Daughter of a Cathar Heretic: Excerpt 4 from "St Louis' Knight"

Eleanor leaned her head back against the padded rim of the tub and closed her eyes, her hands clasped together between her breasts. Returning, Rosalyn nodded her approval, then stepped beside the tub to pour just a thimbleful of the precious essence into the steaming water. A moment later the smell of lavender wafted up on the steam, and tears started streaming down Eleanor’s face.

No one noticed. Lady Rosalyn had turned away to return her vial to her own chamber, and the maids were collecting the buckets to go fetch more water, leaving Eleanor alone in the now cozy chamber.

Eleanor put her hands over her face and held them there, trying to calm herself. She felt as if she had been tortured all day, and then this sudden vivid memory of home – the lavender fields in the sunshine. It was too much!

“Hush, child!” The voice came from the timber roof above her head and wafted down to settle upon her like petals shaken from a dying rose. “Relax, little one. There’s nothing to be afraid of any more.”

Nothing? Eleanor asked, opening her eyes. Nothing?

“You’re with good people now,” her mother assured her. “Good people, who mean you no harm.”

Was that possible?

“And you, Mother?” Eleanor asked the voice, with all the pent-up fury of half a dozen years. “Did you mean me no harm when you abandoned me at fourteen? Preferring your sick religion to your own child!” Eleanor was so agitated that she sat upright, looking for her mother in the darkness of the rafters, sloshing water over the edge of the tub. She turned to look over her shoulder first in one direction, then the other.

“Child, child!” her mother protested in an anguished voice. “I never thought they’d harm a little girl, a child as innocent as you!”

“Never thought they’d harm a child?” Eleanor mocked back. “Never thought they’d harm a child?” she raged. “Hadn’t they slaughtered children at Beziers? At Minerve and Lavour? What else did you expect, Mother? They put it in their very edicts ― that the parents and children of heretics were to be persecuted and punished. You must have known what they would do to me!”

To Eleanor’s distress, her mother did not protest. Instead, her voice fell to an almost inaudible murmur and pleaded, “You’re right. I should have known. I ― I deceived myself. Please forgive me, Nel.”

Eleanor didn’t want to forgive. It was easier to rage than to forgive. She shook her head. For a moment it seemed as if this negative answer had banished her mother, but then her mother spoke from so near at hand that Eleanor thought she felt her breath on her cheek.

“At least try to understand. I was a known heretic. All I would have achieved by abjuring my faith would have been to be branded on the forehead and forced to live as beggar ― a beggar that Christians were forbidden to support. Worse, I would have endangered the good people who followed Christ’s commandments and showed me Christian charity. I would have died of hunger and cold eventually, but my soul would have been condemned to hell. And you ― you would still have fallen into their hands.”

Eleanor shook her head again and brought her hands out of the water to stare at the palms. On the left hand, beneath the broken blisters from today’s ride, was a hideous, puckered scar. A single flame had caused it, and she had screamed loud enough to wake the dead. She had been unable to endure the flame for more than a second, but her mother had let them burn her alive ….

“You were never there when I needed you,” Eleanor told her mother bitterly.

“How could I be?” her mother answered, already farther away. “They encircled you with their evil. I couldn’t break through, not until today ….” Eleanor had to strain to hear her mother’s voice. The sound of Lady Rosalyn’s footsteps returning were obliterating her mother’s voice. “You’re with …” thump, thump, “trust …” thump, thump, “Sir Geoffrey ….”

“Are you feeling better now, My Lady?” the cheerful voice of Lady Rosalyn asked as she re-entered the chamber.

Eleanor lifted her head and smiled at her. “Thank you. I am feeling much better. I never knew ― that riding could ― be so exhausting. But then I’m so out of practice ….”

“Of course you are. I’m sure you haven’t been on a horse since your accident.” Lady Rosalyn settled herself in the armed chair on the other side of the fireplace. “And you mustn’t think of continuing tomorrow. You need to rest and regain your strength. You can stay here as long as you please. I’d be glad of the company.”

“That’s very kind,” Eleanor answered, overwhelmed by a sense of safety. She hadn’t felt this safe in half a decade – except for that moment in Sir Geoffrey’s arms ….

“Do you mind telling me where you were headed in such a storm?” Lady Rosalyn continued, curious more than reproachful.

“A pilgrimage,” Eleanor answered defensively, knowing now how very foolish she had been and how easily her escapade could have ended in disaster. “My guardian, the Comte de Poitiers, was taken captive with his brother, King Louis of France. I wanted to pray for his safe return.”

“Yes,” Lady Rosalyn replied, crossing herself. “May God hear our prayers!” Rosalyn’s cheerful face was instantly clouded with worry, and Eleanor realized she was thinking of her son. Eleanor felt a surge of sympathy for the older woman and reached out a hand to her, promising, “I will pray for your son, too, Madame.” For him more than for the Comte de Poitiers, she added mentally.

 Lady Rosalyn was too distressed to speak, but she took Eleanor’s hand and clasped it, nodding in thanks, thinking that she would ask Geoffrey to pray for her son as well. Geoffrey was practically a monk, after all, and a crusader. God would surely hear his prayers ….

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St. Louis and the 7th Crusade -- Two Reviews

Last week I described the 7th Crusade; this week I'd like to talk about two books that deal with it.

Chronicles of the Crusades by Jean de Joinville and Geoffroy de Villehardouin

This is a rare book which offers us two contemporary accounts of the crusades through the eyes of participants -- and not just monkish chroniclers but fighting men.

Although the two accounts are by different authors (Geoffroy de Villehardouin for the Fourth Crusade and Jean de Joinville for the Seventh), they both offer stark, un-romanticized and often critical reports. These men are describing military campaigns not creating works of art. They are both soldiers and statesmen, intimates of the leaders of the respective campaigns, offering an analysis of events rather than poets trying to inspire. The clear, unembellished style is in part attributable to an outstanding modern translation of the medieval French by M.R.B. Shaw, but the descriptions of appalling conditions, fear, brutality, and betrayal are all the work of the original authors.

