to him? Have I started to believe these stories too?
He let go of her arm and then looked around the room, as if he was searching for something. ‘Do you smell that?’ he said. ‘It’s like lavender. Have you been chopping
herbs?’
Fabricia had noticed it also, at the very moment she put her hand on the priest. She looked into the corner to see if the lady in blue was there.
‘What are you looking at?’ he said.
‘Nothing. You should go now.’
‘You thought you saw something!’ he said, as if he had caught her out in a lie.
‘No.’ He lowered his cassock. What was the expression on his face, was it fear, loathing or hope? Perhaps all three of them, mixed together. With one snake-like movement he snatched
up the knife and buried the point of the blade into the wooden bench between her hands. ‘If this doesn’t work, I’ll be back. Don’t make a fool of me a second time. The
Martys never forget an insult.’
‘Just don’t tell anyone about this,’ she said.
‘Just our little secret, òc ?’ He picked up his cloak from the fire and pulled it on. ‘Pray that I get well. For your sake, if not for mine.’
XXII
T HE BONS ÒMES made their way up the hill through the narrow lanes of Saint-Ybars. People came out of their
houses to kneel down as they passed. Everyone knew days ago that they were coming. The bayle ’s mother and old Gaston were dying and both had asked to be baptized with the consolamentum so that they would pass to the next world better prepared. The two priests would stay that night at the house of Pons the weaver, an honour he had keenly contested with three
other villagers.
No heretic priest might go unnoticed anywhere, least of all Guilhèm Vital. He was tall and angular, and the way he strode along, it suggested a man marching fearlessly to his doom. He was
clean-shaven and his long black hair hung about his shoulders. She imagined it might be how Jesus would have looked if he had Spanish blood in him. His companion – his socius –
was a head shorter and hurried to keep up with his long loping strides.
They both wore long black hooded robes, the colour of mourning, to display their grief at finding themselves in the Devil’s world. They carried with them on a roll of cord about their
necks, the Gospel of John, the only text sacred to them. They leaned on long staffs as they made their way up the hill.
They were priests, as Father Marty was a priest, but there she supposed the resemblance ended. The bons òmes never threatened any who did not believe in their teaching, and they
did not charge a fee for naming children or burying the dead. Nor did they live by tax or by tithe, only by the goodwill of the crezens – even the Catholics – who held them to be
good men.
The heretics believed in Jesus and the Gospel of John but not the cross; the mass, they said, was a sacrilege; the entire Roman Church was the work of Satan and the seat of all damnation. In
their preaching they pointed out that there was nothing in the testaments that allowed bishops to live more sumptuously than princes and wear furs and jewels. They themselves lived as itinerant
preachers, owned nothing and were paid nothing, refused even to carry a weapon in case they harmed someone by accident.
Their creed was this: all that was not spirit was doomed to destruction and merited no respect. Yet though they were hard with themselves, they were gentle with others; they allowed that not
everyone could live lives of such harsh discipline, and so all that was necessary to save the soul was to believe in their preaching – to be a crezen – to offer them respect, and
take the final right of baptism into the faith just before death.
Which was why so many villagers came out of their houses to prostrate themselves at their feet and ask their blessing as they passed. It was the first time heretics had come here since they had
lived in Saint-Ybars and Fabricia had not realized how many crezens
He let go of her arm and then looked around the room, as if he was searching for something. ‘Do you smell that?’ he said. ‘It’s like lavender. Have you been chopping
herbs?’
Fabricia had noticed it also, at the very moment she put her hand on the priest. She looked into the corner to see if the lady in blue was there.
‘What are you looking at?’ he said.
‘Nothing. You should go now.’
‘You thought you saw something!’ he said, as if he had caught her out in a lie.
‘No.’ He lowered his cassock. What was the expression on his face, was it fear, loathing or hope? Perhaps all three of them, mixed together. With one snake-like movement he snatched
up the knife and buried the point of the blade into the wooden bench between her hands. ‘If this doesn’t work, I’ll be back. Don’t make a fool of me a second time. The
Martys never forget an insult.’
‘Just don’t tell anyone about this,’ she said.
‘Just our little secret, òc ?’ He picked up his cloak from the fire and pulled it on. ‘Pray that I get well. For your sake, if not for mine.’
XXII
T HE BONS ÒMES made their way up the hill through the narrow lanes of Saint-Ybars. People came out of their
houses to kneel down as they passed. Everyone knew days ago that they were coming. The bayle ’s mother and old Gaston were dying and both had asked to be baptized with the consolamentum so that they would pass to the next world better prepared. The two priests would stay that night at the house of Pons the weaver, an honour he had keenly contested with three
other villagers.
No heretic priest might go unnoticed anywhere, least of all Guilhèm Vital. He was tall and angular, and the way he strode along, it suggested a man marching fearlessly to his doom. He was
clean-shaven and his long black hair hung about his shoulders. She imagined it might be how Jesus would have looked if he had Spanish blood in him. His companion – his socius –
was a head shorter and hurried to keep up with his long loping strides.
They both wore long black hooded robes, the colour of mourning, to display their grief at finding themselves in the Devil’s world. They carried with them on a roll of cord about their
necks, the Gospel of John, the only text sacred to them. They leaned on long staffs as they made their way up the hill.
They were priests, as Father Marty was a priest, but there she supposed the resemblance ended. The bons òmes never threatened any who did not believe in their teaching, and they
did not charge a fee for naming children or burying the dead. Nor did they live by tax or by tithe, only by the goodwill of the crezens – even the Catholics – who held them to be
good men.
The heretics believed in Jesus and the Gospel of John but not the cross; the mass, they said, was a sacrilege; the entire Roman Church was the work of Satan and the seat of all damnation. In
their preaching they pointed out that there was nothing in the testaments that allowed bishops to live more sumptuously than princes and wear furs and jewels. They themselves lived as itinerant
preachers, owned nothing and were paid nothing, refused even to carry a weapon in case they harmed someone by accident.
Their creed was this: all that was not spirit was doomed to destruction and merited no respect. Yet though they were hard with themselves, they were gentle with others; they allowed that not
everyone could live lives of such harsh discipline, and so all that was necessary to save the soul was to believe in their preaching – to be a crezen – to offer them respect, and
take the final right of baptism into the faith just before death.
Which was why so many villagers came out of their houses to prostrate themselves at their feet and ask their blessing as they passed. It was the first time heretics had come here since they had
lived in Saint-Ybars and Fabricia had not realized how many crezens
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