Siege Perilous Page 8

  Percival considered this almost dreamily, his fingers tapping the cup of heated wine. “Perhaps I am a Cathar and do not realize it with my waking mind,” he proposed. “I was drawn here by dreams and visions that have plagued me for years. Perhaps the spirits of the Cathars have been drawing me here. Is that possible? According to your philosophy?”

  Peire-Roger made a noise. “Ask Bishop Marti about that,” he said. “But do not use the word Cathar. It’s an insult. I used it only to see if you recognized the name. I did not realize you were a seeker or I’d have had him here to start with. Can you tell me anything else about this fellow, Ocyrhoe?”

  His mountain-guide stepped forward into the candlelight, and for the first time he could see him—no, her—clearly. “You’re a girl,” Percival said in surprise.

  She gave him a strange look, not irritated so much as examining. She ran her upper teeth over her lower lip, brows furrowed, considering him. She ignored his comment.

  “No, milord,” she said at last to Peire-Roger. “But I know he isn’t one of them. He was fleeing from their soldiers and he cooperated with me, as you know, giving up his weapons.”

  “If you cannot tell me more about yourself, sir, or prove the purpose of your coming here, I’ll be holding onto your weapons for a while,” Peire-Roger informed him.

  Percival grimaced regretfully. “I’ve told you everything I can,” he said honestly. “If you must keep my weapons hostage, I cannot lend you my strength in arms, which you clearly need. In the meantime, however, I would be very grateful to be told more about your faith. I believe I have been drawn here for a reason, and I hope the answer to that mystery can be revealed to me quickly.”

  “Send for Bishop Marti,” the lord said to the girl. She nodded and scampered off.

  “Where is that young lady from? She looks familiar.”

  Peire-Roger laughed harshly. Even his laughter seemed angry. “She’s not a lady. She’s a beggar girl from Rome. I don’t remember what brought her here but she’s been a Credent for the past two years. She is unrivaled at getting up and down the mountain invisibly. You’re very lucky she was on patrol tonight—nobody else could have gotten you out of the French camp and up here without your getting caught or freezing to death. Speaking of which, we have more hot wine if you would like it.”

  “No thank you,” said Percival. “I wish to keep my head clear for the conversation I believe I am about to have.” He gestured with anticipation toward the approaching figure. “But I thank you for the gesture.”

  Gaunt, upright, Bertrand Marti approached them, wearing a simple black robe tied at the waist—the same garment worn by about a third of the population in the hall. Behind him, Ocyrhoe hovered uncomfortably, as if she were not sure she was supposed to be here.

  The bishop sat beside Percival and looked at him a moment as if waiting for something. Percival supposed there was some coded greeting he was now supposed to utter, but having no idea what it was, he simply smiled benignly at the old man.

  After a few heartbeats, the bishop pursed his lips in disappointment. “Lead us to our rightful end,” he muttered to himself. Then, to Percival: “God bless you and lead you to your rightful end.”

  “Thank you,” said the knight.

  “Are you a Catholic?”

  “I am a Christian, Father,” Percival said carefully.

  “What brings you here to us?”

  Percival was not sure how to respond. “I believe I am here for two different reasons, although only one of them accounts for my actual arrival.”

  Marti frowned. “Explain yourself, my son.”

  “I was brought here by a vision,” Percival said softly. It was very strange, after years of struggling in near-silence, to speak so bluntly about this to a stranger. And yet this dignified, old man seemed like the right, the best, the first person to confess to fully. “A series of visions. I have seen great whorls of light and they drew me in this direction. I have been having these visions for years, but my circumstances did not allow me to come here any sooner.”

  Marti’s rheumy hazel eyes widened with sudden approving interest. “Light? Was it shining against the darkness?”

  That seemed a peculiar question to Percival, who could not imagine light without dark. He said simply, “There was darkness and light, but the light was in spirals and that is what attracted me.”

