The Passion of Dolssa (6 page)

The rushing Garona barred my escape to the west. Open fields to the south would offer me no shelter. To the east lay the Roman road. More wall, more gates. Trees. People.

Darkness, be my cover
, I prayed.
Jhesus, hide me well.
Back past La P
rta Narbonesa. Back around the angry bulk of treacherous Count Raimon’s
castȩl
.

Past the shouts of the friars, past the outer suburbs, until the countryside swallowed me in oblivion. Along a path joining the road. On and on, though my legs trembled and my belly burned. I walked when I must, to gather strength to run again.

He had come for me, but not for my mother.

It is a sin to question his unsearchable ways.

But I wished he had chosen otherwise. I, who longed to be with him, and Mamà, dearer than all that is dear—why not preserve her and bring me home?

He came. Just when I could no longer call on him, he came.

And just in time, if I must live, for the hounds were massing for the hunt.

LUCIEN DE SAINT-HONORE

ucien de Saint-Honore paused outside the prior’s door in the night-blackened corridor of the convent. His habit swished around his legs, reminding him that he was truly there, and not a mere specter swallowed by the dark.

He knocked on the door.

A canon, the prior’s companion, opened it and stood silent as Lucien passed into the study. Prior Pons de Saint-Gilles stood before the fire with his hands clasped behind his back. He turned to face his visitor.

“What news, Brother Lucien?” asked the prior.

Lucien opened his mouth to give an answer he dreaded giving, then caught Prior Pons’s gaze as it moved to a brocade chair facing the fire. Lucien swallowed. Of course, Bishop Raimon would still be here. After tonight’s debacle, he wouldn’t budge until justice was served.

Raimon de Fauga, bishop of Tolosa, rose from his seat and regarded Lucien. Even in the dim light, the elegant material of his robes set him apart from Pons and Lucien. His bishop’s ring gleamed.

“I see by your eyes that you have not found her.” The bishop shook his head and glanced at the older prior. “Tonight is a blot upon the record of our order, Pons.”

Prior Pons warmed his hands at the fire. “We are here to heal Christendom, not to hunt runaways in the dark.”

Raimon’s robes swished as he turned away. “It’s a disgrace. An affront to the Church, and to law in Tolosa. If she makes it out of town and into
the countryside, the
bayles
will wash their hands of her, while she infects some other corner of the Lord’s vineyard.” His servants entered, bearing fragrant baskets. “Ah! Dinner.”

“The
bayles
are looking for her even now,” Lucien blurted. Bishop Raimon turned to him, and he lowered his gaze. “Lord Bishop—”

“As they should.” Bishop Raimon beckoned to one of his servants, who sliced a slab of roast duck onto a waiting plate. The bishop gestured to the other to move his chair to the table, then sat and seized a delicate pair of ebony-handled knives and applied them to his meat. Lucien had never seen such graceful little utensils. He found himself staring at them in doped fascination, while the rich red scent of the meat wet his tongue.

“Sit, Pons, and eat,” the bishop said. “There’s plenty.” When the prior hesitated, the bishop poked a knife laden with meat in his direction. “Even our moderation needs moderation, Pons. I declare it would be a sin of ingratitude for you to refuse me.”

Prior Pons took a seat, and the bishop’s servants carved him a plate of food. They must have carried the bishop’s dinner all the way from his palace.

Lucien’s stomach writhed. The friars had dined on bread and thin soup hours ago. Would he also be invited to sup? No. He made himself look away. Oh, for but one slice of fowl! There was never meat for the lesser friars. Even when Lucien was a boy, there had been only hunger. His father, a candlemaker, always seemed to have more mouths to feed than customers.

Bishop Raimon spoke without looking up. “Senhor Hugo.”

“My lord.”

A figure appeared out of the shadows, making Lucien jump. He was dressed as a knight of rank in a velvet cap and an emblazoned surcoat displaying a family coat of arms. Lucien recognized him from the execution. He’d stood with Count Raimon, watching the proceedings through grim, angry eyes. It seemed like days ago, instead of hours.

“Hugo, are you sure you didn’t see anyone close to the heretics tonight?” The bishop chewed a morsel thoughtfully. “No one who might have cut the younger one free?”

The knight’s gaze took in Lucien in a sweep. The scabbard at his side shimmered as if it had a murderous will of its own.

“I saw no one but ourselves, my lord,” said the knight. “Count Raimon, your retinue, the inquisitors, and the executioners. I would have said it was
impossible for anyone to reach the women unseen in such an audience. They were well surrounded.”

The bishop swallowed a dripping bite. “What does the count intend to do now? Wash his hands of the girl?”

Senhor Hugo’s stance shifted, slightly, but with power. “That is why I’m here,” he said quietly. “I will track the girl myself.”

Lucien thought the bishop looked momentarily impressed, though the elder churchman was much too smooth to show it.

“Examine the executioners,” the bishop said, with a wave of his little knife. “Inquire into their characters. Learn whether one of them might have been bought by friends of the family. Or whether they deliberately freed her in defiance of our work.”

Lucien blinked. The executioners, defiant?

