The young lord looked to the bayle and shrugged.

  “Botille has no brother, Friar,” he said. “She and her sisters run the tavern. You’re staying there?”

  Lucien nodded absently. “That’s right.” No brother. Of course. The embrace he’d seen hardly looked brotherly.

  The sun was fully risen now, and up the hill villagers began to stir. The smoke from the pyre began to attract curious eyes, but the presence of the senhor, the bayle, and a holy stranger kept onlookers at a distance.

  “Make it known, Lop,” said Guilhem, “that the heretic has met her death.”

  The bayle nodded and left.

  “Well, friar,” the lord said, “how can I serve you? Will you need supplies or funds for your return to Tolosa?”

  Lucien returned the lord’s gaze. “Not just yet,” he said. “The heretic’s death does not necessarily kill the poisonous flower she has planted here. I have more inquiries to conduct. For now, as it is Sunday, I’ll take myself first to the church.”

  BOTILLE

  ord of Dolssa’s death and the friar’s coming brought everyone to Mass.

  We stood toward the rear of the nave at Sant Martin’s—Plazensa, Sazia, Symo, and I. All Bajas sat before us. Some were crying. Most were stiff and still. All of us, waiting.

  Friar Lucien de Saint-Honore sat in the wings to one side of the altar, also waiting.

  The bona femna who’d died filled my thoughts.

  How old was she? Which village had been hers? What was her name? Who had been her friends long ago? How many men and women, boys and girls, had bowed to her daily, seeking her blessings, long ago, before the Church and the French won their wasting war and drove the friends of God into hiding?

  Dominus Bernard chanted the liturgy, but his Latin was clumsier than usual, with Friar Lucien watching. He elevated the host, and we all bowed our heads. Senhor Guilhem approached the altar to receive it. Lucien de Saint-Honore, Na Pieret, and a few others received the host, while the rest of us adored the Savior’s body and blood from our places. I saw Na Pieret’s gaze move quickly to Symo, standing with us, and just as quickly back down to the floor. She was worried. She didn’t like his choice of place. I wondered about it myself.

  Dominus Bernard seemed done with the Eucharist, when, to our astonishment, another man from the back strode down the aisle to receive it.

  Plazi, Sazia, and I exchanged a glance as he passed by. It was the knight, Senhor Hugo de Miramont. He cut through the chapel like a blade.

  “He’s here,” Plazi said.

  “I knew it,” moaned Sazia. “They were allies from the first.”

  I watched as the knight approached the friar, searching for a hint of comradeship. Had Senhor Hugo, in fact, summoned the inquisitor?

  Their eyes met. That they kne
w each other, no one could doubt. A flush rose in Lucien de Saint-Honore’s cheeks. He held his head high. They’d won. Or so he believed.

  The sight of Senhor Guilhem and Lop filled me with loathing.

  Symo watched me sideways. The memory of his appearance last night, and of my embarrassing display of weakness before him, left me sick. I’d embraced him. A woman had been dying. A woman who wasn’t Dolssa. But dying, cruelly, all the same.

  “Why are you here?” I whispered in Symo’s ear.

  He looked at me as though I were the greatest idiot in Christendom. “Because you’re my half-wit srre,” he said. “That’s what we told the friar. So now we’re stuck with it.”

  “It’s what you told the friar,” I said.

  His forehead furrowed. “Both of us,” he said, “if we knew then what we know now, might have made different choices.”

  “I’d never have gone to San Cucufati,” I said, “if I’d known what trouble I’d find there.”

  Sazia eyed us both malevolently and held a finger over her lips.

  Dominus Bernard finished the Eucharistic celebration and carefully wiped and placed the sacred vessels, then turned to Friar Lucien de Saint-Honore.

  “Today,” said our priest, “we will be favored by a sermon from a member of the Order of Friars-Preachers, Lucien de Saint-Honore. He brings us a message from Tolosa.” With that unceremonious introduction, Bernard sat down.

