Heresy Read online

  Heresy

  Sharan Newman

  Prologue

  The forest of Broceliande, Brittany. Sunday, October 26, 1147.

  Eodem anno perfectus est lerosolimam Conradus rex Romanorum et

  Ludowicus rex Francorum cum inestimabili multitudine plebes

  christianae, sed transgressi fines Greciae seducti sunt a Grecorum

  rege, quasi ad terras pugnae, ubi perüt eorum maxima pars inedia et

  fame. … Obscuratus est sol 7Kal. Novembris, die dominica, circa

  horam diei sextam.

  In this year Conrad, king of the Romans, and Louis, King of the Franks, reached Jerusalem with an innumerable multitude of the Christian people, but when they crossed the border of Greece they were tricked by the king of the Greeks as if to a battleground, where the greater part of them died through starvation… On October 26, a Sunday, about the hour of sext, the sun was eclipsed.

  Annates Rodenses, 1147

  The woman ran through the woods, slipping on rain-damp leaves, tripping over roots. Soaked and mud covered, she picked herself up each time, oblivious to bruises. She could hear them crashing behind her, with horses and hunting dogs. She knew she hadn’t a chance to escape, but desperation made her keep running. Her lips moved in an endless prayer. It had no form; it was simply a plea for help.

  “Blessed Mother, save me. Saint Margaret, save me. Saint Ursula, save me. Saint Eligius, save me. Someone, anyone, please!”

  Cecile had always heard that the forest was infested with bandits, with demons, that it had a landscape that varied between worlds. One could go into the fog or cross a stream and find oneself in another time and place. None of those things was as terrifying as the men who were chasing her now. She splashed down an icy rivulet in the hope of putting the dogs off her scent. As she climbed out on the opposite bank, an apparition appeared before her. It was a man clothed in a shimmering assortment of linen robes with silk and gold designs embroidered all over them, in a sort of patchwork as if he were garbed in a dozen albs and altar cloths. In his hand he held a long staff that was bifurcated at the top like a pitchfork. He held it out to her.

  Cecile hesitated a moment. Was this Satan? Did she have to choose now between death and damnation? She heard the cries of the hunters, ever closer. Fear made the choice. She grabbed the staff and held on for dear life as the man pulled her up to the bank.

  “Come, my child,” he said, giving her his arm to lean on. “I shall protect you.”

  Up close he was less demonic. The hand on her arm was reassuringly solid. She glanced over her shoulder. “Hurry, they’re almost here!”

  “Don’t worry.” The man smiled at her reassuringly. “They have no power in my realm.”

  He led her into a thicket of brambles and, to her surprise, got down on all fours, crawling through a rough path between them.

  On the other side was a cave opening.

  “In here. Quickly!” he ordered.

  “It’s too late,” she said as she followed him. “The dogs have crossed the stream.”

  “My father will not let you be taken,” the man said.

  “No, I must go.” She pulled her hand from his. “I cannot let you be killed, too.”

  The shouts of the men were clear now as she stood at the mouth of the cave. With the calmness of despair, she turned back to face her pursuers.

  And into a strange greenish twilight. The tenor of the voices changed as the men reined their horses to point at the sky.

  “What is it?” Cecile cried.

  “The power of my father at work.” The man took her hand again. “Come with me while their wits are still befuddled.”

  They entered the cave, which turned out to be nothing more than a tunnel through to an area that had been cleared of trees to make room for an assortment of crude huts. There were more people there, men and women, all dressed as outlandishly as her rescuer. All were pointing at the sky in amazement.

  “Master, what is happening?” they called to the man with the staff. “Have we sinned against you?”

  The man held up his hands. “Be calm, my children. You have no need to fear. I asked my father to darken the sky so that this poor child could be saved from her persecutors. It will pass in but a few moments.”

  There was a terrifying moment of pure darkness and then the shadow passed from over the sun. As the light emerged again, Cecile dropped to her knees.

  “My lord!” she exclaimed. “I have no words to thank you! Those men would have killed me.”

  The man placed a hand on her head. “You have found a haven here.

  No one will harm you as long as you are under my protection. All my children have come here to escape those who would enslave them. You are free to join us.“

  Cecile looked around. Under the bizarre assortment of clothing, she saw that the people were thin, some bent by work, others wasted by disease. During the eclipse they had clung together. Now they were all staring at her and her savior.

  “Your protection is most welcome, but 1 can accept it only for a short time. It is essential that I find a way to return to my home,” Cecile explained. “But I would know who has called upon the Lord to perform this miracle for someone as unworthy as I. If it is in my power, I wish to reward you.”

  The man stood before her, the fresh sunlight illuminating his face. He clasped his staff and reversed it so that the two prongs dug into the earth.

  “I wish no reward.” He smiled on her. “It is my father’s work that I do. My name is Eon, child, and I am the son of God.”