To be sure, Joinville's stated intention is to pay tribute to his beloved late King and to justify King Louis' reputation for saintliness. Joinville's handling of Louis is, in this sense, unabashedly biased. But this in no way detracts from the authenticity of his account of the Seventh Crusade. On the contrary, Joinville's Louis can only shine if he shows how very dark the surroundings were. I was particularly struck by Joinville's willingness to admit and describe his own fears, uncertainties and mistakes.

These accounts are also invaluable to historians because the narrators explain events in terms they consider self-evident -- but which are often alien to us, reminding us of the great differences in social attitudes between then and now.  Thus, while human emotions, motives and behavior is strikingly similar to today, other aspects of society are strikingly different. Likewise, details like how horses were loaded on ships or how provisions were pre-positioned and stored for the king of France are described lucidly, providing the novelist and historian with invaluable details of medieval military operations.

I highly recommend these accounts -- just don't expect them to be tales of brave knights and fair ladies. These are the accounts of real men about real wars.

 

Everything is Light by Robert Shea

This is a surprisingly well written tale, with an excellent portrayal of King Louis IX of France. Although the book starts with the fall of the last Cathar fortress of Montsegur in 1244, it provides a historically sound, comprehensible and (again) un-romaticized introduction to the key issues involved in the Albigensian crusades. It avoids the use of magic and mystery, far too common in modern writing about the Cathars, and instead presents complex, believable characters deserving of sympathy but flawed and inconsistent -- as we all are. This is without doubt the best book I have read on this fascinating episode in history.

"The Disinherited" -- Excerpt 4

On October 1, I released "The Disinherited," a novella set in the Languedoc during the Albigensian crusades. It is one of my ten Tales of Chivalry, and part of the sub-series "Tales from the Languedoc." It is, however, a stand-alone novel that can be read without reference to the other books in the series, although some characters overlap.

Here is a fourth excerpt:

Lady Adèle’s screeching voice woke Julienne. From a fitful sleep on her pallet, she roused herself in the pitch dark of the tower room. “Julienne! Julienne!” the old woman screamed, as if she were being assaulted.

          Julienne flung back her covers with a sigh and stood. “I’m coming, my lady.” The tiles were cold under her bare feet. She looked for her slippers, but the old woman was howling more furiously. “Julienne! Come this instant!”

          Julienne abandoned the search for her slippers and went to the high bedside. “My lady?”

          “The bedpan, you stupid girl! Why else should I wake you in the middle of the night?”

          There was no point remarking that she often woke Julienne because she wanted something else: a potion to ease the pain in her crippled legs, or something to quench her thirst, or even a snack. Re­signedly, Julienne took the bedpan from under the bed and held it under the old woman. When she was finished, she emptied it in the chamber pot, washed her hands in the bowl beside the garderobe, and then returned to her thin pallet.

          She listened to the old woman snoring and felt the light of dawn crawl slowly up the eastern sky. Another day was about to begin. It would soon be sixteen years since she had come here. Sixteen years of sleeping on the floor of this woman’s chamber. Sixteen years at her beck and call. Sixteen years of servitude …

          Julienne felt deadly tired. She wished she could go back to sleep, but no matter how she tossed or turned, she found herself on edge and strangely nervous. The stale air in the chamber oppressed her, and she decided that fresh air would do her good. Stealthily she rose and dressed herself. She then took her cloak off a hook on the wall and slipped her feet into soft leather shoes. Carefully she pulled the door open and started down the spiral stairs, past the chamber where their curious guest slept, and out onto the wall walk.

          The sky was now decidedly gray, even faintly pink in the east, and around her the towers stood out in sharp silhouette. Then a part of the wall before her moved and she gave a cry of alarm.

          “Don’t worry; I only rape women after noon.”

          The hair stood up on the back of her neck, and she turned to flee back into the hall.

          “I’m sorry.” His voice followed her, and she stopped and turned back.

          “Why do you say things like that?”

          She could see him shrug. “I only say out loud what people are thinking.”

          “I was just startled. I didn’t even know it was you.”

          Gerard considered her. Her hair had come half out of its braid and hung in soft loops beside her face, with one wisp falling across her cheek. With surprise, he registered that she was not so bad-looking after all. Yes, her nose was pointed and her lips thin, but she had wide-set eyes under arching eyebrows, high cheekbones, and a lofty forehead. “You too are from the Languedoc,” he said at last. “I hadn’t expected that. I thought Thury would have his own people around him, but almost everyone is from hereabouts, it seems.”

          “I am from the Minervois,” Julienne found herself saying. How long had it been since she admitted that, remembered that?

          She saw his head jerk. “Were you at Minerve?”

          She swallowed. Oh, God, why had she started this? Her heart was beating against her chest, and now she remembered she had had the nightmare again. That was why she had slept so poorly. “Yes,” she managed.

          “You were there,” Gerard asked in horror, “during the siege? But you must have been a child.”

          “I was nine.”

          Gerard cursed himself. How could he have mocked her with a threat of rape? “You weren’t―molested―surely not even they―” He couldn’t finish. He knew it had happened. He knew it had happened more than once. But Minerve had surrendered. Its citizens should have been immune ….

          “No,” she managed tightly. “I was―lucky.”

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"The Disinherited" -- Excerpt 3

On October 1, I released "The Disinherited," a novella set in the Languedoc during the Albigensian crusades. It is one of my ten Tales of Chivalry, and part of the sub-series "Tales from the Languedoc." It is, however, a stand-alone novel that can be read without reference to the other books in the series, although some characters overlap.

