She is somewhat overbearing. It makes me wonder about her husband, whom I did not see before I left. Is he also a heretic? Or is he too weak to prevent his wife from worshipping in his house with her heretical friends?
No doubt I shall have my answer on Sunday. For I have agreed to return then, with my Beguin finger and my heretical books. If I do, perhaps, I shall discover more about the ‘fugitives from unjust persecution’ referred to by Berengaria Donas. Could one of them be Jacques Bonet? Will he appear at her house on Sunday?
Or has he been reduced to a collection of burned bones concealed in an empty cask?
When I first saw the contents of that cask, it did occur to me that they might be the earthly remains of Jean de Beaune’s missing familiar. What better way to hide a corpse, after all, than by disguising it as another corpse? I thought: Perhaps he was chopped up and thrown on the kitchen fire.
Almost at once, however, I discounted the possibility. There are better ways to dispose of old bones than to keep them in your cellar. You can feed them to a dog. You can throw them in the Aude, weighted down. You can bury them under your dung heap.
No: if Jacques Bonet is indeed dead, Berengaria’s house is the last place I shall find him. (Why invite a stranger to one’s house, if it contains a murdered corpse?) My only hope is that Jacques might have left traces. Signs. Perhaps some hint of his presence still lingers there, even if he himself is long gone.
God grant that, if dead, he was indeed killed in that house, by those people. It would make me feel more resigned to my task.
XI.
Friday before Holy Week
Poor Martin is very unhappy. He came to work this morning with red eyes and a persistent sniff, but would not provide any sort of explanation. When I asked him if Hugues had been twisting his ears, or otherwise inflicting injuries upon him that would not leave a mark, he denied it.
Perhaps he was distressed at the sufferings of his mother. Or perhaps his brothers have been doing the damage.
I wish he were not so small and thin.
It seems to me that he is not fed enough. In the Moresi household, Lent is simply an excuse to starve the children. I gave Martin some bread before I left for the Bourg, saying that I had no use for it, and he bolted it down as if he were afraid it might grow legs and run away. He also told me that his father ‘does not believe in’ eating too much, since gluttony is a terrible sin, which will lead even the youngest child straight to hell. According to Hugues Moresi, real saints eat boiled nettles and stale crusts, because God does not love those who eat pies and roast meats and spiced eggs and loaf sugar.
My heart sank when I heard this. For it has been the refrain of every Cathar perfectus in existence, and appears to be an opinion shared by many Beguins, also. Though a man might be a liar, a cheat, a hypocrite, and an idle, bloodthirsty parasite, so long as he is on a perpetual fast, and wears simple clothes, he is considered holy. Among the Cathar heretics, even eggs and meat and milk are sinful, because they are the product of fornication. I recall being denied a scrap of bacon rind when I was a boy, on the grounds that it would be bad for my soul.
Needless to say, my soul was of little real consequence to the girl who deprived me of that bacon, which she herself was eager to consume. It was ever so. There are few Cathar believers who follow wholeheartedly those tenets governing the lives of their priests. I have seen believers eat lamb and pork, eggs, cheese, game, and fowl of every description. Yet they will often forbid such fare to children, and to anyone else of low degree, because they want it all for themselves.
Perhaps Hugues Moresi is of a similar disposition. Perhaps his views are not as heretical as they seem. Yet this is the third time he has taken a sympathetic stance towards the Beguins and their doctrines.
Surely I have not opened my house to a secret Beguin? It would be most disconcerting if I have.
I must keep a more watchful eye on my tenants. A clean kitchen and regular payments are all very well, but not if they are accompanied by unwelcome spiritual beliefs. Further-more, it troubles me that Martin might have been affected. If his father is unorthodox, can it be my responsibility to counter the paternal influence? That is certainly my inclination. When I heard the poor child spouting nonsense about pies and nettles, my response was very sharp. I said: ‘Why would God have created pies, if not to be eaten? For what other purpose do pies exist?’
