The Night's Dark Shade Read online

  The Night’s Dark Shade

  A Novel of the Cathars

  By Elena Maria Vidal

  Published by MAYAPPLE BOOKS at Smashwords

  Copyright © 2011 by Elena Maria Vidal

  Smashwords Edition License Notes:

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this document may be reproduced without written consent from the author.

  Cover design by The Russell Organization

  Artwork: Meeting on the turret stairs by Frederick Burton

  Author’s photo by Virginia Crum

  ISBN: 978-1-4580-6832-3

  To my husband

  "O high and glorious King, O Light and Brightness true!

  God of Power, Lord, suppose it pleases you,

  Make my comrade welcome, and grant him all your aid.

  For him I have not seen since fell the night's dark shade,

  and soon will come the dawn."

  ~ from a twelfth century poem by Guirault de Bornheil

  Other Books by Elena Maria Vidal

  Trianon: A Novel of Royal France

  Madame Royale

  Visit www.emvidal.com and the Tea at Trianon blog,

  http://teaattrianon.blogspot.com/

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A special thanks to Regina Doman and Andrew Schmiedicke for their editorial advice, without which this book would not have taken shape. I am also indebted to Mr. and Mrs. Charles Thomas, who let me use the seclusion of their mountain manor in which to gather my thoughts and pen the first few chapters. Much thanks must be given as well to Christine Niles for her copy editing skills. Most of all, I am grateful to my mother and to my friend Mary Lanser, both of whom read the first draft and encouraged me through the many revisions, giving the inspiration and moral support that every writer needs.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Preface

  Part I: A Taste of Heresy, A.D. 1227

  Chapter One: The Brigands of Cambasque

  Chapter Two: The Knight Hospitaller

  Chapter Three: Mirambel

  Chapter Four: The Believers

  Chapter Five: The Valley of the Faeries

  Chapter Six: The Royal Official

  Chapter Seven: The Perfect Ones

  Chapter Eight: The Flight

  Chapter Nine: The Forest

  Chapter Ten: Bécède

  Part II: The Desperate Marriage, A.D. 1228

  Chapter Eleven: A Veil of Scarlet

  Chapter Twelve: The Rose Garden

  Chapter Thirteen: The Shadow

  Chapter Fourteen: The Dawn

  Chapter Fifteen: Capture

  Chapter Sixteen: The Siege

  Chapter Seventeen: Immolation

  Chapter Eighteen: The Duel

  Bibliography

  PREFACE

  The Night’s Dark Shade is a novel of thirteenth-century France. The Middle Ages was an era of intensity. People applied themselves with great ardor to every endeavor, be it art, poetry, warfare, love or religion. They were particularly fervent in regard to matters of faith. Religious convictions were not subject to indifference, as they tend to be today; rather every nuance of doctrine was of vital interest to all. Fanatics appeared from time to time, and the blood of innocents was shed. Heresy was viewed as a capital offense, for it was seen as leading to the death of the soul, which was for the mediaevals more to be dreaded than mere bodily death. Too often, battling heresy became an excuse for pillage, as wars arose. This is the story of the conflicts which raged in individuals, as well as in families and kingdoms, amid the tumult of the Albigensian Crusade.

  The Knights Hospitaller of St. John were one of the military orders whose duty it was to guard travelers on any one of the three great pilgrimage routes to Jerusalem, Rome, and Compostela. They also cared for the sick, operating free hospitals throughout Europe and Palestine. Today they are known as the Knights of Malta.

  As far as the Cathars or the Albigensian sect, there is some question as to whether or not they were truly “heretics.” In order to have been heretical, they would have had to have been Christian. Since they believed in two gods, it is questionable whether they can be regarded as members of Christianity or of any monotheistic religion. Nevertheless, they persisted in calling themselves “Good Christians,” which is how the confusion began.