  “And were there images in the darkness or the whirls of light? Devils or angels or saints or crucifixes or…”

  Percival shook his head. “No, nothing as symbolic or literal as that. Just light.”

  Marti nodded. “This vision expresses the true nature of the universe,” he began, as if there were nothing particularly remarkable about having such a vision. “All of creation is either of the light or of the dark. Our desire, as Goodmen, is to return to the light. That is why we come here to Montségur, Goodmen and Goodwomen alike.”

  Percival nearly gasped. Could it really be that straightforward? “You keep the light here in this fortress?” he asked excitedly.

  Marti scowled as the girl, Ocyrhoe, covered her mouth with both hands to stifle a sneering laugh. “The light cannot be kept,” Marti said. “It is the light of the spirit of God. It does not exist on this plane, which is why it can only be seen in visions. You are touched by a gift, that you can see the light while you yourself are trapped in darkness.”

  Percival frowned. “What darkness? I do not feel trapped in any darkness. I live a very pure life. I am decent.”

  “That you are in this life at all, in a human body, traps you in darkness,” Marti informed him soberly. “As it traps all of us. This world, this plane, all of this is the making of Satan. Our material life, everything, the food we eat, the clothes we wear—it is all necessary evils brought about by being trapped in this world.”

  “Oh,” said Percival, who could not think of anything else to say. This information did not fill him with the satisfaction he’d expected he would feel, when he finally reached the source of his vision. He tried, tentatively. “But I am pure. I treat my body as a temple to the Virgin, and I…everything I do is in service to what you call the light. How then can any part of me belong to Satan?”

  Marti gave him a tired, knowing smile, as if bored from spending decades answering this specific question. “It is wonderful that you strive in that way, my son, to approach the light through your actions, but you are misguided. We all crave a return to the light. But the only way to achieve that is to forswear everything—everything—that keeps us bound to this life. Then, when our bodies die, our spirits are free to return to God.”

  “And if we don’t forswear,” Percival said carefully, “if we don’t forswear those things, then we go to hell instead?”

  “This is hell,” Marti corrected emphatically.

  Percival looked around in alarm. The girl Ocyrhoe made a derisive sound.

  “This existence,” Marti clarified. “This life. If we do not purify ourselves so that we can be released into the light of God’s spirit, then we are condemned to return to this world, in another body. This continues until we learn the truth and do whatever is necessary to free ourselves from the repeating cycle of birth and death, and be released into the bliss of formless light.” A pause. He gently smiled, as if just remembering that a reassuring smile was called for when delivering such heavy news. “I do not normally explain things so directly to somebody I have just met, but you have made a remarkable effort to arrive here, and perhaps you are touched with a special gift. It is a great thing that you have seen the light, and that it has brought you here to us.”

  “Yes,” said Percival, rubbing one cheek. “Truly remarkable.” He pursed his lips. “But I am not sure why I would need to come here. If the light is everywhere and nowhere, then why would my visions have led me here specifically?”

  Marti’s hazel eyes grew placid. “I believe you know alread
y,” he said. “I think it is the second reason you referred to.”

  Percival nodded. “I am a knight,” he said, far more confidently than he had said anything so far. “I see a small group of innocents—you certainly strike me as innocent—beset by foreign invaders. It is my duty to lend my sword to your cause.”

  “That is it exactly,” said Bishop Marti. “You are a special child of the light in this lifetime, but you are also of this world, as a soldier. Your visions have brought you here that you might use your soldier’s ethos to protect those of us who may not fight. We are grateful for your arrival.”

  “Yes, we are,” Peire-Roger said immediately, now that the conversation was on familiar terrain for him. “We have only ninety-eight men-at-arms against an army of ten thousand.”

  “Why are they here?” asked Percival. “What is the cause?”

  “Twofold,” said Peire-Roger. Percival was not certain if he was frowning or if his face was naturally shaped that way. “The king of France claims dominion over Toulouse and Provence and other areas, and the Bishop of Narbonne wishes to stamp out the Good Ones and their adherents, who do not follow the Pope or the dictates of the Roman Church.”