To which he responded, with a furrowed brow: ‘But God does not make pies, Master. People do.’
‘People make pies because there is flour and butter with which to make them. Without wheat, there would be no flour. Without beasts, there would be no butter. God made all of these things. And he made them in a certain way—so that wheat could be milled, and milk churned.’ I was quoting Bernard Gui, who explained these matters to me a long, long time ago—when I was still under the impression that meat and milk were somehow wicked. ‘To believe in the sinfulness of butter is to believe in the sinfulness of God’s creation. Is that what you believe, in your heart?’
‘No!’ Martin shook his head. ‘No, Master, I would never believe such a thing!’
‘Gluttony is a sin, but the sin lies in excessive quantities. To consume too much of anything is bad, whether it be an excess of sugar or of stale bread. And I doubt that your belly is large enough to accommodate very much of either. You have not the look of a glutton, child. You are not fat enough.’
Having delivered myself of this homily, I told my apprentice to attend the shop while I was out. He had my permission to take orders, but not to sell parchment off the shelves, since he does not know all the prices.
I also instructed him to study carefully each customer who walked through the door. Upon my return, I would be expecting a full report on the appearance, speech and possible livelihood of every stranger he served. This would give him something to do, and would provide me with information that I need for my register.
Martin is proving to be an observer of some skill. It must be confessed that I never would have considered training him up as an extra pair of eyes, had he not started asking me questions. I thought myself sufficiently burdened; to educate an apprentice is hard enough, and three years ago Martin could barely read, let alone write. For all of twelve months I spent a good portion of every evening guiding him through his letters, so that he would be literate enough to take down orders and find his way through a book of accounts. At the same time I was showing him how to soak, scrape, split, hang, cut and mark skins.
It never crossed my mind that I should be employing him in other ways.
But I have certain foibles, which become evident if I am not constantly on guard. Martin soon noticed them. So would anyone sharing my house for the greater part of each day; that is one reason (among many) why I spend my nights alone. A few careless comments were all that it took to demonstrate my abiding interest in hands, boots, clothes, scars, accents and habits. I had only to remark that butchers are inclined to have more missing digits than professional soldiers, or that the fingers of shoemakers are calloused in a certain unmistakeable way, to find myself bombarded with questions from my apprentice. Were saddlers callused like shoemakers? Were soldiers missing more ears and eyes than butchers? And what about a peasant who killed his own beasts—would not he and a butcher bear similar scars?
In answering these questions, I became once more an instructor, and Martin my student. He is a bright boy in many ways. He also has a sharp eye, and an intense desire to please. Perhaps he hopes to be my heir, since I have no children. Perhaps his father has instructed him to win my favour by whatever means possible. If so, he has carried out his father’s bidding with dedicated efficiency. For I have been more than generous. I have, in fact, been indulgent.
God grant that I do not come to regret my weakness. A man in my position cannot afford even the tiniest breach in his defences. Yet I am unable to believe that the boy’s regard for me is false. No one so young could present such a perfect, undetectable mask, day after day after da
y.
Only consider what happened this morning, when I took my leave. He looked crestfallen, and asked if I would return soon. He did not say: Can I come? He did not say: Where are you going?
He said exactly what I would have expected him to say, asking if I would return soon.
‘Perhaps,’ I replied. ‘If my business is concluded quickly.’
In fact, I was not engaged in any form of business. I was visiting the Bourg once again, in order that I might see for myself the house of Imbert Rubei. Had I been less busy, I might have expended a whole day on the task, disguising myself as a beggar to keep watch. Alas; I had not the time to spare for such activities. With Palm Sunday fast approaching, I was unable to do more than pass the house— twice but not thrice—and perhaps make a purchase in the neighbourhood.
