The Brethren (2 page)

The natives of Périgord have the reputation of being amiable, and the two captains were well received wherever they went. Nowhere was their welcome warmer than from the family of François de Caumont, lord of Castelnau and Milandes. The magnificent Château de Castelnau, built by François de Caumont’s grandfather, was then hardly fifty years old, and its Périgord stone still retained its ochre brilliance, especially in the sunlight.

Powerfully situated on a rocky promontory overlooking the entire Dordogne river basin, flanked by a broad circular tower, it seemed to the two captains as if it were impregnable—except perhaps by artillery,
which, however, would be disadvantaged by having to fire from so far below its walls. They were also impressed, as they crossed the drawbridge, by two small cannon, set in embrasures, whose crossfire would seriously hinder the advance of any assailant. The two visitors began by complimenting Caumont warmly on this splendid, nearly impregnable castle, which so dominated the Dordogne valley. After these lengthy opening remarks (my father was not given to abbreviating formalities), there was a fulsome exchange of compliments.

François de Caumont had already learnt of his guests’ exploits, and congratulated them on their courage in the service of the king. All of this had to be expressed in the pompous style practised by our fathers’ generation, which I personally find tiring, and prefer the simpler language of our peasants.

François de Caumont (whose brother Geoffroy was to share some hair-raising experiences with me which we survived only by the greatest miracle) was small but powerfully built, with a deep voice and a bright and attentive expression. At twenty-five, he seemed to have the wisdom of a much older man, always inclined to weigh his options, inevitably wary and ready to retreat at the slightest sign of danger. After the ritual exchange of greetings, François sensed in his two visitors a pair of allies open to “the new opinion” of Protestantism, and sounded them out with a few delicate questions. Despite their prudent answers, François’s suspicions proved to be well founded. He knew, of course, the enormous weight such men would lend to his party and immediately resolved to help us to get established in the region.

“Messieurs,” said he, “you couldn’t have come to a better place. In a week’s time, the castlery of Mespech will be auctioned by sealed bids. As you will see, the place has fallen into disrepair since the death of its owner, but its lands are spacious and fertile and include some good grazing land and handsome hardwood forests.
The Baron de Fontenac, whose lands abut on the Mespech domain, would naturally like to round out his holdings as cheaply as possible, and he has done everything he can to delay the sale in hopes that the castle will fall into such disrepair that no other buyers would be tempted. However, despite the manoeuvrings of Fontenac, the authorities in Sarlat have finally decided in the interests of the heirs of Mespech to proceed to a sale. The auction will take place on Monday next at noon.”

“Monsieur de Caumont,” said Jean de Sauveterre, “do you count the Baron de Fontenac among your friends?”

“Absolutely not,” answered Caumont. “No one here counts Fontenac as his friend, and he is friend to no man.”

From the silence that followed, Sauveterre understood that there was a long history behind his words that Caumont preferred not to relate. Siorac would have pressed the matter, but at that very moment a gracious maiden entered the great hall, clothed in a very low-cut morning dress, her blonde hair falling freely about her shoulders. Since the beginning of his visits to the noble families of Sarlat, Siorac had seen a great many women whose necks were so bound in plaits and ruffles that their heads appeared to be served on platters. His heart gave a mighty leap at the sight of this white breast sculpted with the grace of a swan, while, for her part, the maiden returned his gaze with her large blue eyes. As he limped forward to exchange greetings with her, Sauveterre caught sight of a medallion on her breast which displeased him mightily.

“Isabelle,” Caumont announced in his deep bass voice, “is the daughter of my uncle, the Chevalier de Caumont. My wife is forced to keep to her bed as a result of the vapours, otherwise she would herself have come down to honour our guests with her presence. But Isabelle will take her place. Although she is not without her own fortune, my cousin Isabelle lodges with us—a distinct honour
and a pleasure, for she is perfection itself.” This last was directed, accompanied by a significant look, at Siorac.

François added, jokingly, this time glancing at Sauveterre, “Really there is nothing one could reproach her for, except perhaps her strange taste in medallions.”

Sparks flew from Isabelle’s blue eyes as she replied with a petulant movement of shoulders and neck, “A taste shared, my cousin, by my king, Louis XI—”

“Who was a great king, despite his idolatry,” interrupted Caumont gravely, though his eyes danced in merriment.