“Lucien,” the prior explained, “we’ve only just had our permission to conduct inquisitions restored earlier this year. Three years ago the city of Tolosa rose up in such protest that Count Raimon petitioned the pope to halt our work, and was granted it.” He sighed. “They did the same, six years ago, and I traveled with Bishop Raimon myself to petition the pope for relief. To be an inquisitor is to be like one of the holy martyrs. Wickedness will always try to stop us.” At the word
wickedness
, his gaze fell upon Hugo, but the knight showed no reaction.

“The Count of Tolosa comes from a long line of heretic lovers,” muttered the bishop darkly. He turned to Lucien. “Young friar, understand this: these suspensions of inquisition were mere delays. We shall be wiser this time. Some of the inquisitors among our order were, shall we say, a little too quick to convict, hence the outcry. But we can’t trust the loyalty of the people of Tolosa. The executioners could be conspirators. You’ll see to the investigation, then, Senhor Hugo?”

The knight stirred. “I will.”

Lucien was glad not to be one of the executioners.

“Use what force you deem necessary,” the bishop added.

The knight nodded. “I will speak to the officers.”

“As will I.”

The knight shot an annoyed look at Lucien, whose stomach, just then, groaned loudly. He blushed hot.

“I will speak with them, my lord,” Hugo repeated, “but I doubt the executioners were in league with the prisoners.”

Raimon plucked a tidbit of duck from the point of his knife with his lips. “Then somehow she must have brought her own blade and concealed it.” He licked grease off the blunt edge of his knife. “The heretics often display a most diabolical will to survive.”

“Men on the field of battle behave no differently, Bishop,” said Hugo. “The will to cheat death is not confined to heretics.”

This comment earned Hugo a wrinkle of the bishop’s upper lip. “This one,” the bishop said, “will not cheat me.”

“I will bid you
bon sẹr
,” said Senhor Hugo. “I have a runaway to find.”

Prior Pons beckoned for Lucien to approach for a private conference. He spoke softly in his ear. “Where is Brother Humbert?”

“Resting,” Lucien whispered. “Tonight’s chase exerted him uncomfortably.”

It wasn’t the first time Prior Pons had inquired about Brother Lucien’s older, less vigorous companion. By their rule, Dominican
socii
ought always to be together, but Brother Humbert’s age and ailments often worked to prevent this.

Bishop Raimon waved, and his short-haired attendant produced a parcel full of dark, moist cake. From the fragrance of it, it was made with apricots and soaked in red wine.

“Let the girl slip away,” the bishop said between bites of cake, “and she’ll light a fire throughout Provensa. She’s as unrepentant a heretic as any
bona femna
or
bon ome
, and a defiant, unnatural female, which is worse. And she’s not the only one.” He chewed. “I hear reports. In Bavaria, in Flanders, these women gather without orders or vows. They form private religious houses. Some claim to speak with God themselves, as yours does. It’s clear where that will lead.”

Prior Pons murmured his assent.

Bishop Raimon laid his utensils on the table and leaned back in his chair. “You must find the girl alive,” he said. “The little slut must be caught by morning.”

Lucien blinked.
Slut?
He pictured, for a moment . . . “Of course we’ll find her alive.” His words earned him a look of warning from the prior. “Why, Bishop, would she not be alive?”

The bishop chuckled. “Dolssa de Stigata has lived a soft and comfortable life in her parents’ home. She has never exerted herself more
than to pluck a chestnut from her father’s tree. If she makes it through this night, she could well die yet of thirst or exposure or injury.”

“Then we leave it to God,” said Prior Pons, “to execute his own justice.”

“You are an indulgent fellow, Pons,” said the bishop. “The people must witness her end. She herself no longer matters. She’s beyond all hope of salvation. But let her die on the road, and she becomes a martyr.”

Slut.
The impossible image of Dolssa de Stigata trying to entice a man would not leave Lucien. He thrust it from him with effort. “We will find her, Lord Bishop. If I must find her myself.”

“I know you will,” Bishop Raimon said. “The Lord requires it of you.” He dabbed at his lips with a napkin, then rose and made his way toward the fire, where he leaned against the mantel.

“Go prepare yourself, Lucien,” said Prior Pons. “Friar Humbert would slow your journey, I fear. Let him remain, and you go, but if you haven’t found her in a few days, return. Be safe.” Friar Lucien nodded and left the room.

Bishop Raimon watched Prior Pons’s thoughtful expression as the young friar left.

“I really thought she would recant when they brought her mother to the pyre,” the bishop said. “That’s why I ordered them to take the mother first. My little gamble went awry. It was never the mother who mattered. If we had burned the daughter first and let the mother live, she’d have found her grief hotter than our flames.”

Prior Pons sipped his wine. “All for nothing, then?”

“Oh, no,” Bishop Raimon said. “An execution is never wasted.” He chuckled. “Attendance at mass soars after a burning.”

IZARN DE BASIÈJA

Witness Testimony recorded by Lucien

V
ILLAGE OF
B
ASIÈJA

Izarn de Basièja: peasant farmer in

the village; resides on the outskirts, near

the highway; age thirty-one; married,

three children; grows cabbages, radishes,

parsnips, and the like

ood day, Friar, good day. You honor us by coming here. Can we offer you our humble food? My wife, she is very talented with
sopa
. You will like it. Come sit. I will pour for you.