As you may imagine, I did not wear my scarlet cloak on this ramble. Instead I donned my customary dull colours and unmemorable garments, not wishing to attract anyone’s attention. Though I am small, I am not so small as to engender pity or shock. My shoulders are not distinctively narrow, nor my legs startlingly thin. My teeth are in reasonable but unremarkable condition. Excepting perhaps in the east, where (I have heard) everyone is dusky and black-haired, I am the sort of man who tends to escape notice because I am in no way imposing to look at. People do not recall my face, unless I choose to arouse their interest deliberately— and even then I rarely make much of an impression.
This is as it should be. I would have it no other way. And though I admire great beauty, I also fear it. A man or a woman with a beautiful face has nowhere to hide, any more than has a cripple, or a leper, or a giant. If you have a beautiful face, you will be watched, pursued and appropriated just as if you were a treasure of gleaming gold.
Bernard Gui once said that my eyes could, on occasion, be arresting. He did not know exactly why, though he thought it had something to do with the way I stare when my guard is down. Mostly I try not to stare. A piercing stare has the same effect as too many questions; it causes alarm and consternation. But it is a habit that I fell into as a very young child, and one that is hard to break, especially when I am tired or distracted.
That is why, wherever possible, I favour hoods. They are commonly worn, they are as efficient as hats, and they shade the eyes. If I had scarred hands, I would favour worsted gloves or long, dangling sleeves for the very same reason.
Needless to say, I scrupulously avoid jewellery, sandals, rich fabrics, vivid colours and foreign cuts—unless I am out fishing for attention.
Today I was not. Today I wanted to move unseen along the Rue Aquitaine, where Imbert Rubei dwells. I am still not sure exactly what I was hoping to achieve. I believe that I had some vague idea of approaching one or two neighbours— of pretending to look for Imbert Rubei, or Jacques Bonet, and ‘mistaking’ the address. But I was in luck. When I approached the vicinity of Imbert’s house, I was delighted to observe that he lives almost directly opposite an inn, of all things.
An inn!
I could have asked for nothing better. An inn is the perfect vantage point. You cannot outstay your welcome at an inn, unless you start swinging an axe at the patrons. What’s more, a stranger at an inn is like a bunch of grapes in a summer vineyard: wholly welcome but entirely unmemorable.
I offered up a prayer of thanks to St Paul, whose parish I was then occupying, and headed straight for the inn. At the same time, I studied Imbert’s house—a fine and venerable building which has been sadly neglected. It is, in fact, a study in dissolution. Someone very wealthy erected that house, which is practically a palace; the present occupants, however, are apparently too poor to replace the missing shutters, or repair the stonework.
I discovered this after spending some time at the inn, which is called the Crescent Moon. Having started life as a warehouse, the hall of this hostelry is dark and airless, with a faint but lingering smell of wool-grease discernible through the strong odour of wine. Nevertheless, it seems to be a popular destination. Even in the middle of the day there were enough people slumped around its long wooden tables to allow me some concealment. A few were travellers, on their way to Minervois and the west, but the majority were local residents, seeking company and forgetfulness. It was this latter group that interested me. Among them I hoped to find someone acquainted with Imbert Rubei, or at least with his history. I was sure that a man who had once been so rich, and was now so poor, must have attracted at least a minimum of speculation around the quarter.
And I was right. Having planted myself among the tipplers lined up against the front wall of the hostelry, I became privy to a long conversation about Imbert Rubei that I did not initiate. By a lucky chance, I sat down beside two of Imbert’s neighbours—who were soaking up the sun on a bench placed near the inn’s front door—and overheard them discussing the woman who had suddenly emerged from Imbert’s house.
She was small and thin, and advanced in years: her hair was mostly grey, and her back was slightly bent. Noting that she carried a basket, I assumed, correctly, that she was on her way to make a purchase. Her clothes were coarse and plain.
According to the men beside me, she was Imbert Rubei’s sister-in-law.
Their interest in her was limited to one thing: the question of whether or not she was sharing her brother-in-law’s bed. The younger man—a barber, to judge from the hair adhering to his clothes—was sure that she was. The older man, whose burned hands and floury sleeves marked him as a baker, defended her stoutly. Na Maria, he said, was a pious woman.