  Friar Lucien rose. He had retonsured his head so that his white crown poked out from his ring of dark hair like the sun-bleached homes on Bajas’s hill. His black cloak and white habit hung over his tall frame. He spoke not in Latin but in our tongue, though his northern French accent colored his voice. And what a voice! He seemed to sing. His voice filled the sanctuary and rippled off its walls. It danced with the starry motes of light drifting down in the morning air.

  “My friends,” he began. “I greet you in Our Lord’s name, and on his errand. I bring to you the salutation of the Lord Bishop of Tolosa, Raimon, and all the brotherhood of the chapter in Tolosa of Sant Dominic’s Order of Preachers.”

  The friar produced a sheaf of parchment leaves emblazoned with a red seal. “I come with the authorization of the Holy Father, who, as Apostle and head of the Church, and in great concern for the safety of your souls, before his death asked the friars of my order to assist the Church in conducting inquisitions throughout Provensa.” He paused to read straight from the leaves. “‘All princes, lords, knights, and nobles, magistrates, rulers, royal officials, and officers of law are hereby enjoined to assist this effort, and to lend their authority, and the full might of law, to the care and protection of the Church.’”

  Senhor Guilhem sat tall and proud. The care and protection of the Church sounded so right, so worthy and necessary, rolling off Friar Lucien de Saint-Honore’s golden tongue.

  “‘Any who are slack in their duties as princes and rulers in Christendom must face interdict, excommunication, anathema, and loss of lands and holdings, as needs may dictate.’”

  Senhor Guilhem still sat tall, but his jaw now worked as though he chewed on a tough chestnut. Dominus Bernard’s face was ashen.

  “Heresy has run rampant among you.” Friar Lucien tucked away his papers. “Many of you were deceived by the wonders demonstrated by Dolssa, the so-called holy woman.”

  Quiet crying echoed in the sanctuary at the mention of her name.

  “So much so that you weep at her loss,” said the indignant friar, “rather than exulting in God’s victory over error.”

  The mourners grew still.

  “To finish the work that God’s crusading army began in this corner of the Lord’s vineyard, and to root out the pernicious influence of this heretical impostor, I have come to investigate this area, to ascertain what errors still lurk in Bajas. We begin tomorrow. Your priest, Dominus Bernard, shall supply me with your names, and from these I shall issue summons. I shall speak with each of you, in turn. Tozẹts from ages fourteen and up; tozas, twelve.”

  Santa Sara. Fourteen? Twelve? Fathers and mothers cast anxious glances at their older children. No one seemed enraptured by the friar’s honeyed voice now.

  My sisters and I knew one another’s fears. We would be named by every half-grown child in town as Dolssa’s protectors. I took Sazia’s hand—that same hand that would have killed her—in mine. She would not be with us today, were it not for Dolssa.

  “Take comfort,” the friar said. “Heaven stands ever ready to welcome the sinner who repents. I am authorized to offer full clemency and pardon to any who come forward of their own free will and confess to their errors, whether in thought, in deed, or in association. Not to those who knowingly teach heresy, of course, for their lot is fixed, but for those who have succumbed to falsehood. If they come to me with a penitent heart, cooperate fully in our investigations, and reveal all that they know, they shall be pardoned. Any who come to me today, at the church of Sant Martin, will find me ready to hear their confession.”

  Thus he drew the noose around us. How was it done so neatly, with no weapons but words and a letter with red wax?

  Many would seize hold of such an offer. All it would take was one.

  The smell of incense made it hard to breathe. My legs twitched to run out of the church.

  Their lot is fixed. Poor, sweet Dolssa. The feet we washed and anointed with oil—had we healed them so they could walk more ably into the flames?

  I gazed at the cross above the altar, and the figure of Christ dying there. Could it ever be true, what this friar said? Was Dolssa an affront to our Lord’s holiness?

  Oh, Johan the Evangelist, I cried in my heart to the shrine where days ago I’d prayed. You who were also called by our Lord, “Beloved.” Plead for us, and help us.