  One

  Paris. Wednesday, 6 the ides February (February 10), 1148. Feast of Saint Scholastica, virgin and scholar.

  Denarü salute mei, per vos ego regno,

  Terrarum per vos impero principibus.

  Quod probor et veneror, quod diligo atque frequento,

  Gratia vestra facit que michi magna facit.

  Money, come to me. Through you I rule; Through you I command the rulers of the earth. You whom I extol and revere, love and seek out, Your esteem creates that which makes me great.

  Petri Pictoris

  The black mud of the streets of Paris had become black ice. The few people insane enough to be out slipped and tripped as they made their way down the slick paths. The ice was doubly dangerous because of the hard chunks of the normal street detritus frozen into it: straw, excrement, rats half chewed by dogs, bits of broken crockery. The dung collectors couldn’t be bothered to chisel out most of the leavings and were concentrating instead on the open spaces in front of the bishop’s palace and the Greve, where the peddlers set up their stalls and would pay extra to have the ground cleared. So amidst the hard chunks there were also occasional steaming piles. The oaths of those who slid into these could be heard ringing through the crisp afternoon air. The beggars had left the streets and were huddled in the church porches, praying for soup and beer. Even thieves were scarce, having taken their business to the warmth of the taverns.

  Catherine stepped carefully through all this in her high wooden sabots, mindful of the fact that she was once again pregnant and that her balance wasn’t that good even in her normal state. The wind funneled down the narrow street, catching at her cloak. She pulled it around herself more tightly, her basket of dried fish and herbs tipping as she did so. She snatched at it to prevent everything falling and barely escaped falling herself.

  It was the coldest winter in her memory. The weather of the past few years had been dismal, too cold in the summer and damp with many crops failing. Now famine was all around them and illness rampant as people weak with hunger found they had no strength to survive the winter agues. Added to everything else, the news from the king’s expedition to the Holy Land was bad.

  The army had left in the early summer of 1147, blessed
by the pope and Bernard, abbot of Clairvaux. Swords and armor shining, banners waving, King Louis and Queen Eleanor had led an army of pilgrims to free the city of Edessa from the Moslem invaders. Along with them had gone half the lords of France, Burgundy, Champagne, Flanders and Lotharingia. They were supposed to have met up along the way with Conrad, emperor of the Germans, and his army. But almost from the first, things had gone awry. The Germans and French had argued with each other and among themselves. The emperor in Constantinople hadn’t welcomed them as expected, and Christian towns had been pillaged on the route. One lord had even ordered the burning of a monastery in retaliation for the murder of one of his soldiers by local townspeople.

  Then, last fall, there had been an eclipse of the sun. There were many who feared it was a sign that the expedition to the East was also to be eclipsed by the powerful Seljuk Turks. But the thing that angered those in France the most was the way King Louis kept sending back for more money. Hadn’t he taxed them enough to finance the journey? Didn’t he know how bad things were in his own country? What business had an anointed king leaving his land in the first place?

  Catherine worried about all these things as she made her way back to her home. It seemed to her that ever since this expedition had first been preached, life in France had worsened. She wasn’t the only one who was starting to believe that God wasn’t happy with the Christian King Louis or his people.

  When she arrived at the gate of her house, Catherine felt a deep relief. However dreadful things were outside, she knew that within there was love and warmth and peace.

  Peace, of course, could be defined according to many criteria. As she entered, Catherine deducted “tranquility” from the definition. The great hall where they ate, worked, played and fought was currently being used for all these activities. Her six-year-old son, James, was chasing the dog around the room. Or perhaps, Catherine reconsidered, the dog was chasing him. Dragon might have been slowed down by the weight of four-year-old Edana. She was clinging to the dog’s back with her arms around his neck. From her happy squeals and his barks, neither appeared to be in danger.

  Catherine’s husband, Edgar, and her cousin, Solomon, were seated at the table near the fire. There was a pitcher of spiced beer on the table that was rocking perilously as the men alternately pounded the table to emphasize the points in their argument. Neither seemed aware of the rowdiness of the children or the noise.

  “I’m home!” Catherine called.

  “Why should the emperor help the king?” Solomon shouted at Edgar. “Those desfae ‘pilgrims’ have ravaged his towns and destroyed his truce with the Arabs.”

  “He had no business making truces with infidels!” Edgar shouted back.

  “You’d rather Roger of Sicily ruled all of Europe?” Solomon countered. “Manuel’s empire has Saracens on three sides and a Norman adventurer on the fourth. He can hardly fight Roger if he has to spend all his time wet-nursing idiotic defenders of Christendom! Even your pope agrees with me on that one.”

  That was undeniably true. Pope Eugenius had been counting on the help of the German king, Conrad, to defend Italy against Roger of Sicily, whom he privately considered a far more serious threat than the Turks. He was not pleased that Conrad was still in the Holy Land.