Here is a third excerpt:

Lady Celiste directed her attention to Gerard with a flush of eagerness, but her expectations for a dashing knight-errant were instantly disappointed. Gerard was too old, too weathered, and too poor to fulfill her fantasies. As quickly as her interest had flared, it fizzled out. She politely held out her hand for Gerard to kiss and declared with pointed distance, “We are very grateful for the service you rendered our beloved aunt. You can be assured of our gratitude.”

          Gerard’s eyebrows twitched at the contrast between her youth and her tone. Had he been younger, he might have thought her beauty entitled her to so much hauteur, or he might not have noticed it at all in his infatuation. As it was, he found her lofty arrogance a tarnish to her beauty.

          Already Lady Celiste had transferred her attention to Father Florio, who was watching her with benignly critical eyes. “You must be Father Florio. In the last three years Aunt Guilemette has not written a single letter in which she has not praised you, Father. What a pleasure it is to welcome you at last under my humble roof.”

          The word “humble” brought another raised eyebrow from Gerard, who at once glanced around the room, taking in the luxurious furnishings, the hooded fireplace and ribbed vaulting―all plastered and painted exquisitely. As he lowered his gaze his eyes met those of the waiting woman, and he had the uncomfortable feeling she could read his thoughts.

          Lady Celiste had taken Father Florio’s hand between her own, and then with an elegant gesture of her left hand she indicated they should sit themselves in the window seat. “Julienne!” she remem­bered to call over her shoulder to the waiting woman. “See to Sir―” She could not remember his name. “The knight. He can get something to eat in the kitchens and sleep in the squire’s chamber. My husband isn’t due back for another fortnight. Tomorrow I can see about finding him something suitable for his troubles.”

          “My lady.” Julienne dipped a courtesy to her mistress, and then with a forced smile indicated the doorway to Gerard.

          Gerard did not respond at first. He had, despite his notably ignominious career, rarely been treated so contemptuously. He noticed that Father Florio stiffened and even Guilemette seemed on the brink of protesting, but Lady Celiste was helping her up into the window seat and chattering about something. Father Florio looked back at Gerard, and his expression was both apologetic and promising. “I will speak to the Lady Celiste―” he started.

          “Don’t bother!” Gerard snapped, and he was gone.

He clattered down the stairs without waiting for the waiting woman. He descended past the audience chamber down to the ground floor. He strode across the armory, on whose naked walls crossbows, lances, and halberds hung. He ignored the rows of saddles, the shelves with helms, and the quarrels stacked in bundles, and strode purposefully into the cellar under the hall. Here he found himself in a barrel-vaulted chamber with unglazed tiles, and directly beside him was the large, square cistern. Beyond the cistern was a smaller, narrower brick basin built over a cavern in which a fire could be built, and then a drain led from this basin into a pool. It was dry and empty at the moment, but the waiting woman had managed to catch up with him at last, and Gerard announced to her, pointing to the pool: “I want a hot bath. Can you see to that or shall I lay the fire myself?”

          “We will get one of the scullery boys to heat the water for you,” she responded to his apparent anger with stiff dignity.

          “Good.” He continued straight through the wine cellar, past the smoke and salt rooms, into the pantry, and then into the kitchens. In pantry and kitchen, astonished assistant cooks and scullery boys looked up and gaped at this strange knight who had burst in among them. The main meal of the day was over. One boy was busy separating the leftovers into basins (one for reuse, one for the poor, and one for the dogs), while two others were busy washing the plates and cutlery from the high table in a deep stone basin. A cook was gutting and decapitating pike, apparently in preparation for some future meal, and an assistant was tossing bones and other ingredients into a steaming pot over the fire, evidently a soup of some sort.

          Gerard’s eyes professionally scanned the shelves and tables, locating a haunch of pork. Pointing, he said to Julienne, “I’ll have some of that pork, fresh bread, and some of your Abbey de Valmagne rosé―I saw some casks of it as I passed through.”

          Then he returned to the pantry as Julienne quietly gave the orders to make up a platter of pork, bread―and the Valmagne―for the visitor. She also gave instruc­tions to prepare a hot bath. When she caught up with the knight, she was appalled to find he had paused at the foot of the stairway leading up to the hall overhead and taken a goblet from the tray of washed objects waiting to be returned to their shelf. It was a rare gold goblet inlaid with jewels, and he was turning it around in his hand, studying it with an intensity that suggested he was apprais­ing its worth.

          The suppressed amusement with which she had followed him up to now dissipated instantly. In a sharp, piercing voice she called, “Put that back where you found it, sir! You have been promised payment and need not sink to stealing.”

          Gerard swung around on her, all the pent-up anger of the last hour smoldering in his face. “I don’t stoop to petty thievery. If I want something, I smash the place down and take the lot!” With a flick of his wrist he sent the goblet hurling through the air towards her. She gasped in surprise and flung out her hands to prevent it from smashing to the flagstone floor.

          “My God!” she exclaimed as she caught the precious goblet. “Where did a barbarian like you learn the langue d’oc so well?”

          “Don’t kid yourself that we’re any better than they are! If the Pope had offered us all the lands we could grab north of the Loire, we’d have been just as eager and just as thorough.”

          He left her gasping for an answer and started pounding up the spiral stairs. She had no choice but to follow him, carefully replacing the goblet on the tray as she passed.

 

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"The Disinherited" - Excerpt 2

On October 1, I released "The Disinherited," a novella set in the Languedoc during the Albigensian crusades. It is one of my ten Tales of Chivalry, and part of the sub-series "Tales from the Languedoc." It is, however, a stand-alone novel that can be read without reference to the other books in the series, although some characters overlap.

Here is a second excerpt:

The monk reemerged at the head of the stairs, accompanied by a bent old man leaning on the arm of a gaunt Templar. The Templar was wearing a loose, white, Templar habit belted with a red cord at the waist, rather than armor and surcoat, but there could be no mistaking the soldier beneath the soft robes. Although he paced his normally long strides to the shuffling of the invalid, his sharp eyes, which had so often squinted against the sun that they seemed permanently puckered, rushed ahead to the transept in anticipation.