  “It is fear,” Marti said in his clear, tenor voice. “It is always fear that drives violence. The Church wants to control all Christians, and they are frightened by our lack of compliance. So they are trying to destroy us. The King of France is frightened of the rightful rulers of this area reclaiming their estates. Their two fears dovetail neatly, and so they have joined together to destroy us.”

  “That’s appalling,” said Percival. “On both accounts. I will be honored to lend my sword to fight your cause—as soon as his lordship sees fit to return it to me.”

  Peire-Roger gestured brusquely toward Ocyrhoe. “Get the man his weapons.” She ran toward the far side of the hall. Peire-Roger returned his attention to Percival. “May the God of Light and the Light of God guide your hand to kill a cartload of those whoresons.”

  CHAPTER 11:

  DEPARTURE

  The next morning, Frederick failed in his attempt to keep Raphael on for a day of hawking. They spent a leisurely morning on his favorite open porch, wrapped in silk blankets against the winter chill, playing chess and talking with Vera and Léna, but Raphael was eager to get on the road and find Percival. It was a conflicted eagerness, but it kept him from accepting any of the distractions Frederick offered to tempt him with—riding, hunting, a feast, a tour of the menagerie, a display by a famous troupe of acrobats. Vera, of course, was stoically indifferent to all temptations. Raphael admired, and envied, her unrelenting purposefulness. Having received their assignment, she saw no reason to do anything but begin to follow it.

  “But you are no fun at all,” Frederick complained, when Raphael politely declined to watch a performance by Frederick’s famed collection of dancing girls. “And here I had told Ferenc to expect someone from my sinful youth. Ferenc!” he called to the young blonde man, who had been some dozen paces from the Emperor every moment they had been here. “Come finally and meet my friends.”

  The young man left his position by one of the columns, walked to them smartly, and snapped to attention. He gave Raphael an extremely formal salute in greeting, an almost angry expression on his face, so focused was he on proper behavior.

  “Drop that, Ferenc,” Frederick said with an affectionate chuckle. “They’re friends. We may be free of all court frippery in their company.”

  The young man visibly relaxed, and a brightness slid across his face that Raphael had not expected. He went down on one knee and clasped Raphael’s hand between his own. “I am honored to meet you, sir,” he said, in a voice of simple sincerity. Releasing Raphael’s hand, he took Vera’s. “And you as well, lady. I hope to be worthy of your regard.”

  Vera, uncharacteristically, grinned. “You,” she informed him in a friendly tone, “are very nearly what one might call dashing.”

  “That’s my influence, of course,” said Frederick.

  Frederick sent Ferenc to the stables with orders to saddle up fast horses and see them equipped with light saddlebags, food, and gold. Then he called for his steward and chamberlain, who brought out to the porch a waxen stamp that Frederick presented to Raphael. This would allow them to change horses at the imperial post stables as far as the sea, and assured them passage westward to Narbonne.

  When Ferenc returned to announce that the horses were ready, the Emperor and Léna went with them through the gardens and past the armory to the stables. As they approached the open-sided end of the wooden building, a half-dozen grooms scurried into the mounting area and stood at attention, forming a loose semicircle. Ferenc brought the horses out to two mounting blocks and, after a tap on their brow-bands, gave them their heads. They did not move. He joined the arc of grooms.

  “So,” said Frederick, holding his arms out for a farewell embrace. “This has been too brief a visit but I trust that when you return, you may linger.”

  Raphael nodded his head slightly, his expression noncommittal. “As my comrade requests,” he said. He turned toward the mounting block where the horse awaited, then paused and turned back to face Frederick. “All that you require of us is to bring back intelligence of the situation at Montségur?”

  Frederick nodded.

  “And there is nothing else to be said between us before we depart?”

  The emperor made a strange face, as if squelching amusement. “Actually, Léna has a minor item to take up with you.”