  “So why are you arguing against Roger?” Edgar shouted. “He’s the most lenient of all the Christian kings where Jews are concerned. You should be glad no one’s helping the pope.”

  Solomon paused, realizing that he had just argued himself onto the wrong side. It wasn’t easy being a Jew in a Christian household, or a Christian country.

  Catherine took advantage of the slight lull to announce herself again.

  “Edgar, are you sure we want one more person in the house to add to this cacophony?”

  Edana fell off the dog; James tripped over her. Both children started howling. Before Catherine could get to them, Edgar and Solomon jumped up and came to her, each stopping on the way to pick up a child.

  “You’re frozen, Catherine,” Edgar chided. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you go out today. Come over here and get warm. Do you want some beer? I’ll heat it again.”

  He let Edana slide down his leg and then pulled the poker from the fire. He had to set it on the edge of the hearth to wipe it off with a cloth before putting it in the pitcher, where it sizzled. No one offered to help him. Even the children knew better than to suggest there was anything Edgar couldn’t do with only one hand. Neither of them could remember him with two, but Catherine still had nightmares about the moment when he had stepped between his father’s sword and the man it was aimed at. The blade had slid through Edgar’s wrist with barely a pause, leaving his left hand in a lake of blood on the floor.

  Catherine shook the memory away and returned to the present.

  “I needed to get out,” she said. “The midwife said that I should keep busy as long as I can. And I wanted to stop by and see how Luca was doing. Her new baby isn’t well.”

  “Catherine,” Edgar said firmly, “I’m sure Luca is doing everything that can be done for her family. A baker always has bread, at least.”

  He exchanged a glance with Solomon over her head. They were both remembering Catherine’s long convalescence after the winter death of her last child. Grief, along with Catherine’s belief that some sin of hers must have been visited on the baby, had made it worse. The men were agreed that she mustn’t be allowed to dwell on such things, particularly now, in the early months of the next pregnancy.

  “Of course,” Catherine said. “Luca takes excellent care of her children. And of our family, as well. She sent us some gastek made with dried apple and honey.”

  “Really?” Solomon began to search the basket for the package of cakes.

  “Solomon!” Catherine laughed. “You’re as bad as the children. Go on, there’s enough for all of you. Now, did something start your argument, or were the two of you just bored?”

  She looked up at Edgar, who tried to avoid her eyes.

  “Nothing, really,” he said. “Solomon feels that King Louis should never have left for the Holy Land.”

  “He has much company in that position,” Catherine said. “I thought you shared it yourself.”

  Edgar shrugged. “It is a noble cause and he might be succeeding if it weren’t for the wiles of the Greek emperor.”

  Catherine spoke before Solomon could restart the quarrel. “I don’t know how many of the stories we’ve heard from those who’ve returned are true, but it does seem to me that the emperor could have been more welcoming to the armies. And yet, Roger of Sicily shouldn’t have taken advantage of the situation to attack the emperor.”

  “I heard that Emperor Manuel was the one to declare war on Roger,” Edgar insisted.

  “It doesn’t matter who’s at fault, Edgar,” Solomon said. “It still means that almost all of our connections to the Arab traders have been cut off. With Roger and Manuel at war and the Spanish rulers pushing the Arabs farther and farther south, everything that gets through to France is three times as dear. And Abbot Suger isn’t going to pay more for his incense because we tell him that his precious King Louis has made it impossible to conduct trade.”

  Now that the subject was money, Catherine felt on more secure ground.

  “There must be a way we can keep the cost down,” she said. “Either that or trade things that the armies will need. Wool, for instance. Scotland isn’t at war with anyone at the moment, are they? Our connections there are solid. Why don’t we let the abbot have his incense at the agreed-on price and then prevail upon him to buy blankets from us to send to the king.”

  “That might help,” Edgar said. “Except for the fact that the king is already heavily in debt to the Knights of the Temple. Even if we made the deal, it’s likely that he wouldn’t pay us. No, Solomon and I can think of only one way to ensure that this family doesn’t starve. Spain is still our best source for the luxury goods that will bring the highest return. I think that he and I should leave soon s
o that we can be back before the fairs in May.”

  “Oh, Edgar, no.” Catherine tried to keep the panic from her voice. “You promised to let Solomon do the traveling.”

  Edgar sat down on the bench next to her and put his arm around her.

  “I know I did, carissima,” he said. “But I also promised to take care of you and our children. If I must go to Spain to do so, I will. We can’t afford to pay so many others to bring us goods. There’s no profit.”

  There was silence. Even the children were watching Catherine carefully. She could feel the anger and fear rising.

  “Will someone put that damn dog out!” she exploded. “How can anyone think with that barking? Martin!” she called their one serving boy. “Tie Dragon up in the yard. James, he’s your dog. Go help Martin.”