Already, however, she had let me go. She glanced towards the stairs, and was about to bolt when I detained her. Though she is a tall woman, and sturdy, she is not my equal in strength. She could not shake me off.
‘Wait,’ I said.
‘He must be warned!’
‘Who?’
‘Imbert!’ There were tears in her eyes. Every vestige of benign self-confidence had left her. ‘I have to tell him! They’re not safe any more—they have to be moved! Let go, you fool!’
‘Wait,’ I repeated, and turned her frantic face towards mine. Her flesh beneath my fingers was as soft as silk. ‘What has to be moved? Tell me.’
She hesitated, open-mouthed. Slowly she seemed to realise the full import of what she had just revealed; with enormous effort she recovered a small portion of her customary composure.
‘I—I cannot say,’ she replied. ‘It would be a sin to tell you.’
‘A sin?’
‘Yes.’
‘A sin.’ I released her chin, but not her arm. ‘That would suggest Imbert is concealing something very precious. Even holy.’ I studied her with interest. ‘More remains, perhaps?’ Her sudden quiver confirmed it. ‘Whose remains?’
‘Please—’
‘Remains that demand far more protection than the relics in your own house, which have been exposed to the gaze of a virtual stranger.’ I was thinking aloud, and reviewing a certain conversation in my head. ‘Remains that have been hidden even from your friend Blaise . . .’ Suddenly, by some divine intervention, the answer came to me. It was so obvious, yet so incredible.
I gasped, and my grip on her arm tightened.
‘The bones,’ I said. ‘The bones of Pierre Jean Olivi.’
I felt absolutely confident, and my confidence was well founded. Berengaria did not attempt to deny that I was right.
Rather, she burst into tears.
‘Oh, please!’ she sobbed. ‘Please . . .’
‘Shh!’
‘Do not betray me! Do not—please—I have broken my vow . . .’
The rush of calculation that followed close upon my discovery prevented me from offering her any comfort. I stood quite still, as half a dozen different notions fought for supremacy inside my skull.
Then gradually her distress penetrated the cloud of abstraction in which I had lost myself. She had collapsed back onto my linen chest, a mere shadow of the stately woman who had entered my workroom. It saddened me somewhat, to see her brought so low.
Nevertheless, I would not be distracted from the subject at hand.
‘I thought that Olivi’s bones were destroyed.’ Such had been the gossip, in any event. ‘I thought that the Dominicans took them.’
‘They did,’ Berengaria whimpered. ‘But Father Sejan gained custody of them, and gave them to Imbert Rubei.’
‘How?’
‘He paid money. Our money. Mine and Imbert’s.’
‘To whom?’
‘I know not.’
‘A Dominican?’
‘I know not.’
‘It must have been paid to a Dominican. A Dominican who was charged with their disposal.’ I have to confess, I was growing excited. ‘The same Dominican who forged that summons, I guarantee it!’
‘What?’
‘Listen to me. This is important.’ Dragging over my stool, I sat down opposite Berengaria, and placed a hand on her knee. ‘Father Sejan has known for some time that I am an agent of Bernard Gui. He has known that I was told to look for Jacques Bonet.’
‘How—how could he—?’
‘Never mind that. He discovered that I was making inquiries about Jacques Bonet’s corpse.’
‘His corpse?’
‘Shh! Listen.’
‘You mean he is dead?’
‘That I cannot tell you. But make no mistake, Mistress— Sejan can. And Imbert too, perhaps.’
Berengaria then fixed me with a look so pitifully baffled, so defeated and dismayed, that it smote my conscience. I forgot to consider my own advantage, and sought only to clarify matters for her.
‘Sejan discovered that I was making inquiries about Jacques Bonet. But did he tell you that? No,’ I pointed out. ‘Instead, he alerted his friend the Dominican. And the Dominican, because he lives at the priory, was able to tell him that one Helié Seguier, a parchment-maker, had met with Bernard Gui. Sejan and his friend must then have concluded that I was an agent of the inquisitor. Whereupon they forged a summons—still without telling the rest of you.’
‘I—I don’t understand . . .’