When the two Jeans arrived at the Château de Mespech the next morning, they were surprised to find the drawbridge raised. After repeated cries, a hairy head finally appeared on the ramparts, wild-eyed and face flushed with drink: “Go your way!” the fellow croaked. “I have orders to open to no man.”

“What is this order?” asked Jean de Siorac. “And who has given it? I am the Chevalier de Siorac, nephew of Raymond Siorac de Taniès, and I wish to purchase the castlery with my friend and companion, Jean de Sauveterre. How can I make a purchase, my good man, if I cannot visit the premises?”

“Ah, Monsieur,” whined the man, “I humbly beg your pardon, but my life and my family’s lives would be worth nothing if I opened these gates.”

“Who are you and what is your name?”

“Maligou.”

“He seems to like his drink,” muttered Sauveterre.

“Maligou,” said Siorac, “are you a servant in this house?”

“Not on your life,” answered Maligou proudly. “I have lands, a house and a vineyard.”

“A large vineyard?” asked Sauveterre.

“Large enough, Monsieur, for my thirst.”

“And how do you come to be here?”

“My harvest is in, and I agreed, for my misfortune, to serve as guard at Mespech for the heirs of the estate, for two sols a day.”

“You seem to be earning them badly if you don’t open the doors to prospective buyers!”

“Monsieur, I cannot,” said old Maligou plaintively. “I have my orders. And I risk my life if I disobey them.”

“Who gives these orders?”

“You know very well,” said Maligou, his head hanging.

“Maligou,” answered Sauveterre, knitting his brow, “if you don’t lower the drawbridge, I will ride to Sarlat in search of the king’s lieutenant and his archers! And they will hang you for refusing entry to us.”

“I will certainly open the gates to Monsieur de La Boétie,” Maligou sighed in relief, “but I don’t think he’ll hang me. Go find the lieutenant, Monsieur, before I am killed by the others. I beg you in the name of the Lord and all his saints!”

“The Devil take the saints,” grumbled Sauveterre, “does this fool also wear a medallion to the Virgin?”

“Perhaps, but not in so beautiful and goodly a place,” whispered Siorac. And, out loud, “Come, Sauveterre. Let’s ride to Sarlat! We must hie ourselves all the way back to Sarlat thanks to this fool.”

“Or thanks to those who’ve terrorized him,” countered Sauveterre worriedly, spurring his horse. “My brother, we must consider this bad neighbour we shall likely have, if it’s true that the lands of Fontenac border those of Mespech.”

“But ’tis a beautiful chateau,” replied Siorac, standing full up on his stirrups. “’Tis handsome and newly built. We will have much joy from living in a house so new as this. A pox on the narrow windows
of the old fortresses with their blackened, moss-covered walls. Let me live instead in shining stone and with doubled windows which let in the sun!”

“And offer easy entry to our assailants…”

“If need be, we’ll reinforce them on the inside with oak shutters.”

“You’re buying a pig in a poke, brother,” growled Sauveterre. “We haven’t even seen the fields.”

“Today the house. Tomorrow and the day after the land,” cried Siorac.

Anthoine de La Boétie, police lieutenant by authority of the seneschalty of Sarlat and of the domain of Domme, lived opposite the church in Sarlat. He had a beautiful new house, pierced with the double casement windows so admired by my father, who loved all the new ideas, whether in matters of religion, agriculture, military science or medicine. For Jean had continued his diligent study of the medical sciences. I recently found in his impressive library a treatise by Ambroise Paré entitled
The Method of Treating Wounds Made by the Blunderbuss and Other Firearms
, bought, according to my father’s notation, from a book dealer in Sarlat on 13th July 1545, the year of this business concerning Mespech.

Monsieur de La Boétie was elegantly clad in a silk doublet and sported a carefully groomed moustache and goatee. Seated beside him on a low chair was a lad of about fifteen whose homeliness was offset by brilliant piercing eyes.

