Alys Clare: The Rose of the World

‘If he doesn’t know he carries it, how will he be able to give it to your mother?’ Josse demanded.

Gervase smiled. ‘She will know he has it, even if he does not. Besides — ’ he lowered his voice until it seemed to Josse he was speaking more to himself — ‘the book wants to go home.’

Alys Clare

The Rose of the World

Postscript

Deep winter 1210-1211

N inian was fast becoming a mountain man. The snows were deep in the Pyrenees, and the fugitive population had consequently relaxed a little. Not entirely — never that — but enough to spend the short days out in the open air, speaking to each other in normal voices rather than skulking in corners and whispering, always afraid that enemy eyes and enemy ears were near.

The village, like all the mountain villages, was cut off and would remain so until the snows melted in the spring. Simon de Montfort’s army was far away, and it was very unlikely that even the most fanatical of his spies would find a way up the treacherous slopes.

Ninian had done his best to put his homesickness and his yearning for his loved ones aside. It was easier here than it had been on the road, for many of his new companions were also far from those they loved. Many were separated from their parents, spouses and children by something far more permanent than mere distance, for so many had already been killed that most households mourned at least one kinsman.

These Cathars were good people; there was really no other word that described them better. Their lives were hard, and they worked long hours; many of them were weavers, working at looms set up in their own tiny homes. There were few luxuries, and the winter was cold and deep, but Ninian never heard anyone complain. Far from it, for the people in the main were light-hearted and quick to laugh.

Their faith was clearly a fundamental part of them. It filled them with a quiet joy and gave them the strength to put up with hardship. He did not understand the nature of the book he had brought with him, and he was at a loss to understand how it had got into his bag. Had Josse put it there? He did not know. What he did know, because Alazais had told him, was that it somehow reminded them of the bliss from which they had come and to which they yearned to return. In that time of danger, when all their lives were under threat, he thought he could begin to appreciate what that meant.

Despite their eagerness to answer his questions, nobody tried to make him join them. Not all of them were what they called Perfects, by which they meant those ‘pure ones’ who had taken the ultimate vow. Many referred to themselves as adherents, which seemed to mean people sympathetic to the Cathar faith who did not yet feel ready to give up the earthly things of the flesh.

Ninian was fast growing to respect the Cathars. Some of them he thought he loved. Alazais continued to treat him like a son, and, lonely for his own kin, he responded. And there were others to whom he swiftly grew close because they had known Josse. One of them, a woman, had even known Ninian’s mother.

He met her one day when she made the difficult journey through the snow to Alazais’s village specially to meet him. Pointing to a barely visible scar on her forehead, she told him that Joanna had rescued her from an unspeakable fate and, at grave risk to herself and to her little girl — Meggie, Ninian realized with a pang — had cared for her and helped her to safety. He thought the woman said that Joanna had even killed a man to save her, but the woman spoke the language with a strong accent and he might have been mistaken.

When the woman got up to leave, she took Ninian in her arms, hugged him tightly to her and said, ‘Your mother I love. You, too, are good, like her.’

He understood sufficient about the general situation to know that war was coming and that the Cathars would be relentlessly pursued all the time the king and the pope had men to send after them. The elders — both men and women achieved respected elder status in the community — had explained to him how the people were defending themselves, and as far as Ninian could tell, their plan consisted mainly of constructing strong fortresses high in the inaccessible upper reaches of the mountains.

Nobody said much about fighting.

Ninian knew how to fight. He had spent his youth learning the skills of a knight. Now, at last, he began to see a purpose to those long years in training. He had tentatively suggested to Alazais and the other Perfects in the village that he could teach the men the things he knew, and they had accepted his offer with grave thanks.

‘We do not want to kill,’ one of the Perfects, a tall, skeletal old man had said sadly to Ninian. ‘It is not right. But if armies come against our womenfolk and children, intent on burning down our homes and sending us into the flames, it is best that some of us at least can fight them off.’

The long winter was now passing more quickly for Ninian, busy as he was with his school of would-be warriors. Just like young men anywhere flung together for any length of time, there was plenty of fun alongside the serious business of learning to kill. Ninian found he was enjoying himself and, often at the end of a satisfyingly hard day, he would be aching with laughter as well as sore from physical work.

For hours, even days, at a time he would have said that he was happy. Little Helewise came to him in his dreams, and sometimes he woke longing for her so acutely that the fierce desire spilled out of him. He told one of his trainee fighters about her; the young man could not manage the English version of her name and thought she was called Eloise. Gradually, Ninian came to think of her by that name too.

The other person who seemed to haunt him was Meggie. On occasions he thought he heard her call out to him, and once he had a vision of her desperately trying to tell him something. He told himself it was probably his imagination.

There was nothing to be done but stay where he was. He could not have left the mountains yet even if he wanted to, for the ways down to the valleys were still impassable and the community was cut off. Besides, he had left England because he was wanted for murder and would probably hang if they had caught him.

Sometimes, in the midst of his new life, it was quite hard to recall what had driven him out of the old one.

Despite his feelings for his new companions and his deep respect for their faith, he knew he did not want to join the community. He would defend them if the enemy came, for they were his friends. But if he was honest with himself — and Josse had always taught him he must be — then he had to admit that their fight was not his fight.

One afternoon, when the ice and snow began to ease their iron fist, Ninian went off by himself up the track that led out of the village and towards the peak that rose up behind it, where he now knew there was a fortress. The day was fine, and the sun was out, glittering on the snow and making such brilliant reflections that it hurt the eyes. Ninian needed to be alone, for he had to think.

For some time now he had been wondering what to do. There were no easy answers, and the future was a mist. He still heard Meggie calling to him — he had heard her that morning — and now, as he stood by himself on the mountainside, he tried to send back the message that he was alive, well, and — for the moment — safe with good friends.

But when spring came and the crusade against the Cathars began again, safety would be gone. Ninian did not want to die, for he loved his Little Helewise — his Eloise — and he had promised he would return to her if it was in his power. There would be fighting; there would be danger. Ninian knew his own nature and, even loving Eloise as he did, he knew he would not be able to stand back and watch when his friends battled for their lives.