The de Montfort Histories - The Dove and the Devil by Gradyn Bell Page A

would grow to be good
companions for each other as they grew older.                   
      Arnaud did not know what
route his life would take now. The seemingly simple life that had been mapped
out with his wife and baby had disappeared, and in its place lay a confusion of
mind that would not seem to clear. He knew he could not go back to the house
where he and his wife had awaited the birth of their child with such happiness;
it held too many memories that he couldn’t face. He dreaded even the thought of
entering the dark, empty house that had once been filled with such light.
    He was a leather worker by trade and his skills had brought him in a
very satisfying wage. True, he smelt rather bad, as human urine and sometimes
dog dung or cattle brains were used in producing the leather. His hands were
always roughened and stained by the tannic acid used in the first stages of the
process. Looking at his hands, which still glowed yellow, he smiled as he
remembered his wife’s distress when she had taken his work-hardened hands into
her own to rub goose grease into the cracks in his palms. Would he ever return
to the camaraderie of the leather workers’ group? He didn’t think so. They were
as grand a bunch of fellows as one could wish to meet, but he felt no desire to
be anywhere near their jokes now.
    Lost in thought, sitting on the small dividing wall that separated his
property from the next, he felt rather than saw the approach of Bertrand Arsen,
the perfectus who had come when his
wife had lain dying. Bertrand’s long black cloak cast a shadow over Arnaud as
he approached him from the path behind where the young man sat.
    “What will you do now, my boy?” The man’s voice was kind. “Shall you
stay here in Ambres, or will you go to Lavaur?”
    “I’ll never live in that house again,” he answered vehemently. “I
couldn’t bear to enter it. I shall ask my neighbours here to clear it out. As
far as I am concerned, it can stand empty or go to ruin for all I care.”
    “Perhaps you should dwell on the matter for a while before you make any
great decisions. Why not just leave things as they are for now?” Bertrand
suggested gently. “I am leaving for Taulat tomorrow; why not accompany me and
my friend? It will be an arduous trip through the hills and the track is rough
and rocky on foot, but you look healthy enough to me. It would take your mind
off things.” He waited for Arnaud’s reply.
    Unbeknown to Armaud, Bertrand was one of the bishops of the Cathar
church. There was no pomp and ceremony in this church. The only thing that set
the bishops and their helpers apart from other believers was their dress, which
consisted of a simple black cloak over a black tunic around which they wore a
black girdle. They wore sturdy sandals or clogs on their feet because they
walked virtually everywhere. The terrain in which they did their preaching was
often mountainous and it required great stamina to clamber over rocks and
through fast-moving streams where there was no ford. Good sturdy footwear could
make a difference between life and death, especially in the inhospitable
winters of the lower Pyrenees where they oft times ventured.
    Arnaud took only a few seconds to consider his reply. It was just what
he needed—a complete change of scenery. He had never been as far away as
Taulat before, and, in fact, knew little of the small community that lay over
the mountains. It would be an adventure of sorts, and would give him something
else to think about other than his dead wife.
    “I should like to accompany you. Thank you for asking me.” Arnaud’s
voice was tearful and filled with emotion. Since his wife’s death, even the
smallest measure of kindness had this effect on him.
    “Good.” Bertrand’s voice was brisk. “Shall we say tomorrow at dawn? We
will need to get as full a day’s walking as possible. I wish to be in Taulat
within two days, if possible.” With that, he stood up from where he