  I didn’t realize I was crying until dark spots splashed onto my bodice. Symo elbowed me and frowned. I didn’t care. Let him despise me, the unfeeling monster.

  A movement from the back startled me. Footsteps from the rear, striding down the aisle again. It was the knight, Senhor Hugo, once more. The friar seemed as surprised by this interruption as I was. My sisters and I held one another’s hands. I realized I’d taken hold of Symo’s hand, too. I shook it off like contagion.

  The knight halted a few paces before the friar.

  “Yes?” asked Lucien de Saint-Honore.

  His bearing as a man of war seemed to discomfit the preacher. They watched each other until Senhor Hugo went down on one knee and bowed his head.

  “Friar Lucien,” he said loudly, “I offer myself and my sword to your service in this part of Christendom, to carry out God’s work.”

  Lucien de Saint-Honore closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He rested a hand upon the knight’s shoulder.

  “Bless you, soldier of the cross,” was his reply. “I gratefully accept your service in God’s name.”

  When his eyes opened, they gazed heavenward, rapt with adoration and gratitude.

  LOP

  op the bayle returned home to his small maisoṇ after mass and pulled off his shoes.

  The old woman who cooked and cleaned for him a few times a week had left a pot of something on his hearth. He poked at the fire and threw on a few more sticks. It reminded him of last night’s execution, and he shuddered.

  It was a good living, acting as Guilhem’s bayle. No one troubled him, and he got his money. The mighty must acknowledge him, and the peasants must fear him. So long as he was strong and able, it was a good life, if dull sometimes for want of friendship. But friendship doesn’t fend off starvation in winter, nor shelter anyone from the deadly winds of political and religious conflict that had raged throughout Lop’s lifetime.

  Still. That burning woman. She hadn’t stopped burning, behind his eyelids, since this morning. All through breakfast. All through mass. He never took this job wishing to throw old gray femnas in the fire. A woman of the same age as his own mother, were she still alive. Who wanted to do that?

  But he’d done it. Lop wo
uld never be found lacking in his job.

  Dieu, he was tired.

  There was a knock at the door. He pulled on his shoes and rose. His sleepless night haunted him now. He opened the door to find the Tolosan knight, Senhor Hugo, standing there.

  Lop, as a rule, did not show surprise. He genuflected, befitting the nobleman’s rank.

  “Senhor de Miramont,” he said, “how may I serve you?”

  “Your name is Lop?”

  “Oc.” He bowed again. “Would you care to come inside my home?”

  “Grácia.” Senhor Hugo pulled his cloak about his sides and ducked through the door. He was a much taller man than stocky Lop. He sat upon a stool next to the fire.

  The bayle pulled a pitcher of wine and some cups from a shelf, but the knight waved the offer away. Lop put them back.

  “Good bayle,” the knight said. “What can you tell me about the woman executed last night?”

  Lop ran his hand over his wiry whiskers. Danger tingled in the air. He must choose his words carefully.

  “She did not much welcome death,” he said. “I can say that much.”

  “Who among us does?”

  Lop met his gaze. “There are some,” he said, “who seem to court it.”

  “What else?”

  Lop watched the man’s face. “Her name was Dolssa.”

  “Did she state that as her name?”

  Lop shook his head. “Non. It’s what Senhor Guilhem said.”

  “So he was with you, then, last night?”

  “For much of the time, oc.”

  Lop wondered to what these questions tended, but he knew not to pry. This knight betrayed no urgency, no desire, but pressed his questions coolly upon him.

  “Where was the woman found?”

  Lop rubbed his beard. “I don’t know,” he said. “It was Senhor Guilhem who found her and arrested her. Somewhere outside of the vila, I think.”

  The knight sat and watched Lop until even he, veteran of trouble, broke his gaze and looked away. He looked back. Another question seemed to hang in the air.

  Lop went on the offensive.

  “Did you know the woman, Senhor?”