  Their eyes met, and Gerard felt his heart leap. His blood flooded his veins with warmth. The flush that flooded his brother’s face suggested that he, too, was not unmoved by this first meeting in sixteen years.

  Sixteen years, Gerard counted backwards, wondering if he had aged in that time as much as Everard had. But he must have, considering all that he had gone through. Absently he ran his hand through his hair, remembering that it too was streaked with gray, just as his brother’s once coal-black beard was now softened to salt-and-pepper.

  He stood staring at his brother as he brought their father carefully down the steep stairs, but he did not see him. Instead he was remembering the young man of sixteen years ago. Then, Everard had been lean but not gaunt, tanned but not leathery as now. He had worn the armor, surcoat, and mantle of the Temple that day, his long-fingered hand resting on the simple black belt that held the standard-issue Templar longsword. And they had fought bitterly.

Gerard could still remember vividly the insults and recriminations they had flung at one another that day―insults that had festered and ached like dirty wounds long, long after other, more recent wounds had healed and been forgotten. By contrast, all his own words seemed to have glanced off Everard’s unshakable faith and self-assurance like harmless, childish blows. That was the worst of it, that Everard had been right. Why did he blame him for being right? What weight did those hot, truthful words have against twenty years of sharing the same bed, the same board, the same companions, adventures, and memories?
Everard had reached the bottom of the stairs, and Gerard could read his own thoughts in his brother’s eyes. Two more strides and they could embrace again. But they had forgotten the old man.

The old man drew up abruptly, and the iron grip on his younger son’s arm made the Templar halt with him. Everard had to break eye contact with his brother and look questioningly at his father.

  Father Theobald was bent nearly in two from years of hunching over his books. He no longer needed to shave his tonsure, because he had gone bald except for a fringe of thin, wispy white hair that fell about his ears and on the back of his neck. He had the promi­nent, beak-like nose that Everard had inherited, and thin, bloodless lips. His skin was flecked with brown age marks and sagged in great sacks from his chin and on his throat. But the eyes that squinted up at Gerard were sharp and black―like Everard’s.

Though he trembled with the effort, he raised his hand and pointed a finger at Gerard. “You are my scourge and my damnation! You, with your Godlessness, wantonness, and violence! For a lifetime you have been the instrument of God’s wrath―punishing me for the sin in which you were sired! In the Name of His Great Mercy, can you not cease?” The agony and the anger were so inter­twined, it was impossible to separate them. Together they gave the old man’s voice both strength and pathos. His cry flew up to the vaulted ceiling overhead and cascaded back upon them with lingering reverberations.

  Gerard stared at the bent old man, sensing his brother’s embarrassment in his averted face. He had been told this was his father, and the resemblance to Everard confirmed it, but what did his father know of him? He had last seen him when he was just a few days old, a whimpering infant on a borrowed breast. He had never been there when as a boy Gerard had been lost, lonely, or confused. He had not watched him grow to manhood, had not taught him his letters or his catechism―much less taught him to ride and hunt and fight or presented him with the spurs of knighthood. His father had not once―in all his forty-three years―even sent him a letter inquiring after his health and well-being. Gerard knew that his lifestyle invited criticism, but what right did this stranger have to voice it? “What do you know of me?” he demanded, in a tone of voice that sounded both haughty and scornful.

  “You think I do not know of your misdeeds?” the old man retorted in an outraged croak. “There has not been a single year in which I was not tormented by news of your misdeeds. First it was my own brother who reported to me faithfully all your impudence and transgres­sions. After that I had my network of informers―my fellow Cistercians, Dominic Guzman, as long as he lived, and papal emissaries. You were my scourge, and I was determined to use it regularly for the benefit of my soul. But there has to be an end. I am dying.” His voice, which had started strong and accusatory, ended as a whimper.

  Gerard answered with a shrug that made his brother wince. “You never tried to guide my life before; what right have you to intervene now?”

 

 

 

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"The Disinherited" - An Excerpt

On October 1, I released "The Disinherited," a novella set in the Languedoc during the Albigensian crusades. It is one of my ten Tales of Chivalry, and part of the sub-series "Tales from the Languedoc." It is, however, a stand-alone novel that can be read without reference to the other books in the series, although some characters overlap.

Over the next few weeks I will be publishing excerpts here:

Sir Amaury de Marly, the royal constable of Aguilar, strode into the room. Sir Amaury was a tall, hefty man, now nearing fifty. He had been a companion-in-arms of the great Simon de Montfort in his youth, and was a loyal son of the Church. He had been personally responsible for the destruction of countless heretics and their protectors. But that was years ago. Now he was dressed for leisure in a loose, knee-length woolen gown belted at the waist. He greeted his  unexpected Cistercian guest warmly. “Brother Lucas, an unexpected pleasure. Are you alone?” (It was rare for monks to travel singly.) Without awaiting an answer, he shouted after the departing page: “Boy! Bring wine and a snack for Brother Lucas.” Then, turning back to his guest, he asked, “What brings you here this time of year?”
“Father Theobald is dying, and the abbot sent me to fetch one of your knights.”
“One of my knights? What does the good Father Theobald want with one of my knights? Surely no earthly power can help the good Father now!”

 “He wants to see a certain Sir Gerard. He was very insistent and the abbot said we should do as he asked.”

 “Sir Gerard?” the constable repeated in astonishment. “Do you know the man?”

 The monk shrugged. “How should I know him?”

 The constable snorted and remarked curtly, “A mercenary. As godless as he is fearless. He comes from hereabouts, and it is said he has heretic relatives.”
“So do the good Father Theobald and many other true and devout Catholics. A man cannot be judged by his relatives.”