“My son, Étienne,” Monsieur de La Boétie announced, not without a touch of pride. “Messieurs,” he continued, “I am entirely aware of the machinations of Fontenac. He wants Mespech and will try to get it by any means—no matter how vile and dirty. I have learnt, though alas I cannot prove it, that a month ago he sent some
men by night to scale the walls and dislodge some roofing stones so that water could get in and ruin the flooring, thus depreciating the value of the place. Fontenac has only 15,000 livres and knows that no one hereabouts would lend him a sol. So, unless he’s the only bidder on Mespech, he won’t be able to afford it. To prevent any further damage, the heirs to Mespech hired Maligou to stand guard, but Fontenac, having learnt of your interest—”

“So, he knows about us!” said Siorac.

“Like everyone else in Sarlat,” smiled La Boétie, stroking his goatee. “You’re the talk of every chateau and farm in the region. And everyone knows that Fontenac has threatened to roast Maligou and his wife and children alive in their house if he lets you in.”

“And Fontenac is capable of such a thing?” asked Sauveterre.

“He has done much worse,” replied La Boétie with a helpless gesture. “But he’s as clever as a snake and has never left a trace of his foul play by which we could try him.”

“We have some experience of war and command three good soldiers,” said Sauveterre. “Lieutenant, what harm can this brigand baron do to us?”

“Post masked men in ambush on any wooded road in Périgord and attribute your deaths to the many armed bands that infest the countryside.”

“And how many swords does Fontenac have at his disposal?”

“About ten good-for-nothing scoundrels whom he calls his soldiers.”

“Ten?” sniffed Siorac haughtily. “That’s precious few.”

The moment of silence that followed this remark was broken by Anthoine de La Boétie: “But Fontenac has already begun a campaign of rumours to get at you by subtler means. The monster possesses a kind of venomous sweetness to sugar his plots. He has already advised the bishopric of Sarlat that you are both purported to be members of the reformed religion.”

“We are neither of us members of the reformed congregation,” replied Siorac after a moment of reflection, “and we attend Mass like everyone else.”

Sauveterre neither confirmed nor denied this, but chose to remain silent. This difference did not go unnoticed by Anthoine de La Boétie. As for his son, Étienne, he rose, walked briskly to the window and turned, saying with equal indignation and eloquence, “Is it not shameful to question these gentlemen’s attendance at Mass when they have shed their blood for ten years in the service of the kingdom? And who dares raise this question? This incendiary, this butcher, this wild animal, this dirty plague of a man who wears religion like a shield to cover his crimes! God preserve us from the worst tyranny of all which respects not our beliefs—”

“My son,” broke in Anthoine with a mixture of affection and admiration, “I appreciate the feelings which incite your generous heart against oppression.”

“Moreover, you express yourself admirably,” said Siorac to Étienne. It had not escaped his notice that Étienne had said “in the service of the kingdom” and not “in the service of the king”.

Étienne returned to his place on the stool beside Monsieur de La Boétie’s chair and, blushing, took Anthoine’s hand in a touching gesture that revealed his love for his father. His ardent look conveyed his immense gratitude for the approbation he had received. What good fortune that nature had united such a father and son, for their hearts could not be closer nor their wills more clearly intermingled.

“Ah, Father,” exclaimed Étienne, tears in his eyes, “why do people accept tyranny so easily? I think about this every day God has given me to live. I cannot forget the infernal expedition undertaken last April against the poor Vaudois people of Luberon: 800 workers massacred, their villages burnt, their wives and daughters raped in
the very church of Mérindol and then burnt inside, the old women who instead of being raped were torn asunder by gunpowder forced into their intimate parts, prisoners who were eviscerated alive to have their guts displayed on sticks! And the Pope’s legate, witnessing these horrors at Cabrières, applauded them! And why did all this happen? Because these poor people, peaceful and hard-working as they are, refused to hear Mass, worship the saints and accept confession—just like the reformists whom they resemble so closely. As you know, Father, I am as good a Catholic as the next man (though I cannot approve of the corruption of the Roman Church), but I blush for shame that the Church of St Peter has steered the king of France towards such abominations…”

“My son,” said Anthoine de La Boétie, glancing with embarrassment at his guests, “you know as I do that our king, François I, is a good man. He signed without reading them the letters ordering the Baron d’Oppède to execute the Act of the parliament at Aix against the Vaudois. But afterwards he was filled with such remorse that he has ordered an inquest against the men responsible for these massacres.”