Fifth Gospel(2)

I could not imagine why he should ask me for forgiveness and I told him so, but this occasioned a tempest of annoyance.

‘You were always a querulous one, Bertrand! Always wanting explanations! Well then, I will tell you why. What I am about to ask will lead you into peril! It will cause you much heartache, there is no getting away from it. And though it is God’s will, I ask your forgiveness for it…since I do not wish to leave this carcass with a bad conscience.’

This was more a command than a request, and yet I would have forgiven him anything. I told him this and he said,

‘That is good…that is good. Oh, Bertrand, just an ordinary man you look to others but not to me. To me there is more about you than appears on the surface of that face. That is why you were chosen, you see? And why I must now ask this next thing of you! Listen…when I die, you must go to Montségur as we planned. When you get there look in the library until you find the Apocalypse of John…look for chapter twelve, where John speaks of the woman with the moon at her feet, the sun in her belly and the stars crowning her head. That is what you must do…after that let the light of wisdom guide you to love, like a bee is guided to a rose. For only love will open your eyes and when it does, God-willing, you will know who you are and what you have to remember…that is the important thing – you must remember!’ His old eyes grew wide. ‘Tell me you will do it, dear Bertrand, tell me so that I can die in peace! Come, quickly!’

In that moment between question and answer, I hastily considered two things: I had seen how a fever could stupefy the mind of a sick man and cause him to speak nonsense, in which case I would be promising to do something that had no sure footing in truth; but, on the other hand, some men returned from the portals of death with a species of knowledge, and to fail to heed them was known to be a sin. As I looked into those loosening eyes, trying to decide which of the two seemed more likely, I realised that it did not matter one way or the other as the promise seemed of so great an importance to Guilhabert that my failure to agree might cause him to die of grief.

I made a nod and he sank back into my arms, calmer now. His eyes grew distant. ‘There, there Bertrand, dear boy…don’t be sad. There is a moment between sleeping and waking, between dying and living, when there is no sadness…it is a moment of becoming…I am sore-glad to return to it…’

I smiled a weak smile and he matched it.

‘You do not understand, Bertrand, I know. How could you?’ he said. ‘Soon…soon.’

He turned his head slightly and his body shuddered and, like that, he gave up the ghost, dying in my arms.

I sing now how I mourned my friend, how my heart ached when I buried him and how lost I felt when I packed my meagre belongings and set off with my little mule for Montségur, alone now for the first time in twenty years.

Along the way, as I dissolved into melancholy, my mind returned, over and over again, to the promise I had made, but the more I thought on it the less I understood it. I was to go to the mountain to look for John’s Apocalypse in which I would find the part that speaks of the woman crowned with stars, with the sun in her belly and the moon at her feet. I would then let the light of wisdom guide me like a bee seeking a rose, and somehow my eyes would open thereby to who I was, and to what I had to remember – whatever it was!

Oh my.

That was four years ago, and since then I have lived in a rough lean-to constructed of wood, located on the outer walls of the fortress of Montségur.

In many ways these intervening years have been fruitful. I was made a bishop in my own right and was given many responsibilities to attend to, which demanded that I visit nearby villages in order to see to the spiritual wellbeing of the perfects that lived there. I had to see to all the celebrations of the rituals of our faith in the fortress and also to keep an eye on the instruction of the many children that were brought here by believers. In all my doings I tried to resemble a bee that seeks here and there for its rose.

One year passed, then another, with so little harassment from the inquisition that even I began to grow a hope that the war was over, that soon we would see the shimmering light of the heavenly Jerusalem descending upon us. But that was before spring came and those feelings of foreboding washed over me as I stood upon the edge of the pog, looking out at the great expanses. But I would not understand my presentiments until Ascension Day, for that was the day that Pierre Roger of Mirepoix, one of the seigneurs of Montségur, arrived at the fortress looking pleased with himself.

Flushed with excitement, and light in his step, he came directly to my hut to tell me of the great news. It seemed that he and his men had carried out a task on behalf of the Count of Toulouse, a task so grand that the people would celebrate it for a long time to come. But when he told me what it was I was fell into numbness. They had crushed in the skulls of several inquisitors at Avignonet and had stolen all their inquisitorial records!