  Part I: A Taste of Heresy, Autumn, 1227

  Chapter 1: The Brigands of Cambasque

  Clouds billowed in grey and hyacinth hues through the gaping chasms of the Pyrenees as Raphaëlle and her companions gingerly descended through the pass. Mist cloaked the darkening vale, shimmering in the autumn light. Seemingly more luminous than the fading sun were the trees, tawny and scarlet as they gripped the mountains, glowing even in the valley, which was already plunged into dusk.

  The mountain gusts caused Raphaëlle to pull her green mantle more tightly around her as she carefully maneuvered the steps of her horse, Zephyr, into the valley. The art of riding a horse downhill, without either causing the horse to stumble or falling off herself, was one she had mastered at an early age, having lived all her life in the mountains of Auvergne. She tried to put her mind off the chill in her gloved hands and leather-encased feet by concentrating on guiding her horse, but the wind was cause for worry. Perhaps a storm was coming? She would never have guessed that it would be so cold in October, especially not that far south.

  Once again she looked behind her at the pilgrims who had joined their train, taking advantage of the protection of the knights who rode before them and the men-at-arms who marched behind. Most of the pilgrims were on foot, and the women and children among them were struggling. The faces of the front group were turning blue with the cold. Her heart ached for them. As the Vicomtesse de Miramande she still remembered her late father's words: a noble family should care for the common people. Ahead she could see a rocky outcrop. Perhaps she could persuade the knights to halt so the travelers could rest and warm themselves.

  Sir Alain, the rough knight in front of her, reached somewhat level ground on his brown stallion, and shouted over his shoulder, “Double your pace!” She almost pulled her horse to a halt in dismay.

  “Sir Alain!” she called to him. “A storm is brewing. What of the pilgrims? They'll freeze in this wind!”

  Sir Alain did not look at her; rather, he exchanged glances with his companion, Sir Gérard. Then, Sir Alain replied. “Mademoiselle, the shelter we need is the castle. If we push on, we will surely arrive by nightfall.”

  The pilgrims, who had joined them in Toulouse, were en route to the great shrine at Compostela. Most were mounted but some were on foot, and they had not eaten in half a day. A small child was crying. She reined in her horse. “There are hungry children among us. I insist that we stop at once.” Both the knights reined in their horses as well and the party halted.

  “Your uncle will be furious if we do not reach the château by nightfall,” stated Sir Gérard. Sir Alain said, “It was folly to bring along those pilgrims, as I told you, Mademoiselle. We should have refused.” Sir Gérard grunted in agreement.

  “Nonsense. How could we have left them to fend for themselves?” queried Raphaëlle. “Poor souls! Charity demands giving aid to pilgrims.”

  “We are only a league or so away from the castle,” enjoined Sir Alain. “I beg you, my lady, let us not
tarry another moment.”

  There was a touch at Raphaëlle’s shoulder. It was Margot, her nurse, with one raised eyebrow, which declared her mutual annoyance with the knights.

  “Peace, Margot,” said Raphaëlle, before the old woman could start berating them. Raphaëlle sighed, longing for the mountains of Auvergne, and the castle that was all she had left of her family. Every stone of the Château de Miramande had been dear to her; every rock and blade of grass of her land was etched upon her heart forever. She was worried for Margot, who had never traveled so far and so long.

  Raphaëlle glanced at the pilgrims. “But what about the people?”

  The knight shrugged. “If they cannot keep up with us, it is on their own heads.”

  Raphaëlle straightened herself in anger. For some time she had suspected the knights had been trying to leave the pilgrims behind; her suspicions were confirmed. It was clear they had no concern for the commoners. She attempted diplomacy. “What about your men-at-arms? They have not rested since this morning. And my own attendants are weary. Not to mention myself.…”

  Sir Gérard, the older and dourer of the two, rarely spoke, but now he interrupted her. “Mademoiselle, to halt now would be folly,” he stated in cold, dry tones. “The wars with the Franks left behind a string of landless knights when they took this country from the Cathars. They now roam the passes as brigands. To fall into their hands would mean a cruel death for anyone from the north.”

