Paradise Red (27 page)

Raimon pales and shifts. Hugh presses his advantage. “Your challenge to me must wait because this is my treaty, and if you kill me, another one will be drawn up dictating terms much more unfavorable. As it is, you could take this back to them
and see if you can get at least some to listen. Naturally, I cannot save the Occitan, but I can compose an oath of allegiance to the king that the knights can swear with honor before being freed to go home alongside the women and children.” He shakes his head. “The perfecti, whatever their sex or age, are different. I am told to hand them over to the inquisitors as I see fit.” He swallows. Burnings! Executions! The thought sickens him. This is a time for life, not death. He goes to his table and touches the box in which he keeps the ring he gave Yolanda, then he comes back to Raimon. “Listen to me very carefully. The Cathars must renounce the White Wolf and all his works. Do you understand? They must renounce
the White Wolf
.”

At first Raimon does not listen. Hugh repeats himself twice more until Raimon cannot pretend not to understand that a lifeline is being held out to Sir Roger and to Metta and to the Occitanian knights now contemplating their fates. Such a lifeline, once rejected, will not be offered again. Yet the thought of acting as Hugh's messenger boy while his fury burns so hot against him is almost impossible. He fights for time. “And if they won't renounce the White Wolf?”

There is a short silence. “You know what will happen then.”

Neither man moves. “Will you go?” Hugh asks.

A flicker crosses Raimon's face. He raises Unbent once more. Hugh reaches into the armor chest, but Raimon is not aiming for him. Instead, as he strides from the tent, he slices at the oriflamme and with a small swish cleanly severs two of the damp crimson tails and tosses them into the mud. With a cry, Amalric and Henri draw their swords, but Hugh, looming in
his tent's entrance, harshly commands them to hold off. He has a child. Raimon does not. It suddenly seems to him unnecessary to punish a man who has been punished so much already.

It takes twenty minutes or so for the group of twenty French men-at-arms to mount and gather at the bottom of the half-widened road with Raimon in their midst. They will ride as far as they can and leave the horses with armed squires. A phalanx of archers flanks either side, for Hugh is still taking no chances. The stone guns may be silent, but the heretics will have other weapons.

The journey is conducted in silence and without incident, and in two hours they are at the fortress gate, Raimon walking behind. Once again, he sends Cador back down the hill with Bors and Galahad, although this time he tells him to stay close to the French camp. “And don't let go of the horses,” he tells him. “Whatever happens, don't let go.” Cador nods. He will not let go.

The day is dull, and in the gray sheen that might be November rather than March, the keep looms over the walls as though the place were still impregnable. Only the fluttering des Arcis pennant and the welcoming shouts from the barbican signal the Cathar defeat.

Still, as they approach, it occurs to Raimon that they might
be ignored and have to retreat. However, even as he thinks this, the gate opens, with de Perrella emerging first, the White Wolf stalking serenely behind him and, shuffling in their wake, a huddle of others, their forced bravado both admirable and tragic. Above, between the crenellations, Occitanian archers are poised to trade arrow for arrow with the French archers now positioning their arrows below. Hugh was right to be wary.

Raimon can see Sir Roger but not Metta. The White Wolf glances behind only once and, like children in a game of grandmother's footsteps, the shufflers cease to shuffle. Raimon knows the White Wolf will be smiling. Montségur may be finished, but his power remains intact.

De Perella coughs and when Raimon moves through the soldiers, his cough turns to a choke. Even the White Wolf's face blackens. “You!” De Perella shakes his head. “God will punish the trouble you cause.”

Raimon does not try to explain. He demands to speak to de Perella privately and when this is finally agreed, shows him Hugh's terms, repeating, word for word, what Hugh has told him. It takes some time to persuade the knight to read and listen, for de Perella's anger with Raimon keeps spouting forth like a capricious geyser. When he finally understands, he shakes his head. “They'll not give in, not one of them,” he says, and seems glad at this slight to Raimon until his attention is drawn to movement at the bottom of the pog.

