The Dove and the Devil is the first part of a historical fiction trilogy which will follow the de Montfort family from 1199 in Champagne, in Northern France through to the Battle of Evesham in 1265 in England, where it has been said that, on that day chivalry died!

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About the Cathars

Who or what are the Cathars and why is anybody writing a novel about them today? I had heard about them and read about them several years ago but it wasn’t until I visited “Cathar Country” in the south of France that is now Languedoc that their story came alive for me. What we know of them we only know through the writings of their enemies and the tragic end to what was a vibrant culture in Occitania has given rise to countless legends. They lived in many different countries, from the tenth century onwards, first in the East and then the West. They were the Bogomils of Bulgaria, the Paupers of Christ in the Rhineland, the Paterines of Northern Italy, the Beghards of Flanders, the Publicans of Champagne and the Weavers of Languedoc. All of these groups practised a form of the same religion. They believed that the world was corrupt and therefore could not have been the work of God but must have been the work of the devil. Nowhere in the world at that time, was there a larger concentration of people who protested so strongly yet so peaceably against the failings of the Catholic Church than those who lived in what is largely now Languedoc

They were a gentle people, not at all bellicose and indeed their religion forbade any sort of fighting. They called themselves in France bons hommes, the good men, and bonnes femmes, the good women. Cathar, the name initially used to denote these people in southern France, was a term used in a less than polite way by the Church to designate any heretics. Catharism was a development of Christianity which was judged to be heretical by the Catholic Church. It was a growing trend and its teachings threatened to disturb the social and political system of the time. In the 1100’s, the church had begun to be aware of these people but it wasn’t until Pope Innocent the Third became Pontiff in 1198 that a great deal of notice of them began to be taken.

They believed in Good and Evil. They claimed that evil was imprisoned in our bodies at birth, that evil stalked the earth and it would not be defeated by good until a person received a sacrament called the consolamentum. The elders of the church became elders by dint of hard study and self denial and they received the consolamentum while they lived. This allowed them to become wandering preachers. The ordinary Cathars would only receive the consolamentum when they were dying. This allowed their spirits to fly freely to heaven if they were judged by God to be good enough. If they were judged otherwise, they would be reincarnated to try the world again. It was essential to know that you were dying for if you received the consolamentum of the dying you then had to suffer the endura. You could eat and drink nothing then for as long as you lived.

The Cathars did not believe in the sacraments of the church. They claimed only God could join a man and woman together so they did not bother with the sacrament of marriage and they certainly had no time for priests. Confession was unheard of, baptism and confirmation, disregarded. The services they held were preached in their own language, the Langue d’Oc, instead of the Latin of the Church. They were able to read the Bible, those who could read, translated into their own language. They held their services out of doors or in the homes of their believers, and they believed in reincarnation. Their elders lived very abstemious lives, allowing no meat or anything which had been produced by a sexual means to pass their lips. The elders, both men and women swore to live celibate lives. Women were allowed a great deal of say in the running of the organisation unlike in the Catholic Church where women counted for very little.

By 1209, the population of Cathars had grown to nearly a million souls and they were becoming a distinct threat. They held high offices, for some of them were noble or wealthy landowners who were powerful. This area of France was not under the rule of the French king. (How he wished it were. It was one of the richest, most cultured areas of the country.) Jews, Muslims, Catholics and Cathars lived side by side and no one thought anything about it. The great cities of the south, Toulouse, Carcassonne, and Beziers all showed the influence of the art and culture of the many and varied people who lived there. It was a tranquil life lived in an equitable climate under blue skies and within the sound of troubadours and their music.

Everything changed when Pope Innocent, guided (or misguided) by his senior church dignitaries, decided to instigate a Crusade against the Cathars, who in his view were less than vermin. They had some difficulty at first getting someone to lead the Crusade but Innocent remembered a man called Simon de Montfort, a northern French nobleman who had in previous years refused to join in the abortive Crusade of 1204 because he did not wish to attack a Christian city (Zara). The Pope had excommunicated those who had attacked the city but he had been impressed by Simon’s devout Catholicism and his refusal to take part. He now called on Simon to do his part to protect the Church by leading the campaign to destroy the Cathars. Simon accepted with alacrity. He had been disappointed when he had had to turn back from Venice where he had gone to begin the Crusade of 1204 but now his opportunity was here once more.

He was a family man, tolerant to his children and a loving husband, so much so that his friends sniggered behind his back about his strict moral code. He loved his wife Alicia (Alex) de Montmorency so much that he never so much as looked at another woman, even on his campaigns, and between them they produced five living children. One of the children, the youngest boy, Simon, would become the Earl of Leicester, a title he would inherit through his grandmother. He would, one day, cause the King of England a great deal of trouble!

Amongst the clerics who worked to bring to an end the Cathars was a man called Domingo da Guzman, a Spanish priest who ultimately became St Dominic. He would eventually found the Dominican Order which in concert with the Franciscans would be responsible for the first Inquisition. The cruelty which was perpetrated by these mendicants on the Cathar population, after the death of Dominic, has been well documented. Dominic, himself, would probably not have countenanced the barbarism and treachery that were carried out in the name of the Church. Indeed, when he first arrived from Spain, Dominic lived and preached very much in the way that the Cathar elders lived and preached. His self denial was legendary, all the more so because it contrasted so sharply with the way in which many self indulgent clerics lived. He wanted to convert the Cathars back to Catholicism but by peaceful means, if possible.

It should not be supposed, that because the Cathars foreswore violence of any kind and would not defend themselves against any personal physical attack, that no abhorrent crimes were committed on their behalf. In fact, in many cases, deaths just as vicious were meted out to the Crusaders by the supporters of the heretics who were not necessarily Cathars themselves but whose interest was served by protecting them. It was an unhappy and a bloody time, charactised by fire and destruction. Very few Cathars ever repented and returned to the Church, preferring to die by fire, the method chosen by Simon to ensure his message was understood.