  “And you fear them?” she said, casting a glance at the dozen men-at-arms who now drew up around her and her party. “We have the strength to resist such bandits.”

  “The men are tired of this journey, Mademoiselle,” Gérard cut in. “This journey, which has taken twice as long since you insisted on slowing our pace for this rabble.” He glared waspishly at the dozen and a half pilgrims now hurrying towards the rocky outcropping as the first drops of rain began to fall.

  “Rabble? Is that what you call holy pilgrims on their way to the great shrine of Saint James at Compostela?” Raphaëlle said, indignantly. “It may be their prayers that save you, Sir Gérard!” She appealed to them all. “Could we not stop a half hour and eat?”

  It seemed that her words found a home in the eyes of the other men, who showed by their faint grunts that hunger was biting at their innards painfully, as the rain started in earnest.

  Muttering, Sir Alain turned his horse and headed for the outcropping. Raphaëlle knew she had won as the men-at-arms began to follow him. Only Sir Gérard stared at her coolly. “Be it on your head if any of us meet a cruel death at the hands of your compassion.”

  Raphaëlle wasted no time. Dismounting lightly from her horse, she pulled its head behind her as she rejoined the rest of her party, who were huddling next to the pilgrims beneath the rock. A half hour: no time to make a fire, but at least time for getting water from the skins, and some food. Her water bottle was almost empty, but she knew Margot had a skin of wine that could be passed around, as well as some bread and sausage.

  “Margot, how are your feet?” Raphaëlle asked the old nurse, as the latter eased off her mule, wrapping a damp gray wool cloak more closely around her.

  “Fine. But I am worried, Mademoiselle. This is wild country, full of witches – witches and heretics,” said the nurse. Her blue eyes darted warily about in her rosy, wrinkled face. “If only Mademoiselle’s uncle had allowed her to stay in Auvergne.” Margot rolled her eyes heavenward. “If only Monsieur du Puy had not been slain….”

  Raphaëlle inwardly flinched at the mention of Guillaume's name. Her betrothed had been killed in the crusade against the Albigensians led by King Louis “the Lion.” She and Guillaume were raised together; the assumption that she would someday be his wife had been instilled in her from the dawn of memory. He had ridden away a little more than a year ago as her father’s squire, laughing and bold, his black mane tossing in the wind, promising that they would be wed the instant he returned, laden with Cathar treasure. But he returned in a shroud, and so did her father, and so did King Louis the Lion. The Kingdom of France quaked under the new king, the boy Louis IX, for the barons plotted rebellion. The domain was held together by a thread, the thread being the iron will of young Louis’ mother, Queen Blanche.

  Raphaëlle recalled her months at the royal court waiting upon the Queen as those of a halcyon dream. While her father was chosen as an aide-de-camp to the King, Raphaëlle was given a place in the Queen’s household. Her time with the court now seemed too glamorous to be real, days in which she learned more about life and politics than she could ever have at the family estate in Auvergne even over many years. In spite of the anxieties of war, Queen Blanche was always kind to the maidens in her charge, treating them as her own daughters even as they attended her. She would never forget how the quick, light stride of the Queen, the rustle of her robes and the lilt of her Castilian accent would bring everyone to their feet when she entered a room. It was the Queen who gently broke to Raphaëlle the tidings of her father’s death and of Guillaume’s as well. She never forgot the Queen’s arms holding her close, as Raphaëlle fell to her knees in grief.

  “Courage, Mademoiselle,” declared the Queen. “When we send our men to war it is always with the knowledge that they might not return. But we can rejoice in the certainty that your father and your betrothed kept their oaths until the end. They fought for the King their lord, to whom they had sworn fealty. Your father Monsieur de Miramande died because he bravely averted a blow aimed at the King. Monsieur du Puy was slain as he held aloft the royal standard.”

  “Oh, but Madame,” Raphaëlle had sobbed. “I would rather that they all be alive and with us. How can we carry on without them?”