The French camp is moving, but not away. In the time it has taken for Raimon to climb, the inquisitors have ordered the tents to be shifted so that on the flat land they have been occupying, a large square, can be outlined in chalk, as though for the proposed foundations of a not insubstantial farmhouse.
Nearby, the trees cut down during the widening of the road are being dragged and split into fagots, and straw is being brought in great bundles from barns in the village. In the middle of the square, the red cross of the inquisitors has been hoisted. “God help us!” De Perella clutches at Raimon's arm. “They're preparing an inferno.”

“Never mind God. Help yourselves,” Raimon urges. “Look at the treaty again and listen to what Sir Hugh said. You can save yourselves without dishonor. There need be no inferno. Talk to your knights. Talk to the perfecti. Please.”

De Perella closes his eyes momentarily and opens them to find Raimon leading him back into the fortress and everybody following behind.

The White Wolf joins the perfecti on the walkway above. Everybody else remains below. De Perella sends a page for an old wooden box, climbs on, and removes his leather hat. A sudden gust of wind whips his thinning hair into whirligig straggles. “My friends,” he says, when he can control his nerves, “you have all acquitted yourselves with great distinction during this last heroic siege. The Occitan will not forget you. But now that the siege is broken we must decide how to respond to the terms that are offered.”

“Pin them to his back with a dagger!” somebody shouts, pointing at Raimon. “He tried to steal the Flame. If there are to be terms, let's hear them from Sir Hugh des Arcis himself.”

“Even King Louis'd be better than a thief!” calls out another.

Raimon winces.

De Perella stands taller, his courage returning now he can no longer actually see the makings of the pyre. “You're right,”
he says. “For myself, I'm a true Occitanian, and I'll never swear allegiance to King Louis of France. They may hang me for that if they want. Nor will I renounce my Cathar faith.” There is wild cheering. He raises his voice. “I'll go down from this pog a Cathar and an Occitanian, and that's what I'll remain.” More wild cheering, although mothers clutch their children to them. Smoke from the kitchens billows. The cheering dies away and de Perella's courage with it. He coughs. “But we can remain Occitanians and Cathars and live!”

There is uncomfortable muttering. “And men will go to the moon!” comes a shout from the back.

“No,” says de Perella. “There will be an oath, but I'm told it will be one that we can swear without dishonor and then all knights can go free.” A small buzz follows this. The women lean forward, and the knights too, though they pretend not to.

“How? And who will guarantee it?” The question is repeated loudly, then more loudly still.

At de Perella's invitation, Raimon climbs onto the box and speaks very quickly. “Just hear me out! Please! It's guaranteed by Sir Hugh des Arcis.” There is general derision at both Raimon and this proposition, yet there is a shifting about too. When the women shout for quiet, with hidden relief the knights give way.

“Knights can disperse after they have taken the oath,” Raimon tells them, “and women and children are to make their way home at once. As for all you perfecti”—he turns and stares upward—“so long as you renounce the White Wolf and all his works, you'll also be spared.”

The knights are now silent, but the perfecti are not. One or two cry out. The White Wolf licks his lips. The smallest ruffle
creases his forehead. Ah, this is a different game. He touches his smooth beard. He should still be able to win.

One perfectus, either braver or more cowardly than the others, and who is standing far away from the White Wolf, peers over the walkway railing to address Raimon directly. “You mean,” he says slowly, “that in order to escape the pyre we don't actually have to renounce our Cathar faith?”

“Sir Hugh said, ‘renounce the White Wolf,'” Raimon replies. “Make of that what you will.”

The perfecti rock from side to side, as though the information is so heavy it has unbalanced them. The brave one speaks again. “And do you trust Sir Hugh des Arcis?”

Raimon trembles as everybody leans in to hear his response. He would swallow if only his throat had not constricted. He still cannot see Metta, but there is only one answer to make if these people will grasp the lifeline he is throwing. But oh, how hard it is to get the words out. “I do,” he says at last. “Over this, at least, I think Sir Hugh will keep his word.”

