Fifth Gospel

1


MEETING LEA




Montségur, France, 1244

I am not a troubadour and yet I sing. I am a bishop and yet I do not belong to any church. I have come by what I know by way of ignorance, and what I possess is mine because I am dispossessed. That is how I have arrived at who I am – by sacrificing certainty.

But who am I?

I am old. I do not imagine myself old, no, but when I look at my hands I see they are veined, when I feel my face I know it is full of creases, and when I walk I am reminded that my joints are not always prepared to follow. Alas! I have lived long enough, near fifty years without mishap, and I dare say I should have lived many more had destiny allowed it, but it has not. It has set me upon this difficult journey and will lead me on until I reach that place which you shall know in the end, if my tongue does not betray me before then.

But what was I saying? Oh, yes…I am old, and growing old means that I have watched my friends die, and the foremost of them was my socio, Guilhabert de Castres. Oh…I miss him like I would miss a leg or an arm! I can still see him so vividly: short, squat with small hands and feet, a rounded face that wrinkles when he smiles, close, sharp eyes that see only the goodness in everything, and a jaw that juts out as if it were made of steel, a signal of his strong will. In fact his will was so determined that he never tired. Even in his later years when we travelled all over Languedoc on our nocturnal rides to secret meetings, or on journeys from one village to another, he walked always with a certain rhythm, his back as straight as a rod and his head pointing the way.

In those days I was tall and muscular and yet, I was always amazed to see him climb the steep and arduous path to the pog, our mountain of Montségur, with ease, smiling and joyful to arrive at the top while I puffed and grumbled with every step and trailed behind him, red faced and fatigued.

As I descend this same path now, keeping my mortal appointment with God, I think how fitting it is that Guilhabert has missed this end of ends! When I think of it tears fall from my eyes. They are falling now and I wipe them with a hand as I pause to look up. The sky is yet dark and I am looking for the sign. It should come from the summit of Bidorta if all goes well. Ah! I feel a pang in my heart to think on the alternative, but the bee, that little creature which has been buzzing around me for some days, has come again to cheer my spirit. The little sun being leads the way that descends and winds over these frost-covered stones. It reminds me of my promise and helps me to sow into my soul the happenings of those days and to weave everything into a song.

Those who walk with me have their own songs to sing, their own memories to store away: songs of children and husbands and lovers and life. I sing to remember the Gospel and my song begins on the night Guilhabert died.

The week we were due to return to the fortress of Montségur, Guilhabert fell sick with a fever. I had some knowledge of herbs and berries and roots and tried to affect a cure, but, alas, I was not successful. For three days Guilhabert lay on his death pallet covered in a sweat. I sat by him, dozing now and again, waking up to wipe his brow or to pull more blankets over his shivering form, while outside our cave the wind whistled and moaned its dire omens. On the fourth night Guilhabert seemed better and I told him that if the worst should happen I would suffer the Endura (the sacred fast of our faith) in order to follow him into death, desire-less and full of joy. But Guilhabert was not pleased by this and gathered what strength he had to reprimand me, ‘What madness you speak, boy!’ He looked very hard at me with those clouded eyes stabbing at my soul. ‘Come closer and listen to me…stop thinking about the Endura, you have something yet to do…I know this because I have seen the future and I am returned from it to tell you something of great importance.’

Out of respect for his venerable person I tried not to betray my disbelief. ‘When did you see the future, master?’ I asked.

‘When I was gone, when I thought I was finally finished with this carcass! Come closer…why do you sit so far? I lose my breath! That’s it! Lean in so that I can whisper. I will talk plainly…I am dying and dying men must speak plain…’ He waved an impatient hand to forestall any words of hope. ‘Come now! There is no time to skirt around the truth!’ He gestured for me to sit him up and I did so, holding him in my arms as he spoke, his voice so low I had to bend my ear close to hear it.

‘Firstly, we have been together…what?’ he rolled his eyes into his head, calculating. ‘Twenty years? Yes, twenty years! And in all that time you have served me well and I have never knowingly hurt you, I hope. But I must ask you now for your forgiveness, ahead of time, for what I am about to ask.’