not
answer.
‘And your
kindred?’ Gideon squinted his eyes to look at it.
‘Gone to God, my
father at the siege of Montsegur. My mother was burnt at the stake not far from
here. I was a child.’ Etienne urged his horse onward and away from the men.
‘There were
Normans in that war against his people,’ Gideon told Jacques de Molay.
The Grand Master
looked back with a fidget of the eye at him, then a sidelong glance at Iterius.
‘Speak no more of it.’
A weak sun hung
loose in the windy sky over the men when they passed a small house of rock and
mortar leaning against the wall of the hill. A cross of carved wood with a
circlet of roses stood at one side of it.
Through the
solution of silence, the ghost of Etienne’s past welcomed him with recognition.
It told him that he was baked into the soil, that he
was fallen about in ruin, scattered and over¬run with undergrowth. What was
left of him was like this house, set like mortar between stones.
He shook his
shoulders to dispel the thought. He had not known what would pass over his soul
when he beheld with adult eyes the devastation of his inheritance. Now he found
that where his heart gathered blood to itself there was a fist pounding and a
burning that found the veins in his arm and shot through them like lit arrows.
After a moment the feeling passed and Etienne looked around to the silence that
was apparent and false. He brought himself from out of his thoughts. ‘Someone
is here.’
From inside the
house, as if by command, there came a woman and in a moment she stood
surrounded. Etienne nosed his horse between the bodies of the other horses and
saw that she held a hoe out in front of her like a weapon and had poked a
circle of space around herself. She was small, and old and a peasant, yet for
all of it she stood tall, her head square on broad shoulders, the grey and voluminous hair piled high and tucked into a brown bonnet.
‘Who are you?’
Etienne sent his question down at her.
‘Who are you?’
the old woman said in Langued’oc, pitching the instrument at him by way of
punctuation.
Etienne’s horse
took two steps back and Etienne quieted it with a word in the ear. ‘I am the
lord of yonder castle.’
The woman
thought this through. ‘The lord is dead at Montsegur . . . o’er sixty years.’
Then she set the hoe by her side and, leaning forward, shot him a look. ‘What
lives there now comes from the north and lives by the name of Bruyeres!’ She
narrowed her eyes and puckered her mouth. ‘Bernard de Congost had a grandchild
. . . likely dead on Crusade.’
Etienne looked
upward to the sky full of snow-burdened clouds and then down to this apparition
and the scar above the bloodshot eyes. It filled him with a sudden bewilderment
at God, whose whim had kept this woman so long from death. He made a
half-smile. ‘Old woman,’ he said, being all he could say, but his heart was
soft at the sight of her, ‘when did you return?’
‘Return?’ she
scoffed. ‘Forty-two years ago I took you from your mother’s womb and nursed
you. Thirty-five years ago did I take you from another castle to hide you in a
cave from the Inquisition. Twenty-eight years afore
now have I waited for your return.’ Once more she leant on the hoe, her chin
jutting out and her eyes like pinpoints of fire. ‘You have come, Etienne de
Congost, and still your grandfather’s house belongs to another man!’
She picked up
her hoe and moved away from the circle of men.
Gideon made a
move to stop her.
‘Leave her!’
Etienne said and watched her go to her little house.
‘Old women have
a taste for rumour, lord.’ Delgado was patting his sides to keep him warm.
She is a cunning
woman to have saved a child from the flames and after that to have lived this long waiting. A ‘good woman’ as the pure
ones called them. I recognise her from the scar over her eyes, Etienne told
himself and dismounted, feeling his bones shift all the way to the base of his
skull. ‘She is
answer.
‘And your
kindred?’ Gideon squinted his eyes to look at it.
‘Gone to God, my
father at the siege of Montsegur. My mother was burnt at the stake not far from
here. I was a child.’ Etienne urged his horse onward and away from the men.
‘There were
Normans in that war against his people,’ Gideon told Jacques de Molay.
The Grand Master
looked back with a fidget of the eye at him, then a sidelong glance at Iterius.
‘Speak no more of it.’
A weak sun hung
loose in the windy sky over the men when they passed a small house of rock and
mortar leaning against the wall of the hill. A cross of carved wood with a
circlet of roses stood at one side of it.
Through the
solution of silence, the ghost of Etienne’s past welcomed him with recognition.
It told him that he was baked into the soil, that he
was fallen about in ruin, scattered and over¬run with undergrowth. What was
left of him was like this house, set like mortar between stones.
He shook his
shoulders to dispel the thought. He had not known what would pass over his soul
when he beheld with adult eyes the devastation of his inheritance. Now he found
that where his heart gathered blood to itself there was a fist pounding and a
burning that found the veins in his arm and shot through them like lit arrows.
After a moment the feeling passed and Etienne looked around to the silence that
was apparent and false. He brought himself from out of his thoughts. ‘Someone
is here.’
From inside the
house, as if by command, there came a woman and in a moment she stood
surrounded. Etienne nosed his horse between the bodies of the other horses and
saw that she held a hoe out in front of her like a weapon and had poked a
circle of space around herself. She was small, and old and a peasant, yet for
all of it she stood tall, her head square on broad shoulders, the grey and voluminous hair piled high and tucked into a brown bonnet.
‘Who are you?’
Etienne sent his question down at her.
‘Who are you?’
the old woman said in Langued’oc, pitching the instrument at him by way of
punctuation.
Etienne’s horse
took two steps back and Etienne quieted it with a word in the ear. ‘I am the
lord of yonder castle.’
The woman
thought this through. ‘The lord is dead at Montsegur . . . o’er sixty years.’
Then she set the hoe by her side and, leaning forward, shot him a look. ‘What
lives there now comes from the north and lives by the name of Bruyeres!’ She
narrowed her eyes and puckered her mouth. ‘Bernard de Congost had a grandchild
. . . likely dead on Crusade.’
Etienne looked
upward to the sky full of snow-burdened clouds and then down to this apparition
and the scar above the bloodshot eyes. It filled him with a sudden bewilderment
at God, whose whim had kept this woman so long from death. He made a
half-smile. ‘Old woman,’ he said, being all he could say, but his heart was
soft at the sight of her, ‘when did you return?’
‘Return?’ she
scoffed. ‘Forty-two years ago I took you from your mother’s womb and nursed
you. Thirty-five years ago did I take you from another castle to hide you in a
cave from the Inquisition. Twenty-eight years afore
now have I waited for your return.’ Once more she leant on the hoe, her chin
jutting out and her eyes like pinpoints of fire. ‘You have come, Etienne de
Congost, and still your grandfather’s house belongs to another man!’
She picked up
her hoe and moved away from the circle of men.
Gideon made a
move to stop her.
‘Leave her!’
Etienne said and watched her go to her little house.
‘Old women have
a taste for rumour, lord.’ Delgado was patting his sides to keep him warm.
She is a cunning
woman to have saved a child from the flames and after that to have lived this long waiting. A ‘good woman’ as the pure
ones called them. I recognise her from the scar over her eyes, Etienne told
himself and dismounted, feeling his bones shift all the way to the base of his
skull. ‘She is
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