‘It is a sin for a man to take his brother’s wife,’ the baker declared. ‘Though both be widowed, it is still a sin. And Na Maria would not sin in such a way.’
‘What would you know?’ the barber retorted. ‘Why live together, if they are not lying together?’
‘Because he has no choice,’ said the baker, and began to recount the tale of Imbert’s ill fortune. I deduced from his remarks that Imbert was once very rich, and a consul of the Bourg, but that he lost most of his wealth some thirty years ago. Apparently, when three officers of the Archbishop were charged with murder, Imbert Rubei and nine other prominent citizens sanctioned their hanging—despite their appeal to the Royal Court. As a result, Imbert was fined a monstrous sum by the King, and had his goods confiscated by the Archbishop.
His current residence was left to him by his brother, on the condition that he look after his brother’s wife.
‘Yes, yes, I see,’ said the barber. ‘That makes sense. But after such a long time, why has he not restored his fortunes? He trades in silk, after all. Surely he can afford more than one miserable maid?’
‘He had a manservant at one point,’ the baker remarked, to my intense interest. ‘About six months ago. I don’t know what happened to him. He disappeared.’
‘Perhaps it is wise to feign poverty,’ the barber observed. ‘If you are rich, people will try to fleece you.’
‘Yes, indeed. Only consider what happened to Imbert Rubei when he was rich! If he had been poor, I doubt that the King or the Archbishop would have bothered with him.’
There followed a long discussion on taxes and tolls, while I pretended to fall asleep—and by this means disguise the fact that I was listening. But nothing more was said of a revelatory nature. No one again referred to Imbert’s mysterious, disappearing manservant. Nor did the baker or his companion propose that Imbert’s poverty (which they both considered to be partly assumed) might have had any cause other than a desire to avoid paying taxes or tithes.
The word ‘Beguin’ never crossed their lips.
At last I was forced to leave, the sun having moved some considerable distance across the sky. I waited only until Imbert’s sister-in-law returned, her basket heaped with bread and root vegetables. Then I stretched and yawned, and did my best to imitate a man aroused from the deepest slumber. Before departing, however, I returned my goblet to the innkeeper—and took a huge risk by asking one question, carefully phrased in a heavy Gascon accent.
‘Y
our inn was recommended to me,’ I said, ‘by a tall fellow with black hair and pockmarks, who called himself Jacques. Said he worked in a house nearby. I was hoping to meet with him again. Does he drink here still?’
‘He never did,’ replied the innkeeper, who was oddly liverish and uncongenial for a man in his line of work. I thought that perhaps he was ill, for his complexion was yellow, and his brow damp. ‘If you mean Imbert Rubei’s manservant.’
‘Long nose? Crooked thumbnail?’
‘I was never close enough to see his thumbnail. I hardly ever laid eyes on him. He certainly never set foot in here.’
‘Oh.’
‘He moved on, in any case. Before Christmas. Why did you want to meet him? Does he owe you money?’
‘No, no. But he was an interesting man, with a lot to say. And since I was in the neighbourhood . . .’ I shrugged. ‘Never mind.’
‘Imbert Rubei would not have allowed him in here,’ the innkeeper growled. ‘Not in this den of vice, oh no.’ And he moved away to serve another patron, having supplied me with more information than I could reasonably have hoped for.
As I walked home, I reviewed what I had learned, and was pleased. There can be no doubt that Jacques Bonet made his way to the house of Imbert Rubei. He stayed there for a while, but departed before Christmas. Where exactly he went at that point is still a matter for conjecture.
Did he leave Narbonne of his own accord, under a false name? Was he murdered? Or is he still hiding in the city somewhere, with the connivance of Beguins like Berengaria Donas?
Perhaps tomorrow I shall find out.
Martin was pleased to welcome me back. He said that business was suddenly very quiet, though he had received two visitors, one regular and one secular canon.