‘Neither do I. But I can hazard a guess as to what they were about.’ Noting her blank expression, I leaned forward, impelling her to meet my gaze. ‘Only consider,’ I said firmly. ‘The day before I received that forged letter, Berengar Blanchi came to you. I saw him leave your house. He went straight afterwards to his cousin Sejan, at St-Just. Why did Berengar visit you that day? Was it to ask about me?’ Her eyes were stunned, empty of all comprehension. ‘Think!’ I snapped. ‘Please! It was last Wednesday!’
But she was latching onto inessentials. ‘How do you know that Berengar Blanchi and Father Sejan are cousins?’ she asked, in childish astonishment.
‘Just answer my question! Is that when you first told him about me?’
‘No. At least—no.’ At last, with a visible effort, she turned her attention to Berengar Blanchi. ‘He already knew about you,’ she admitted. ‘I had mentioned your name to Imbert when I went to buy silk—’
‘When was that?’
‘Oh—’
‘Was it before Palm Sunday?’
‘Yes.’ She nodded, unable to detach her gaze from mine. ‘The day before. And a few days later Berengar Blanchi came, and wanted to know if I had told you about . . .’ The words caught in her throat. She had to swallow them, and try again. ‘About the bones,’ she sighed at last.
‘Ah.’
‘I was not to tell you about the bones. On any account.’
‘Did Berengar say why?’
‘Because they are a great secret.’ All at once the tears welled up in her eyes; I could see them gleaming. ‘And now you know!’ she whispered, clearly appalled at her own weakness.
‘Your secret is safe with me. I am a graveyard of secrets.’ With a strong sense of satisfaction, I began to piece together all those disparate elements that for so long had seemed unrelated. On the Thursday before Holy Week, Na Berengaria had invited me to Sunday prayers. On the Saturday following, she had mentioned this to Imbert. On the day after, Sejan had sent his creature Loup to track my movements as I left the Donas shop.
Meanwhile, Sejan had delivered to me the Archbishop’s report. And by Wednesday of Holy Week, Berengar Blanchi was insisting that I not be told about Olivi’s bones.
Unless I am mistaken, Sejan must have consulted his friend, the unknown Dominican, onMonday or Tuesday of Holy Week and learned of my visit with Bernard Gui. Whereupon, having pooled the information gathered from three sources, they had seen what it implied, and started to panic.
I stood up, and began to pace the floor.
‘For a week now, Sejan and his friend the Dominican have been aware of my secret. There can be no doubt of that,’ I mused aloud. ‘They forged the summons because they were convinced of my treachery.’
‘But how can you possibly know?’
‘I know. I know Bernard Gui. I know his writing. I know his habits. He would not have sent me that letter. Sejan sent me that letter, and the Dominican wrote it. My question to you is: Why?’ I stopped, and swung around to confront Berengaria. ‘Was it to see how I responded? Clearly, if I had obeyed without protest, I would have proven myself a spy. But in that case, why were you yourself not informed? Why?’
She waited. And indeed, I was not expecting an answer. For while the woman might be damned, she is in many ways honest and ingenuous. Although busily condemning herself to certain death with every word that she utters and every stranger that she trusts, she would never condemn another to the sam
e fate.
‘It is my belief that the priest and the monk are planning to kill me,’ I said. ‘For what other purpose would they want to lure me into the grounds of the priory at such a late hour?’
‘Oh no.’ Sure enough, she refused to countenance such a suggestion. Instead she shook her head, with mounting energy. ‘No, no. Impossible.’
‘Then why was I the one to tell you my secret? Why did they not inform you?’
‘Because—because—’
‘Because they must have known that you would object to their plan!’ It seemed so clear to me that I became impatient with her obtuseness. ‘You might be a heretic, Mistress, but you are no murderer. You would not wear that sin on your conscience.’
This compliment failed to appease her. She covered her face with her hands, as if to escape from an intolerable sight.
‘You must be wrong,’ she faltered. ‘I cannot—your mind is—these are wicked thoughts . . .’