  Léna grimaced, in a way that appeared to Raphael to be almost apologetic. He felt the hair on the back of his neck shiver. She stepped toward him and said, in a low voice, “The sprig must stay here.”

  Raphael felt a wave of panic. “What?” he demanded, and on reflex reached toward the little bag on the chain around his neck. He stopped himself and forced his hand to stay at his side.

  “The little sprig of wood that my kin-sisters inform me you have been traveling with. It won’t be safe in Montségur.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Raphael, fighting off a sudden cold sweat.

  “It needs to stay here, to guarantee that you will actually return.”

  It felt as if his stomach had flipped over. Willing himself to stay calm, he glanced at his friend. “What is she talking about, Frederick?” he asked, his voice a quarter-octave higher than normal. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Vera frown at Léna.

  Frederick huffed expansively, held his arms out, and glanced heavenward. “The little piece of wood? I have no idea, I assure you. However, I do want to ensure you will return here, and I approve of her strategy of holding something of yours hostage to guarantee your return.”

  “I’ve given you my word that I’ll return,” Raphael protested. “Do you not trust me, my lord? Frederick? You require a ransom of a friend?”

  “To indulge a woman’s fancy,” said Frederick. “Even wise women sometimes have fancies.”

  “This is not a request,” Léna said gently. “I am informing you that it is staying here.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about and you can’t have it,” Raphael said, in a desperate tone.

  “Oh, well done,” Vera muttered sardonically.

  Raphael took a breath to steady himself. He kept both hands gripping his sword-belt to keep from reaching on reflex for the chain around his neck. His color high, his eyes focused slightly away from Léna, he said sternly, “I do not know or understand your kind as well as I would like to. I do not condemn you as witches, but I do not understand how you can know anything about what you speak of. Certainly you cannot know more about it than I do—which is almost nothing.”

  “All I need to know is that it’s important to you, so I want it, here, as insurance that you will come back to give His Majesty your intelligence report,” she said reasonably.

  �
�You can’t have it,” Raphael said decisively.

  “Too late for that,” said Léna. “We’ve already got it.”

  Raphael felt his face pale. His left hand flew to his chest; there was something in the little bag, but in his sudden anxiety he could not tell if it had the right weight and shape.

  Suddenly Frederick’s face broke into a grin. “We got it from you overnight,” he said, sounding like a boy delighted with himself for getting away with a prank. “Ferenc took it right off you while you slept. He has tremendous promise, that boy.”

  Raphael was speechless.

  “He replaced it with a little wooden button that was the nose on one of my dolls when I was a child. You can keep that,” Frederick said indulgently. “Someday it will be worth a fortune. Go on, open the bag, take a look at it!” Frederick, who had come of age in a street gang in the alleys of Sicily, had a hearty demeanor that made Raphael feel stodgier than a scholar.

  Trying to collect himself, Raphael pointedly turned away from the Emperor and called to Ferenc, “Lad, you said you wanted to be worthy of my regard. I’ll tell you how—return my property to me at once, and beg pardon for having robbed me.”

  “He performed at his emperor’s command,” Frederick said, abruptly sobering. “You will not seek satisfaction from him. And he no longer has the thing.”

  “May I have my property back, please, Your Majesty?” said Raphael through gritted teeth. “It was entrusted to me by an elder of my order, and I promised him I would not part with it.”

  “You will get it back when you return,” said Frederick, in a voice that brooked no argument.

  “I am offended,” said Raphael.

  “I am impressed,” said Vera unexpectedly. “In fact, I’d like to bring the fellow with us. We can surely use somebody of such dexterity.”

  Léna folded her hands together. “I was so hoping you would see it that way. His saddlebag is packed, and there is a horse geared up for him waiting in the barn.” She glanced behind Frederick to the grooms and men-at-arms standing silently at attention. “Come, Ferenc. You are going with these warriors to Montségur.”