  The Queen stroked Raphaëlle’s cheek. “Ma cherie, we are of noble birth. It is our sacred duty to carry on. There are many people who rely upon us for their succor.” She held Raphaëlle’s hands between her own, as at the ceremony of swearing fealty. “When we take and receive such sacred oaths we bind our blood, our sinews, our very souls to a duty that only Heaven can loose. When you promised allegiance to my son our new sovereign it may have seemed a heavy burden, but I tell you that it is a far heavier task for the one who receives the pledge. In the name of my son, who is not yet of age, I must protect all of his vassals as if they were my own children. And you must defend your people, at whatever cost to yourself. You must find a husband to help you. No sacrifice is too great if it means the safety of your vassals.”

  Guillaume now lay buried in his family’s vault, and Raphaëlle was traveling to a new country to pledge her troth to a stranger.…

  “No, Margot,” said Raphaëlle, mentally returning from memory. “We must look with confidence towards what lies ahead. My uncle has been good enough to offer me his protection. Someday, we shall return to my lands in Auvergne, if only for a visit.” Her throat swelled, but she would not allow herself to feel sorrow. Life was hard for all: there was much to do. Perseverance must often pass for hope, her father had said.

  Jehanette, her sturdy seventeen year old peasant handmaid, exclaimed, “I hope we won’t be making the return journey any time soon!” As she spoke, the maid cast a furtive glance in the direction of Sir Alain, who grinned at her, even while he was arguing with Sir Gérard. Raphaëlle made a note to remind herself to scold Jehanette. She was still cross with Alain. A foundling, Jehanette had been Raphaëlle’s constant companion and playmate since infancy. She was glad to have been chosen to accompany Raphaëlle as her handmaiden, even though it meant leaving behind everything she had ever known. It would take more than a perilous journey to dampen Jehanette’s spirits. Raphaëlle’s heart rejoiced in a surge of gratitude for the company of the old nurse and the young girl. Margot and Jehanette had both risked their lives to care for Raphaëlle’s mother and little brother and sister when pestilence had swept the region, leaving no castle or peasant hut unscathed. They had helped her to care for the sick and to bury the dead.

  Raphaëlle broke off a piece of the loaf that Mar
got handed her. “Eat this first,” she commanded her nurse. “Don't let me fret about your going hungry.” She tried to speak brightly, hiding the trepidation that shadowed her heart at the thought of marriage to the foreign cousin whom she had never seen. The sensation was an alien one; of late her attitude had been one of indifference towards what was to become of her.

  Jehanette took the proffered piece eagerly. “Oh, thank you, Mademoiselle, I am famished!” she exclaimed. “When shall we reach your uncle’s castle?”

  “By nightfall they say,” answered Raphaëlle.

  After receiving the news of her father’s death and that of Guillaume, the Queen gave Raphaëlle permission to leave the court in order to arrange her affairs. She had hastened to the Benedictine monastery at Le Puy-en-Velay, begging the nuns to allow her to take the veil. Madame Geneviève, the Mother Abbess, who happened also to be Raphaëlle’s aunt, had refused to admit her.

  “No, Raphaëlle,” she had said. “You are meant to marry. You are all that is left of our family, and the people on your estate need you to guide them, but you must find a husband to help you.”

  When Raphaëlle’s mother’s brother, Pierre du Tourmalet, had claimed wardship of her and of her property, while inviting her to marry his son and heir, Raymond, she had gladly acquiesced. After obtaining the necessary ecclesiastical dispensation for cousins to wed, she signed the marriage contract, and by proxy became betrothed. Great was her relief when her future appeared to be settled; she would soon have a family again and besides, she was seeking not her own will, but only the Will of God.

  She remembered that they must soon be on their way. All business again, she took half the loaf from Margot. “You two share the rest,” she said. She stowed her half in the corner of her cloak, intending to go and visit the pilgrims and offer it to those who had no food: she knew the provisions of the family with children were low.