Heretic

‘I follow the blessed St Dominic’s way,’ the friar confirmed. ‘The wine need not be good, the food merely what your poorest folk eat, and the bed can be of straw.’

The consul hesitated, for the friar was tall, evidently strong and just a bit frightening, but then the consul, who was a wealthy man and properly respected in Castillon d’Arbizon, drew himself up to his full height. ‘You are young,’ he said accusingly, ‘to be a friar.’

‘It is to the glory of God,’ the Dominican said dismissively, ‘that young men follow the cross instead of the sword. I can sleep in a stable.’

‘Your name?’ the consul demanded.

‘Thomas.’

‘An English name!’ There was alarm in the consul’s voice and the two sergeants responded by hefting their long staves.

‘Tomas, if you prefer,’ the friar said, seemingly unconcerned as the two sergeants took a menacing pace towards him. ‘It is my baptismal name,’ he explained, ‘and the name of that poor disciple who doubted Our Lord’s divinity. If you have no such doubts then I envy you and I pray to God that he grants me such certainty.’

‘You are French?’ the consul asked.

‘I am a Norman,’ the friar said, then nodded. ‘Yes, I am French.’ He looked at the priest. ‘Do you speak French?’

‘I do.’ The priest sounded nervous. ‘Some. A little.’

‘Then may I eat in your house tonight, father?’

The consul would not let Father Medous answer, but instead instructed the priest to give the friar the book. It was a very old book with worm-eaten pages and a black leather cover that the friar unwrapped.

‘What do you want of me?’ the friar demanded.

‘Read from the book.’ The consul had noticed that the friar’s hands were scarred and the fingers slightly twisted. Damage, he thought, more fitting for a soldier than a priest. ‘Read to me!’ the consul insisted.

‘You cannot read for yourself?’ the friar asked derisively.

‘Whether I read or not,’ the consul said, ‘is not your business. But whether you can read, young man, is our business, for if you are not a priest then you will not be able to read. So read to me.’

The friar shrugged, opened a page at random and paused. The consul’s suspicions were roused by the pause and he raised a hand to beckon the sergeants forward, but then the Dominican suddenly read aloud. He had a good voice, confident and strong, and the Latin words sounded like a melody as they echoed from the church’s painted walls. After a moment the consul held up a hand to silence the friar and looked quizzically at Father Medous. ‘Well?’

‘He reads well,’ Father Medous said weakly. The priest’s own Latin was not good and he did not like to admit that he had not entirely understood the echoing words, though he was quite sure that the Dominican could read.

‘You know what the book is?’ the consul demanded.

‘I assume,’ the friar said, ‘that it is the life of St Gregory. The passage, as you doubtless recognized,’ there was sarcasm in his voice, ‘describes the pestilence that will afflict those who disobey the Lord their God.’ He wrapped the limp black cover about the book and held it out to the priest. ‘You probably know the book as the Flores Sanctorum?’

‘Indeed.’ The priest took the book and nodded at the consul.

That official was still not entirely reassured. ‘Your hands,’ he said, ‘how were they injured? And your nose? It was broken?’

‘As a child,’ the friar said, holding out his hands, ‘I slept with the cattle. I was trampled by an ox. And my nose was broken when my mother struck me with a skillet.’

The consul understood those everyday childhood accidents and visibly relaxed. ‘You will understand, father,’ he said to the friar, ‘that we must be cautious of visitors.’

‘Cautious of God’s priests?’ the Dominican asked caustically.

‘We had to be sure,’ the consul explained. ‘A message came from Auch which said the English are riding, but no one knows where.’

‘There is a truce,’ the friar pointed out.

‘When did the English ever keep a truce?’ the consul retorted.

‘If they are indeed English,’ the Dominican said scornfully. ‘Any troop of bandits is called the English these days. You have men,’ he gestured at the sergeants who did not understand a word of the French conversation, ‘and you have churches and priests, so why should you fear bandits?’

‘The bandits are English,’ the consul insisted. ‘They carried war bows.’

‘Which does not alter the fact that I have come a long way, and that I am hungry, thirsty and tired.’

‘Father Medous will look after you,’ the consul said. He gestured at the sergeants and led them back down the nave and out into the small square. ‘There is nothing to worry about!’ the consul announced to the crowd. ‘Our visitor is a friar. He is a man of God.’

The small crowd dispersed. Twilight wreathed the church tower and closed about the castle’s battlements. A man of God had come to Castillon d’Arbizon and the small town was at peace.

The man of God ate a dish of cabbage, beans and salt bacon. He explained to Father Medous that he had made a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela in Spain to pray at the tomb of St James and now he was walking to Avignon to fetch new orders from his superiors. He had seen no raiders, English or otherwise.

‘We have seen no English in many years,’ Father Medous replied, making a hasty sign of the cross to avert the evil he had just mentioned, ‘but not so long ago they ruled here.’ The friar, eating his meal, appeared not to be interested. ‘We paid taxes to them,’ Father Medous went on, ‘but then they went and now we belong to the Count of Berat.’

‘I trust he is a godly man?’ Friar Thomas asked.

‘Very pious,’ Father Medous confirmed. ‘He keeps some straw from the manger at Bethlehem in his church. I would like to see that.’

‘His men garrison the castle?’ the friar demanded, ignoring the more interesting topic of the baby Jesus’s bedding.

‘Indeed,’ Father Medous confirmed.

‘Does the garrison hear Mass?’

Father Medous paused, obviously tempted to tell a lie, then settled for a half-truth. ‘Some do.’

The friar put down his wooden spoon and stared sternly at the uncomfortable priest. ‘How many are they? And how many of them hear Mass?’

Father Medous was nervous. All priests were nervous when Dominicans appeared, for the friars were God’s ruthless warriors in the fight against heresy and if this tall young man reported that the folk of Castillon d’Arbizon were less than pious then he could bring the Inquisition and its instruments of torture to the town. ‘There are ten of them in the garrison,’ Father Medous said, ‘and they are all good Christians. As are all my people.’

Friar Thomas looked sceptical. ‘All of them?’

‘They do their best,’ Father Medous said loyally, ‘but …’ He paused again, evidently regretting that he had been about to add a qualification and, to cover his hesitation, he went to the small fire and added a log. The wind fretted at the chimney and sent a back-draught of smoke whirling about the small room. ‘A north wind,’ Father Medous said, ‘and it brings the first cold night of the autumn. Winter is not far off, eh?’

‘But?’ The friar had noted the hesitation.

Father Medous sighed as he took his seat. ‘There is a girl. A heretic. She was not from Castillon d’Arbizon, God be thanked, but she stayed here when her father died. She is a beghard.’

‘I did not think the beghards were this far south,’ the friar said. Beghards were beggars, but not just any importunate folk. Instead they were heretics who denied the Church and denied the need to work and claimed all things came from God and therefore that all things should be free to all men and women. The Church, to protect itself against such horrors, burned the beghards wherever they were found.

‘They wander the roads,’ Father Medous pointed out, ‘and she came here, but we sent her to the bishop’s court and she was found guilty. Now she is back here.’

‘Back here?’ The friar sounded shocked.