  The constable snorted in apparent disagreement, but did not contradict the monk. Instead he strode to the door and shouted into the hall beyond, where several men of the garrison were engaged in a desultory game of dice. “Mar­maison! Fetch Sir Gerard immediate­ly!” He turned back to the monk. “Father Theobald is dying, you said? I’m sorry. He is a wise and pious man.”

  “Indeed,” the monk agreed, keeping his opinion to himself. Brother Lucas was only twenty-two and he had suffered during his novitiate under the harsh tutelage of Father Theobald, who had then been the Master of Novices. Father Theobald was widely credited with near-saintly wisdom. Certainly he was very learned and a brilliant scholar, but Brother Lucas had also seen his petty, selfish, and self-righteous side.

  “And how is Abbot Berengar? I trust he has recovered from the illness that afflicted him last summer?”

  “Abbot Berengar has a delicate stomach, sir.” Most disrupted by the increasing influence of the Dominicans at the expense of the Cistercians, Brother Lucas added mentally. It was an outrage that the younger order was being entrusted with unheard-of powers, quite free of all episcopal oversight, while the Cistercians were pushed more and more into the background. Brother Lucas personally thought that as the abbot of one of the wealthiest and most renowned abbeys in the Languedoc, Father Berengar ought to be more active in protesting the encroach­ments of the pushy Dominicans. But Abbot Berengar was far too weak for confrontation; instead he developed stomach trouble and withdrew into his cell for prayer and contemplation.

  “He should eat more meat,” the practical-minded soldier replied, and without hesitation gave Brother Lucas other dietary tips, which the young monk patiently ignored.

  The sound of boots pounding up the stairs finally released him from the tedium. The man who entered the chamber was dressed in knee-high black boots, brown leather hose, and a chain-mail hauberk, over which he wore a quilted leather brigandine. He had a mane of unruly red-brown hair streaked with grey, which fell to his shoulders. His only facial hair was a long, thick mustache that almost concealed a scar running from the corner of his mouth to his chin. His light-brown eyes were sunken in their sockets, and a network of deep wrinkles in the weathered face gave it an expression that was perpetually wary. “You sent for me, my lord?”

  The constable nodded. “This is Brother Lucas of the Cistercian abbey at Fontfroide. He has a message for you.” The constable indicated the monk, who lifted his head to address the soldier.

  “Father Theobald, our honored sacrist, is very ill. He requested that you come to him as soon as possible.”

  The knight lifted his eyebrows as if in disbelief, and remarked as much to himself as to the others: “How odd.”

  “You know Father Theobald?” the constable asked pointedly, suspecting some mistake.

  “No,” the knight answered. “He is my father.”

 

 

 

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Cathers, Crusades, and Castles

In the 11th century AD a theology spread across Europe that challenged the dogma of the dominant Catholic Church. The roots of the theology stretched back to the dualism of some early Christian scholars, but this heresy had unique features and thrived on the corrupt state of the Church in the 11th century. The so-called Cathar heresy was particularly strong in northern Italy, in Flanders, and across southwestern France in the area where the langue d’oc was spoken and so referred to for convenience as “the Languedoc,” although this is neither a political nor contemporary term.  Because the nobility of the Languedoc tolerated the heresy, Catharism flourished there for nearly two centuries and was often referred to as the “Albigensian” heresy after the city of Albi, which was long a stronghold of the heretics.

The town of Cordes just north of Albi still retains it medieval character today. Photo: H.P. Schrader

 

It is hard nowadays to reconstruct Cathar theology, because we have to rely primarily upon the records of the Inquisition. Meticulous as these records tried to be, they nevertheless recorded the beliefs of people of widely differing levels of education, and many statements made before the Inquisition were contradictory.

Nevertheless, the fundamental belief of the Cathars was that the material world was the work of the devil – i.e., that Earth was hell. Souls on Earth were “fallen angels” or the creations of the fallen angels, condemned to be born in mortal bodies again and again. Thus, the Cathars believed in reincarnation, but not as a process of individual purification nor as a journey toward spiritual perfection. Instead, it was seen as a hopeless cycle of damnation. Furthermore, the Cathars rejected the notion that good deeds could in themselves win a soul release from material hell. Only the Cathar sacrament, the consolamentum, administered by a “pure” Cathar, could secure this grace.

The Cathars furthermore denied that Christ had, in fact, become flesh, been crucified, and been resurrected. They preached that Christ remained a spiritual being, who only appeared to have taken human form and appeared to have died. In consequence, Cathars rejected the Catholic mass, because they did not believe in the transubstantiation of the Eucharist. They accepted the Gospels, however, and the heart of the consolamentum was the Lord’s Prayer, with particular emphasis on the need to “forgive those who trespass” in order for a soul to receive forgiveness from God.

The Cathar “Good Men” and “Good Women” were believers who had taken the consolamentum and could administer it to others. They were required, if they wished to go to Heaven rather than be reborn on Earth, to abstain completely from sexual intercourse, to eat neither flesh nor fish, eggs nor cheese, and to refrain from all violence.

The appeal of Catharism stemmed from the fact that for the poor and downtrodden in the 11th and 12th centuries, the world was indeed a hellish place. Thus the Cathar explanation of man’s condition seemed more reasonable than orthodox Catholic doctrine. The Church preached, in effect, that a benevolent and all-powerful God allowed for widespread starvation, sickness, natural catastrophes, and unending wars. Cathar critique of the abuses of the Catholic Church was likewise highly popular, because the critique was largely justified – and also justified non-payment of tithes and other church taxes.

Because the Cathars denied the power of Catholic sacraments and priests, refused to pay tithes or other church taxes, and preached against the corruption of the Catholic Church, the Cathars posed a threat to the power of the Catholic Church. The fact that the local secular lords tolerated the heretics in their territories was a provocation to both Rome -- and Paris.