‘The world is full of wicked thoughts. You must understand that, or you will perish.’ Believe me when I say that it required some strength to continue. I was all at once mortally tired; forcing Na Berengaria to accept the truth was far more difficult than I had anticipated. ‘Berengar Blanchi told you a lie when he said that Jacques Bonet was about to be arrested.’ This was another fact worthy of remark. ‘I should like to know where that lie came from. Perhaps from Jacques Bonet, though I have my doubts. While he may have hoped to fashion a quick escape by telling such a lie, he must have known that it might easily have the opposite effect, and frighten his friends into killing him. On the other hand, if the lie came from Sejan, or Imbert, or Berengar himself, then what is the reason for it? Why dream up such an excuse for Jacques’s sudden disappearance? The only reason I can think of is guilt, and fear. Because Jacques is dead.’
‘No!’ Na Berengaria clamped her hands over her ears. ‘I refuse to listen any more! Jacques escaped!’
‘How do you know?’
‘He did! He did!’
‘How do you know?’ But I had spoken too loudly, and made haste to lower my voice. ‘Did you see him?’ I hissed. ‘Did you speak to him?’ Exasperated by her attitude of rejection, I went over and prised her hands off her ears. ‘Do you really comprehend what this means?’ I demanded. ‘A monk of St Dominic was paid money to disobey his superior. He committed a heretical act by surrendering those bones to Berengar Blanchi’s cousin. You might be happy to martyr yourself in the name of Pierre Jean Olivi, but no venal Dominican will want to follow your example! He will do everything in his power to prevent it. Any man facing ruin, and perhaps even death, might contemplate murder to protect himself—especially a man who has already risked his life for money.’ As Berengaria’s hands twisted in mine like a pair of small, captive creatures, I clasped them with iron resolve, and would not allow her to look away. I bent down, so that my head was level with her own. And I held her gaze pinioned.
‘If Jacques Bonet was living with Imbert, there is every chance that he uncovered the secret of Olivi’s bones,’ I said. ‘In which case, he might have identified the source of those bones. And if our Dominican friend knew it, he might have felt sorely threatened. He might have behaved rashly. Rashness is not out of character, I think. It was rash to sell you those bones in the first place. God knows what he needed the money for. A whore? A poor relative? A blackmailer?’
‘What shall I do?’ It was a mere breath of sound, accompanied by a glance of abject entreaty. ‘What am I going to do?’
‘You need to find out what is happening—and so do I. This Dominican cannot be trusted. If he has killed Jacques, then clearly he will stop at nothing to protect himself. Nothing. Do you understand?’
Of course she did not. She searched my face for enlightenment, and I stamped my foot in frustration.
‘Berengaria, think,’ I groaned. ‘You are not stupid. Suppose that I disappear. What will he believe? He will believe that I have gone to Bernard Gui—and he will be very frightened. Though unaware that I have learned of Olivi’s relics, he must realise by now that I have furnished myself with a lot of Beguin names. Your own. Imbert’s. Even Berengar Blanchi’s. The trail will lead any good inquisitor to Sejan Alegre, and from Sejan to his friend the friar.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I am saying that the Dominican will kill again. If he feels that he is in danger.’
‘Oh no!’ She recoiled.
‘Why not? If he has killed once, why not again? Sejan is the biggest threat to him. And Imbert, too. Imbert has the bones. If the bones are ever discovered, it will be obvious that whoever was given the job of burning or discarding them must be culpable.’ Conscious that her hands were now motionless, I dropped them. I straightened. And I remarked, with some relief, that she was knitting her brow in thought. ‘As for you, Mistress, you know about those relics,’ I added. ‘You are in as much peril as Imbert. Oh, yes.’ (For her head had jerked up in alarm.) ‘You should think very, very carefully about your future dealings with these men. At present, they are a much graver threat to you than Jean de Beaune.’
‘Advise me, then.’
‘What?’
‘Advise me.’ A trace of the old Berengaria was evident in her tone: the composed, imposing, authoritative Berengaria. She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. ‘You, Master Helié—you are clever. Cunning. Far more so than the men against whom you have warned me. What would you advise me to do?’ Suddenly, her voice cracked. ‘How am I to protect my friends from such wickedness?’
