The de Montfort Histories - The Dove and the Devil by Gradyn Bell Page A

not a believer himself, has many family members who are,
and does his best to protect us from the worst of any persecution. He has held
back the tide of hate that flows from Rome, but, alas, the waters are getting
stormier and he may not be strong enough to help us all he would wish.”
    After this unexpectedly long speech from his father-in-law, Arnaud sat
down. Until this moment, he had truly not considered the persecution that the
believers had undergone. Of course, he had known that they practised their
religion under conditions of near secrecy, but he had not understood the
importance of this as a protective mechanism to ensure the survival of their
Church.
    “You must take care to whom you speak.” Arnaud’s father-in-law looked
him straight in the eye. “Eventually, you will come to know all the brothers
and sisters, but in the meantime speak with Bertrand and seek his advice. He’ll
not fail you.”
    Arnaud’s mother-in-law went off to prepare the simple supper they ate
every evening before bed—plain broth served with a few vegetables and
bread. Worn out by his walk into Ambres that day, seeing the remains of what
had been once a happy life, and the hugely emotional decision he had made,
Arnaud felt his eyelids begin to grow heavy.
    “Why don’t you stay here tonight?” his mother-in-law suggested. “You can
get an early start tomorrow. You’ll probably catch Bertrand before he sets off
again.”
    Arnaud gladly accepted the invitation. It had been a long day, one that
had been physically and emotionally draining. It did not take him many minutes,
wrapped in the warmth of the dying fire, to fall asleep.
    Arnaud’s father-in-law looked at the young man speculatively as he
slept. “He’ll do,” he grunted. “He’s just the sort we need. He isn’t greedy for
worldly possessions and there doesn’t seem to be another woman on the horizon.
I’ve noticed a strength in him lately—not a hardness but a tempering,
like a fine metal. He’s very fit, too. Bertrand told me that when they were
away together last year, he was able to keep up with them and never once
flagged or asked for a rest.”
    “Time will tell,” his wife said. “I am sure as I can be that God has
called him. And if it took our daughter’s death to accomplish this, I think I
can live with that.”

 
    The next day Arnaud was up at dawn, intent on waylaying Bertrand before
he left on another preaching trip. He wasn’t sure where the perfectus had been staying, but armed
with some suggestions from his erstwhile hosts, he managed to track him down
after knocking at only two doors. He was just in time; the older man was
already garbed in the familiar black robes and sandals that signified his rank
in the Cathar Church and was saying his goodbyes to the faithful couple whose
religious zeal had made them worthy enough to receive him under their roof.
    Although he was in a hurry, for he had a long journey ahead of him that
day, Bertrand greeted Arnaud with a warmth that spoke volumes to the younger
man. He had heard these men called bons
hommes by non-believers and he was beginning to understand why. They were
good men. Although people who didn’t really understand what the elders were
about had accused them of being miserable because of their austere way of
living, there was no doubt that their example had caught the imagination of
many in the general population. They visited village after village, and indeed chateau
after chateau, where they were received with extreme veneration as they carried
their message in their preaching. Even the most cynical of non-believers had to
admit that the lives of these men of God were dedicated and pure. Fasting was a
way of life to them; often their only meal would be bread and water. In any
event, no meat ever passed their lips and they would sooner die themselves than
kill any living creature. It was well known that one of them had once chosen to
be hanged rather than kill a chicken!
    “Welcome, my