In 1208, after the murder of a papal legate by armed men presumed to be supporters of the heresy, Pope Innocent III called for a “crusade” against the Cathars, or Albigensians. The Pope offered to the knights, noblemen, and mercenaries who took part in this “crusade” the same forgiveness of sins and debts that he offered crusaders against the Saracens in the Holy Land. The following year, in 1209, a crusading army descended on the Languedoc and besieged the city of Béziers, which supposedly harbored a large population of heretics. When the city fell (rapidly due to a miscalculation on the part of the defenders), the invaders massacred the inhabitants of the city. Allegedly some 20,000 people were put to the sword, including those seeking refuge in the cathedral and the Catholic priests with them.

 

The walls of Carcassonne still seem formidable even today. Photo: H.P. Schrader

 

The invaders next laid siege to Carcassonne, the principal seat and strongest bastion of the most intransigent of the local barons, Raymond-Roger de Trencavel, Viscount of Béziers and Carcassonne. After a long siege, Trencavel surrendered his own person to save the lives of the city’s residents and garrison.  The victors confined Raymond-Roger in the dungeon of his citadel at Carcassonne, where he died three months later. Meanwhile his lands and titles were awarded by the Pope to the most audacious of the crusaders, Simon de Montfort (father of the Simon de Montfort that would become so famous in English parliamentary history.)

Thus, although the “crusaders” returned whence they’d come at the end of the year, Simon de Montfort and other knights and noblemen rewarded with lands taken from defeated local lords remained in the Languedoc to enjoy the fruits of their service to the Pope and the King of France. The people of the Languedoc, however, did not submit docilely to these new lords. No sooner had the crusaders gone home, than the Occitan lords and towns rose up in rebellion.

Nor were the lords of the Languedoc without allies. The King of Aragon, Pedro II, offered his protection to them in 1212, in exchange for them paying homage to him as their overlord. Thinking the King of Spain would be more tolerant of their independent lifestyle than the King of France had proved to be –- or simply appalled by the atrocities and success of Simon de Montfort –- the bulk of the lords of the Languedoc submitted. However, King Pedro proved no match for Simon de Montfort on the battlefield; he was defeated and killed at the Battle of Muret in September 1213.

Despite this defeat, the Occitan lords and towns did not submit. Simon de Montfort was forced to fight a total of 43 sieges and battles in just 9 years. This is a clear indication of how little he was accepted in the territories given him by the Pope. During a second siege of Toulouse in 1218, he was killed – allegedly by a stone flung from a mangonel (medieval mechanical stone thrower) manned by women.

His son, Amaury, tried to continue the war, receiving support from Prince Louis of France (later Louis VIII), but Amaury lacked his father’s military skills or his luck. In 1220, Guy de Montfort, Amaury’s younger brother, was killed in yet another siege, and by 1224, Amaury de Montfort had had enough. He surrendered the lands and titles for which he, his father, and his brothers had fought so bitterly for 15 years and returned to France. For a moment it looked as if the lords of the Languedoc had won.

But the Cathar heresy had not been eradicated, and this provided an excuse for a new crusade. In 1226, Louis VIII took the cross and again brought an army of northern barons and mercenaries into the Languedoc. Within 3 years, the resistance of the southern lords had been broken, and the counts of Toulouse and Foix signed treaties with the French King, now Louis IX.

This time, the Inquisition came with the invaders and established the University of Toulouse to conduct their “inquiries” into the Cathar heresy. The systematic methods of the Inquisition made it increasingly difficult for Cathars, particularly the so-called Perfects, the priests (and priestesses) of the Cathars, to survive in the towns and villages of the Languedoc. They retreated more and more to the few strongholds still defended by lords sympathetic to the heresy, notably the mountain fortress of Montsegur. In 1232, the Cathar “Bishop,” Guilhabert de Castres, declared Montsegur the “seat and head” of the Cathar Church. The castle was under the protection of the lords of Pereille and Mirepoix, two unrepentant rebels defiant of the King of France.

 

The castle of Montsegur. Photo: H.P. Schrader

 

For the bulk of the population, however, the war was lost and the Inquisition held sway through a reign of terror, while strange lords controlled the bulk of the castles and all the towns.  The sons of the local nobility, who had lost their birthright to the invaders, the so-called faydits, either sought service abroad or prepared for a final confrontation with the invaders at Montsegur.

The last armed uprising against the French was led by Raymond-Roger de Trencavel, the son of the Viscount who had died in his own dungeon at Carcassonne after surrendering to Simon de Montfort in 1209. In 1240, the younger Raymond-Roger Trencavel made an attempt to recapture his birthright by force. He was supported by many young men from disinherited families. It was some of these desperate men who, on May 28, 1242, murdered two inquisitors and some of their servants in Avignonet. It had been the murder of the papal legate, Pierre of Castlenau, in 1208 that provoked the first “Albigensian Crusade” in 1209. The murder of two inquisitors in 1242 was the final straw that that convinced the Louis IX of the need to destroy the Cathar stronghold of Montsegur.

 

Another view of Carcassonne. Photo: H.P. Schrader

In 1243, the siege of Montsegur began. By March of the next year, the garrison had suffered a number of casualties, and an outpost had already fallen to the besiegers. The defenders sought and obtained a truce. On March 16, the forces of the King of France took control of Montsegur. Two hundred and twenty men and women, some “Perfects” and some defenders who only after surrender decided to take the consolamentum, refused to abjure the heresy and were burned at the stake.

TODAY ONLY: The Disinherited, soon to be released, is set against backdrop of the Albigensian crusades. For a free review copy (pdf-file only), post a comment today including your email address.

 

Interested in the history behind good historical fiction? You’ll enjoy the following anthology of essays by authors of historical fiction: Castles, Customs and Kings: True Tales by English Historical Fiction Authors.

 

 

 

The Tenth Tale of Chivalry and "Everything is Light"

When I announced my "Tales of Chivalry" project just over three months ago, I was planning on releasing three series of three books each set in the Age of Chivalry.  All of the novels in the Tales of Chivalry project had been written over the previous decades but never sent to publishers because I thought the market too small. The ability to self-publish ebooks convinced me that  it was now possible to publish books for niche markets, and encouraged me to undertake the publication of the nine tales. But this week I decided to add a tenth tale.