Once again, she was placing her trust in the wrong person. There was I, a traitor. A liar. A spy whose own interests would best be served if Berengaria was dead—and all her friends along with her. After all, without their testimony, how could Martin ever be condemned? If they were every one of them dead, I could make my report freely, in the certain knowledge that I would not be implicating Martin by doing so. Since even Bernard Gui cannot extract names from a corpse.
Yet despite my demonstrated perfidy, Na Berengaria persisted in believing that I would help her—perhaps because I had helped her already. Standing at the window, surveying the bleak, raw, morning sky over the rooftops, I marvelled at my own imprudence. A wise man would have abandoned her to her inevitable fate. A wise man would have told her some lie, to prevent her from alerting Sejan and his friends too soon, before preparing for a hurried and secret withdrawal.
But what is true wisdom? God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise; I remembered this lesson as I marked the small signs by which my neighbours attested to their wakefulness. I noted Adhemar’s daughter, trudging towards the well. I traced the passage of a piss-pot’s contents as they were hurled out of an open door. I smelled smoke, and heard Martin’s mother calling to her fowl. In every small action, I detected many things—including the hand of God.
And I thought: Why should I run like a skulking, frightened rat from this unholy monk? From this pitiful priest?
‘We can lay a trap,’ I said, turning back to Berengaria. ‘Tonight, if you want. We can lay a trap for the Dominican.’
XXII.
Easter Saturday (afternoon)
Blaise Bouer just arrived bearing fresh news. The trap has been set: Na Berengaria has made her final arrangements with Imbert Rubei.
She left here this morning not long before Martin brought me my food. Her stated intention was to seek out Imbert immediately, but she must have explained matters to Blaise first. That is why I had to wait so long. I completed my second journal entry during the long hours between tierce and sext, while Martin emptied the vats downstairs, bucket by bucket.
I had explained to him that the job must be done quietly, for I did not want excessive amounts of hustle and bustle to draw the attention of my neighbours. Ideally, I should like to be far from Narbonne before anyone realises that I am gone—though Martin will not, of course, be prevented from alerting his family. I can hardly expect him to leave without saying goodbye. Nevertheless, I made it
clear to him that when the time does come, there will be no loud lamentations or lavish farewell feasts. A sudden announcement will precede one hurried exchange of paternal advice and heartfelt good wishes. Then, without fanfare, we shall quit Narbonne.
‘Not tonight, however,’ I assured him. ‘Tonight we are only pretending to quit Narbonne.’
And I described to him my plan, which only made sense after I had also described our entire predicament. Believe me when I say that it was not an easy task. Nor was it speedily accomplished. Poor Martin sat with a creased brow and a slack jaw as I summarised all my convoluted speculations about Sejan, Berengar, Loup, Imbert, Jacques and the unknown Dominican. In some cases, of course, I had reached no final conclusions. While Sejan and the Dominican are quite evidently implicated in Jacques Bonet’s disappearance, I am uncertain about Berengar Blanchi. Like Na Berengaria, he may have been duped into believing that Jacques Bonet did escape. He may not have formulated the lie that he told; perhaps he has been used, as a tool and a messenger, by his cousin Sejan—or by Imbert Rubei. Imbert’s role is also unclear, though I am inclined to be more suspicious of him. If Jacques Bonet was supposed to have been smuggled out of Narbonne by one of Imbert’s friends—and then was not— Imbert Rubei must surely have known his true fate.
I expressed some of my doubts to Martin, who had to keep asking for clarification with regard to dates and times. He was also largely uninformed about the disappearance of Pierre Olivi’s bones. (‘I knew they were buried at the Franciscan priory,’ he remarked, ‘but I never knew that the Dominicans moved them.’) Nevertheless, being a clever boy, he came to grasp the fundamental points of my narrative. And when he learned that he would be taking part in the unmasking of a corrupt Dominican, he became very excited. Too excited. Watching his eyes gleam, and his wide, disarming grin engulf almost half his face, I realised suddenly that, for all his intelligence, Martin is still thinking like a child. He has a child’s view of the world; to him it is still a vivid and exciting habitation of good and bad men in heroic conflict— of epic journeys, angelic intervention, and pots of gold waiting in hidden places.