‘He seems frightened,’ I said.
The Writer of Letters observed this with a nod and said, ‘He’s always afraid.’
‘What does he fear?’
‘I think he has been among the dead so long he fears the living. Have you heard of the living dead?’
‘No.’
‘They are souls caught between two worlds . . . vulnerable souls.’
‘In what way are they vulnerable?’
‘There is a mystery about those who in life either died violently or too early, or those who were connected to particular groups and had sworn oaths while alive. The living can use these souls because they retain certain abilities after death, one could say the future is open to them. This means they can inspire the living in scientific and artistic endeavours that are ahead of their time, but unfortunately these souls are also susceptible to being used by evil-minded men during séances or black magic rituals. Himmler was one of those who sought to use the dead – he understood the enormous power that could be harnessed through them. That is why he wanted Le Serpent Rouge.’
‘The old monk told me no one stays in the monastery anymore. He said it is prohibited. Is this true?’ I ventured.
‘Of course. To his mind only the dead should have intercourse with the dead. He sees this intercourse between the living and the dead and he flees from it.’
‘Why doesn’t he leave here and go somewhere more . . . alive?’
‘It is too late for him, I’m afraid,’ the man replied. ‘He has nowhere else to go. In a way, he has condemned himself to this place, it is his choice, his particular destiny.’ He stood then. ‘Tomorrow is All Saints’ Day and the day after that is All Souls’ Day, the Day of the Dead. Two particularly difficult days for him,’ he explained. ‘On the Day of the Dead, the dead are said to return to visit their families. All day the priests in Venice wear black, inside the churches the altars are similarly draped and the faithful pray for the souls of their departed, in the hope of shortening their time in Purgatory. Our monk usually goes into his cell until it is over. But we should be going inside, as I said, it is getting cold.’
He led the way back to the library and our seats before the fire.
‘This brings us to the next gallery,’ he said, when we were comfortable.
‘The middle ages again?’
‘Yes, we’ve seen the galleries of Matteu and Isobel, and now it is time to see the gallery of Bertrand Marty. This is now six years later, 1244, and Matteu is at Montsegur during the siege. He must safeguard the Cathar treasure and also a child – the child of Isobel. Shall we begin?’
23
The Treasure
‘The treasure is lost,’ said Miss Morstan, calmly. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, ‘The Treasure of Agra’
Montsegur, 1244
The siege of Montsegur lasted eleven difficult months and during it, Matteu had come and gone by the secret route, either bringing them news of the outside world or escorting soldiery to help them fend off the Catholics. When their last defence, the eastern Barbican, was taken, it was decided by the lords of Montsegur to surrender; the Catholics gave them fifteen days to make their preparations to leave the mountain. Some would choose life in prison and some would choose death on the pyre. Matteu’s destiny was a different one. He had the task of taking the Cathar treasure and Isobel’s child by way of the secret passage out of the fortress to a safe haven. It would be an onerous and dangerous task in a country full of spies and Crusaders. The fate of the Cathar religion was in his hands and still it did not sit well with him to leave his friends. Many of them had decided not to recant their faith and would rather walk with courage into that great pyre which the Crusaders were constructing for them.
The afternoon before his leave-taking he came across Bertrand Marty. Over the years he had come to know the shy bishop a little. He was younger than Matteu by one or two years, and yet he had always seemed older and wiser. He had often wondered what it must be like to be such a man, full of the wisdom and the power of grace. When he saw him now he fell to his knees before him, waiting for his blessing, but Bishop Marty asked him to rise and told him he was not worthy of his adoration.
‘But you are a Cathar Bishop, a perfect!’ Matteu said to him.
‘Who in the world can call himself perfect?’ The bishop answered and asked that Matteu follow him to the gate, which these days stood open to the expanse of the mountains. He gestured for him to sit down on a rock, and there they remained side-by-side, quiet, staring out for a long time, until the bishop spoke. He told Matteu he would say something to him about his songs and Matteu, knowing that the bishop had never liked songs of the Grail, braced himself for one of his invectives.