 

The exciting aspect of this tenth tale for me personally is that it is a completely new novel and so entails writing not just re-writing and editing. I haven't worked on a new book since the completion of the Leonidas Trilogy, and frankly it has taken me that long to recoup my energy and inspiration. Now, however, I am ready to start on this new book and completely energized and excited about it -- as I am at the start of any new novel.

 

The Tenth Tale will be based on the life of a historical figure, Balian d'Ibelin, who I'll introduce later with a full blog entry. For now, suffice it to say that Balian lived at the end of the 12th century (so very much in the Age of Chivalry) in the Kingdom of Jerusalem. (I'll probably use "A Tale of the Kingdom of Jerusalem" as the subtitle.) Watch this blog for more information about Balian, the crusader kingdoms in the Holy Land, the crusades and my novel, possibly surveys of title options etc.  For now, however, I'd like to conclude my entries on the Albigensian crusade with a recommendation and review:

Everything is Light by Robert Shea

This is a surprisingly well written story, with an excellent portrayal of King Louis IX of France. Although the book starts with the fall of the last Cathar fortress, Montsegur, in 1244, it provides a historically sound, comprehensible and non-romaticized introduction to the key issues involved in the Albigensian crusade (e.g. an independent Southern nobility with its own culture and language, a corrupt clergy that turned the common people against the Catholic church, a new interpretation of Christianity that was preached by devoted followers.) It avoids the use of magic and mystery, far too common when dealing with the Cathars, and instead presents complex, believable characters deserving of sympathy but flawed and inconsistent -- as we all are. This is without doubt the best book I have read on this fascinating episode in history.

The Occitan Resistance

The Albigensian Crusade, which I talked about in my last post, resulted in a bitter and prolonged conflict, because the people of the Languedoc did not submit docilely to the rule of the King of France or the Pope. For half a century, the Occitan lords and towns fought bitterly for their independence.

Nor were the lords of the Languedoc without allies. The King of Aragon, Pedro II, offered his protection to them in 1212, in exchange for them paying homage to him as their overlord. Thinking the King of Spain would be more tolerant of their independent lifestyle – or simply appalled by the atrocities and success of Simon de Montfort – the bulk of the lords of the Languedoc submitted. However, King Pedro proved no match for Simon de Montfort on the battlefield; he was defeated and killed at the Battle of Muret in September 1213. In a second attempt to gain support from a powerful foreign ruler, Raymond VII, the son of Joanna Plantagenet, the sister of Richard I (the Lionheart) and John I of England, forged an alliance in 1241 with his uncle King Henry III, but the army of Louis IX of France defeated the English at Taillebourg a year later.

In short, the bulk of the fighting fell to the intractable people of the Languedoc. Simon de Montfort, the most successful and ruthless of the French invaders, was forced to fight a total of 43 battles or sieges in just 9 years. This was a clear indication of how little he was accepted in the territories given him by the Pope (the Viscountship of Béziers and Carcassonne and the County of Toulouse). He was killed during a second siege of Toulouse in 1218 – allegedly by a stone flung from a mangonel (medieval mechanical stone thrower) manned by women.

His son Amaury tried to continue the war, receiving support from Prince Louis of France (later Louis VIII), but Amaury lacked his father’s military skills or his luck. In 1220, Guy de Montfort, Amaury’s younger brother, was killed in yet another siege, and by 1224, Amaury de Montfort had had enough. He surrendered the lands and titles for which he, his father, and his brothers had fought so bitterly for 15 years and returned to France. For a moment it looked as if the lords of the Languedoc had won.

But the Cathar heresy had not been eradicated, and this provided an excuse for a new crusade. In 1226, Louis VIII took the cross and again brought an army of northern barons and mercenaries into the Languedoc. Within 3 years, the resistance of the southern lords had been broken, and the counts of Toulouse and Foix signed treaties with the French, now led by Louis IX, after his father’s death in 1226.

This time, the Inquisition came with the invaders and established the University of Toulouse to conduct “inquiries” into the Cathar heresy. The systematic methods of the Inquisition made it increasingly difficult for Cathars, particularly the so-called Perfects, the priests (and priestesses) of the Cathars, to survive in the towns and villages of the Languedoc. They retreated more and more to the few strongholds still defended by lords sympathetic to the heresy, notably the mountain fortress of Montsegur. In 1232, the Cathar “Bishop,” Guilhabert de Castres, declared Montsegur the “seat and head” of the Cathar Church. The castle was under the protection of the lords of Pereille and Mirepoix.

The last armed uprising against the French was led by Raymond-Roger de Trencavel, the son of the last Viscount.  His father had died in his own dungeon at Carcassonne after surrendering to Simon de Montfort in 1209. In 1240, the younger Trencavel made an attempt to recapture his birthright by force. He was supported by many young men from disinherited families, the so-called faydits. It was some of these desperate men who, on May 28, 1242, murdered 2 inquisitors and some of their servants in Avignonet. It had been the murder of the Papal Legate, Pierre of Castlenau, in 1208 that provoked the first “Albigensian Crusade,” of 1209. The murder of 2 inquisitors in 1242 was the final straw that onvinced the French King it was necessary to destroy the Cathar stronghold of Montsegur.

In 1243, the siege of Montsegur began. By March of the next year, the garrison had suffered a number of casualties, and an outpost had already fallen to the besiegers. The defenders sought and obtained a truce. On March 16, the forces of the King of France took control of Montsegur. 220 men and women, some “Perfects” and some defenders who converted to the Cathar faith now that they could no longer bear arms in its defense, refused to abjure their heresy and were burned at the stake.

