‘Is your arm all right?’ I can’t see any bandages, under all that flowing black. ‘Was it a bad cut?’
‘Not at all. I was lucky. In every dealing, I was lucky. When I found Lord Humbert, I told my tale frankly, and was kindly received. I told him that you had been taken from my care by the heretical knights, and that I wanted you restored to me. He agreed to do so, though not before capturing the citadel. He would not let me into La Becede under a flag of truce, despite my pleas.’ At last Isidore wrenches his gaze from our filthy, battered surroundings and fixes it on my face, hesitating slightly before he speaks. ‘You must understand,’ he adds, ‘that I was not . . . um . . . entirely truthful. That I had to lie concerning our friendship and your own beliefs, Babylonne.’
‘Yes.’ (As if it matters!) ‘What am I supposed to be? Your bastard daughter? I wish I was your bastard daughter.’
His lips twitch. ‘At this point, you are my illegitimate niece,’ he explains. Oh dear. Is that the best you could do?
‘Your niece? Father, that’s no good. Nobody’s going to believe that. You might as well say I’m your concubine, and have done with it.’
‘I think not.’
‘Because that’s what they must assume, Father.’
‘Not at all.’
‘Yes, it’s true. Most people don’t have pure hearts, not like you.’
‘Babylonne—trust me. I am well acquainted now with Bishop Fulk, and he is a man of some penetration. He knows that I am innocent of any wrongdoing where you are concerned.’
Bishop Fulk?
What are you saying to me?
‘Babylonne.’ Isidore’s voice drops. ‘Don’t stop here, please. Keep moving. It’s best if we get out of this place as quickly as possible.’
‘Did you—did you—’
‘I know you have no love for the Bishop,’ he continues, nudging me along and speaking very low. ‘You told me that he was present when your mother died. I can imagine what your feelings must be. But I had no choice. It was the Bishop who welcomed me, and who made a place for me in his escort. To reach you, Babylonne, I needed him. And it must be said that he has been very generous.’
‘Very generous?’
‘Shh. Later. We can’t talk now.’
No. We can’t talk now. Because heading towards us, picking their way through the jagged rocks and discarded helmets and bloody hunks of flesh, are half a dozen priests, led by a tonsured monk. A tonsured monk wearing a stained white habit and a jewelled ring.
‘Brother Isidore!’ exclaims the monk, spreading his arms. ‘You have found her, then!’
‘I have, my lord. Safe and well.’
‘Deo gratias,’ says the monk. Isidore releases me. He bows, and kisses the monk’s ring.
My lord?
This must be Fulk.
Fulk the Bishop. Fulk the Cistercian monk. He has round shoulders and a jutting Adam’s apple. His eyes are as dark as mine. His teeth are crooked and yellow; there’s a small scar on his chin.
I could kill him now.
I could grab my scissors, which are still in my purse, and drive their blades straight into Fulk’s exposed neck. Now. Right now, as he leans towards me, tracing a cross in the air above my head. I could do it now, and avenge my mother, and it wouldn’t matter what happened to me afterwards, because I would have rid the world of an evil force.
‘Ostende nobis, Domine, misericordiam tuam,’ says Fulk, whose voice is very loud and rough for such a small man.
I could kill him now, but I won’t.
I can’t.
I just can’t do it.
‘She is not herself,’ says Isidore, and lapses into the Latin tongue as my tears drip off the end of my nose. Fulk nods: once, twice, three times. When Isidore finishes, the evil Bishop responds with something that must be a prayer, because it ends in ‘Amen’.
He shuffles off, at long last, and it’s just as well because I’m shaking all over. Shaking with suppressed sobs.
‘Oh, my dear,’ whispers Isidore. He presses me close, and kisses the top of my head. ‘I’m so proud of you.’
‘I could—I couldn’t—’
I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t open up another vein, and watch the blood spurt. I couldn’t bear the pain and the rage and the noise and the death—especially the death. I’m sick to my bones with all this death.
I don’t want death any more. I want life. I want to live.
‘Come,’ says Isidore. And he leads me gently away from the bloody ruins, towards the open gate.
Out into the rolling green countryside beyond.
HISTORICAL EPILOGUE
After the siege of La Becede, Gerard de la Motta and the other Perfects were burned. Humbert de Beaujeu then turned his attention to Toulouse. For the fourth time in fifteen years, its suburbs were destroyed and its vines pulled up. By then, the people of Languedoc were tired of war, and in 1229 Lord Raymond of Toulouse made peace with the French King. In return, he was allowed to remain Count of Toulouse. His only child, Joan, was betrothed to the King’s nine-year-old brother, and Raymond agreed that all his dominions were to pass to their children when he died.
Pons de Villeneuve, who survived the siege of La Becede, was Count Raymond’s first post-war Seneschal of Toulouse. Pagan de La Becede, who also survived, became a faidit (or exile) and a leader of the remaining, defiant heretics until he was captured and burned in 1233. In November 1228, Olivier de Termes and his brother made their submission to the King of France. At the same time Olivier converted to Catholicism, and remained a Catholic for the rest of his life.
Bernard Oth also had a change of heart. When royal troops attacked Cabaret in 1228, he defended the fortress for a month, and made sure that the two Perfects who had been living there were escorted to safety before he finally surrendered. In 1232, Bernard, his son and two of Bernard’s brothers attacked the lands of the Archbishop of Narbonne, burning buildings, driving off cattle and wounding the Archbishop. Bernard and most of his family—including his mother— were finally condemned as heretics by the newly established Holy Inquisition.
The last Cathar fortress, Montsegur, fell in 1244. Raymond of Toulouse died in 1249, leaving no male heir. His daughter and son-in-law both died, childless, in 1271.
And Languedoc became a permanent part of the French King’s dominion.
Acknowledgements
With special thanks to John O. Ward and Margaret Connolly.
CATHERINE JINKS is a scholar of medieval history and a prolific author for teenagers, children and adults. Her books have been published to wide acclaim in Australia and overseas and have won numerous awards. She loves reading, history, films, TV and gossip, and says she could write for eight hours straight every day if she had the chance. Catherine lives in the Blue Mountains of NSW with her husband and daughter.
Also by Catherine Jinks
Pagan’s Crusade, Hodder Headline, 1992
Pagan in Exile, Hodder Headline, 1994
Pagan’s Vows, Hodder Headline, 1995 (Winner CBCA Book of the Year Award)
Pagan’s Scribe, Hodder Headline, 1996 (Winner CBCA and Victorian Premier’s Literary Awards)
Eglantine, Allen & Unwin, 2002
Eustace, Allen & Unwin, 2003
Eloise, Allen & Unwin, 2003
Evil Genius, Allen & Unwin, 2005
Catherine Jinks, Pagan's Daughter
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