The White Wolf claps his hands as though Raimon were a circus act. “Was divide and rule not an old ruse of the Romans? Renounce me and all my works? It makes me sound like the devil.” He stops clapping and walks down the line of perfecti, forcing each one to meet his gaze. “But you will already have seen straight through this trick, just as I have. The words Raimon offers on behalf of the lackey of the King of France are weasel words. Renounce me? What nonsense is this? For the love of God! How can I, a humble worker in God's vineyard, be important enough to renounce! But let me tell you something that is important. However alluring the fancy words and phrases our enemies concoct, they are a snare, because you
know as well as I that renouncing even the humblest worker is tantamount to renouncing not just our Cathar faith, but the Blue Flame, the Occitan, and even God himself. Do you really want to do that?”

His voice, so soft and still, penetrates like a needle. As he draws them back to him, touching an arm here, adjusting a hood there, he emanates such irresistible confidence and peace that shoulders visibly sink and faces smooth. At those who resist, he smiles a smile of such openness and joy that it is impossible not to smile back. Without any semblance of hurry, he walks down the whole line and then back and then down again until he knows he has them safely in the palm of his hand. Then his voice softens further, though he makes sure that now it reaches not just the perfecti but the knights below. “Don't be frightened, my children. Stay strong! Are a few more years on this earth really more valuable than eternal salvation?” Nobody replies. He comes to a halt and, richly satisfied, leans over the rail himself. “There, my treacherous friend.” He throws his words at Raimon. “There is our answer to Sir Hugh's offer. Nobody here will renounce the Cathar faith. Now get off this mountain. You dirty it.”

“Let me repeat. Sir Hugh said nothing about the Cathar faith. He said they must renounce
you
.”

A hubbub arises. Suddenly everybody is anxious and perplexed. The perfecti turn to one another. Renouncing their faith is impossible. But for all his persuasive words, is the same really true of the White Wolf? He is, after all, only a man. Could they renounce him? Should they? A seed of doubt is sown.

As nervous and uncertain as everybody else, but praying
he has done enough, Raimon leaps down from the box and tries to find Metta. Why is she not near her father? He shoves his way through the crowd. Nobody seems to know whether to embrace him or lynch him. He uselessly calls her name. Somebody grabs him. He tries to fight him off, but he is pointing. Raimon stops fighting, raises his eyes to the walkway again, and then he sees her. No wonder she was invisible, for she, too, is dressed in black. She has taken the consolation. She is a perfectus herself.

Raimon swings himself up on the walkway's wooden struts. The hubbub is lessening as de Perella quiets his knights and the White Wolf his perfecti. Nervously, he places a hand on Metta's shoulder and she turns. Peering out from the black hood is the same girl he first saw through the snow at Castelneuf, the funereal cloth only accentuating the fair smoothness of her cheeks, her round eyes, and the untroubled stillness of her forehead. He fumbles for words but she does not. “Hello, Raimon,” she says, and now he sees how appearances are deceptive. She has changed. Her voice has lowered and her tone is graver. Her cheeks may be smooth, but her lips are dry. Her joy in life has not vanished, but it is thinner. Raimon is reminded horribly of Adela. “Metta!”

She blinks. Only her mouth trembles slightly.

“Metta. I can't—I don't—”

Her eyes are slightly veiled. He does not know what message his own are sending out. “Listen to me,” he says, gripping her tightly, “I promise on my own life that Sir Hugh des Arcis will keep his word. You really can remain Cathars.”

“Yes.”

“Come down to your father.”

“I'm happy up here.” She bows her head under her hood and eases herself away.

“Metta!” His voice rings out.

“I don't believe she's listening anymore.” The White Wolf's voice is a snarl in his ear.

Raimon finds himself forced back over the railing, but he will not give up on Metta yet.

The White Wolf addresses the whole company as he tries to regain the initiative, this time choosing a tone of mildly disappointed reproach. “It's hard to believe, after we've been through so much together, that in exchange for a few years lived in subjection to King Louis you're willing to abandon the Flame and break the promise you made on the Bible.” He pauses, then throws up his hands in genuine horror. “You are happy to break your word to God?”

He judges it perfectly. The perfecti stall and look at their feet, and once again the White Wolf strides up and down, not cajoling them this time but unfurling his confidence like a banner. “My beloved friends! Let's be steadfast! Surely that's how you want to be remembered: as one of those who refused to fail the Flame, the Occitan, or God. Could there be a more glorious epitaph?”