The Albigesnian Crusade

Because the Cathars denied the power of Catholic sacraments and priests, refused to pay tithes or other church taxes, and preached against the corruption of the Catholic Church, the Cathars posed a threat to the power of the Pope and the Catholic Church. The fact that the local secular lords tolerated the heretics in their territories was a further provocation to Rome – and this provided an excuse for the Kings of France to impose their sovereignty over a region that was effectively independent of the Crown at the start of the 11th century.

 

In 1208, Pope Innocent III called for a “crusade” against the Cathars, or Albigensians. The Pope offered to the knights, noblemen, and mercenaries who took part in this crusade the same forgiveness of sins and cancellation of debts that he offered crusaders against the Saracens in the Holy Land. The following year, in 1209, a crusading army descended on the Languedoc and massacred the inhabitants of the city of Béziers. Allegedly some 20,000 people were put to the sword, including those seeking refuge in the cathedral and the Catholic priests with them.

 

The most intransigent of the local barons, Raymond-Roger de Trencavel, Viscount of Béziers and Carcassonne, was forced to capitulate. After a long siege of his the fortress-city of Carcassonne, he surrendered his own person to save the lives of the city’s residents and defenders. His lands were given to one of the leaders of the crusade, Simon de Montfort. Raymond-Roger was confined to his own dungeon, where he died three months later. Although the crusaders returned home, Simon de Montfort remained in the Languedoc to try to subdue his unruly vassals, and a long, drawn-out war ensued, characterized by merciless sieges, atrocities, and assassinations.

 

Meanwhile, a brilliant Cistercian scholar, Dominic Guzman, challenged the Cathars on their own ground, debating with the Cathar preachers and, like them, living a life of humility and poverty. He founded a new preaching order, the Dominicans, whose goal was to fight the heresy by reason and example.

 

But converting people one by one was a slow process. Neither the Popes in Rome nor the Kings of France were content to wait for the Dominicans to succeed. A second Albigensian Crusade was launched in 1226. In the course of half a century, a combination of armed force and the judicial intimidation by the newly formed Inquisition slowly eradicated the heresy and broke the opposition of the local nobility.

The Cathar Heresy

In the 11th century AD a theology spread across Europe that challenged the dogma of the Catholic Church. The roots of the theology stretched back to the dualism of some early Christian scholars, but this heresy had unique features and thrived on the corrupt state of the Church in the 11th century (Barber, 2000). The so-called Cathar heresy was particularly strong in northern Italy, in Flanders, and across southwestern France in the area where the langue d’oc was spoken.

Because the nobility of the Languedoc tolerated the heresy, it flourished there and was often referred to as the “Albigensian” heresy after the city of Albi, which was long a stronghold of the heretics (Barber, 2000) (Roux-Perino, 2006).It is hard nowadays to reconstruct Cathar theology, because we have to rely primarily upon the records of the Inquisition. Meticulous as these records tried to be, they nevertheless recorded the beliefs of people of widely differing levels of education, and many statements made before the Inquisition were contradictory.

Nevertheless, it is safe to say that the fundamental belief of the Cathars was that the material world was the work of the devil – i.e., that Earth was hell. Souls on Earth were “fallen angels” or the creations of the fallen angels. These souls were condemned to rebirth in this earthly hell – unless they were purified by a rite administered by a Cathar priest, one of the so-called “Good Men” or “Good Women” (Barber, 2000).

 In short, Cathars believed in reincarnation, but not as a process of individual purification nor as a journey toward spiritual perfection – rather, as a hopeless cycle of damnation. Furthermore, the Cathars rejected the notion that good deeds could in themselves win a soul's release from material hell. Only the Cathar sacrament, the consolamentum, administered by a “pure” Cathar, could secure this grace (Barber, 2000).

The Cathars furthermore denied that Christ had, in fact, become flesh, been crucified, and been resurrected. Rather, they claimed, Christ remained a spiritual being, who only appeared to have taken human form and appeared to have died. Logically, the Cathars rejected the Catholic mass, because they did not believe in the transubstantiation of the Eucharist. They accepted the Gospels, however, and the heart of the consolamentum was the Lord’s Prayer, with particular emphasis on the need to “forgive those who trespass against us” in order for a soul to receive forgiveness from God (Barber, 2000).

The Cathar “Good Men” and “Good Women” were believers who had taken the consolamentum and could administer it to others. They were required, if they wished to go to Heaven rather than be reborn on Earth, to abstain completely from sexual intercourse, to eat neither flesh nor fish, eggs nor cheese, and to refrain from all violence (Barber, 2000).

Most Cathars, however, were not so devout – nor so intellectual. The records of the Inquisition suggest that most Cathars had only vague beliefs, many contradictory, and certainly few people were willing to give up the pleasures of the flesh before the very last possible moment. Believers generally sought to take the consolamentum just before death, when it was no longer a hardship to abstain from sex, flesh, or violence.

The appeal of Catharism stemmed from the fact that to the poor and downtrodden of the 11th and 12th centuries the world was indeed a hellish place. Thus the Cathar explanation of man’s condition seemed more reasonable than traditional Catholic doctrine. The Church preached, in effect, that a benevolent and all-powerful God allowed for widespread starvation, sickness, natural catastrophes, and unending wars. The Cathar critique of the abuses of the Catholic Church was likewise highly popular, because the critique was largely justified – and also justified non-payment of tithes and other church taxes.

As the Church, the Inquisition, and Crusaders increasingly hounded the Languedoc to exterminate the heresy, adherence to the Cathar faith became an act of patriotic defiance as much as a matter of religious belief. Certainly among the nobility, resistance to the northern Crusaders and reluctance to support the Inquisition had less to do with theological sympathy for the dogma of the Cathars than with the desire to retain feudal independence from France and preserve a lifestyle and a culture that was unique and traditional.

 

The three novels of my "Tales from the Languedoc" series all deal with the Cathar heresy, the Albigensian Crusade, and the Occitan Resistance to a greater or lesser extent.