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Excerpts from "The Dove and the Devil"

The air was filled with the moans of the young woman lying on the blood-soiled bed. She had laboured for two days to give birth to her child. Huge eyes, like those of a frightened doe, beseeched the attending sage-femme to end her misery. The midwife could only shake her head. This was a difficult one, no doubt about that. She could see clearly that the babe was far too big to be born nature's way. Something must be done and quickly if both mother and child were to survive.

She went out of the foetid-smelling room to where the young woman's husband paced the floor, as he had done for hours. His haggard face wore the lines of exhaustion. Upon seeing the midwife he looked up expectantly, but his hope soon died, for he could read in the old woman's face what she was about to say.

“It's a case of one or the other,” she said flatly. “There's been far too much blood lost. I'd say you've the best chance of saving the baby.”

“What has happened?” he said, grabbing her by the arm.” Why have you let things go this far?” His voice sharpened as he struggled to comprehend what was happening. “Why didn't you tell me sooner? We could have done something. We could have found a physician!”

He looked stricken. He and his wife had both looked forward to their first child. Although her pregnancy had been fraught with illness throughout the nine months, they had hoped she would recover her old self after the birth of the baby. He had watched over her carefully—as solicitous as a mother hen with a chick—but had noticed her almost daily decline from rosy-cheeked young woman to someone whom he hardly recognized.

The old woman gazed at him. In an effort to hide her own emotion, she spoke louder than she intended. “Make a decision now; otherwise both will die.” A low-pitched sound from the bedroom interrupted her. “What is it, my dear?” she called gently.

The girl's body writhed as another enormous contraction wracked her body. “Please save my baby. I heard what you were saying to Arnaud, and I beg you to save the baby.” Exhausted, she lay back, her white face even paler than the sheets.

“Now, now, don't you fret.” The midwife's face softened as she looked at the girl, barely nineteen, whose life hung so perilously in the balance. “One more big push should do it.” She watched the young woman, who looked as though she barely had strength to lift her hand, let alone endure the cataclysm of the final hour of childbirth. Hurrying out of the room she spoke urgently to Arnaud. “Fetch the priest now.”

“I can't go now! She needs me,” he said, twisting his hands together in the agony of indecision. Pushing her aside, he crept into the darkened bedchamber where his wife lay like a shadow on the bed.

She beckoned him over and whispered to him. “I don't want a priest. You promised. Fetch Bertrand. You know why. You promised!” Her frail hands picked at the embroidered coverlet on the bed. She had been so proud when she had finished sewing it. Was it really so few months ago? Worn out with the effort of talking, her eyelids fluttered closed.

Torn between wanting to take her in his arms to comfort her with his physical presence and doing as she had asked him, Arnaud hesitated.

“What are you waiting for?” the midwife asked. “Go and fetch the priest.”

Sighing, the girl lay back, the tension leaving her body.

“Don't give up now,” the midwife begged. “One more push will do it.” She kneaded the hugely swollen belly and the girl's body arched in a final convulsion.

The midwife muttered a quick “Hail Mary” as she swiftly bundled the baby into the swaddling bands that were already prepared. The baby, a girl, was already registering her displeasure at the arduous trip she had made coming into the world. The mother's eyes flickered open and a smile touched her lips briefly as the baby was placed next to her, the tiny pulse at the young wife's neck the only indication that she still lived.

The sound of footsteps stirred the young mother and her face lit up with joy when she recognized Arnaud, her husband, and his companion, Bertrand Arsen. Arnaud looked pointedly at the midwife and asked her to take the baby into the next room while he and his wife spoke to Bertrand.

“But where is the priest?” the midwife stammered. “We don't have much time,” she whispered, pointing to the telltale signs of bright red blood.

“Please go and stoke up the fire. The baby will need warmth tonight when the sun sets.”

Looking somewhat churlish at being so expeditiously dismissed from the room, the midwife gathered up the baby and left.

“Can you hear me?” Bertand's voice was soft and low. The girl indicated with a flutter of her fingers that she could. Bertrand gently laid his hands on her head and the Holy Book on her breast. As the words of the consolamentum for the dying swept over her, she was now certain that she was pure enough to be reincarnated as a vessel worthy to be chosen by God. With a faint smile still playing around her mouth, she took her final breath as Arnaud's wife.

Gently closing the girl's eyes and kissing her on her now blue lips, the young man straightened up from where he had been leaning over the bed.

“Thank you, my friend.” His pain was clearly evident as he tried to hide the waves of grief that swept over him. “Although I am not one of you, my wife was a believer, a Cathar, and it meant much for her to have you here. Long ago, at our marriage, I made her a promise that if we were ever blessed with children, they should grow up in your faith. I intend to keep that promise, and so I will ask you now if you know of any young mothers among them who might take on the nurture of my daughter. It would be a long-term affair. There are things I must do, and I cannot do them and have the care of a small baby. In any event, I could not teach her all that she needs to know of her mother's beliefs. I will be able to pay well enough if you could recommend someone.”

“I don't know of anyone here in the village, but I am sure there must be one or more in Lavaur. There is a growing population of believers there, and Bruna Domergue and Saissa Boutarra were both due to be brought to bed about now. I don't know if they've given birth yet, but I can find out. In the meantime, perhaps you can find a wet nurse here in the village. Both of the women I mentioned are very clean in their habits and their own children are well clothed and fed, so you would not need to worry about the baby's health. I'm sure our friend here,” he said, flinging open the door to find a red-faced midwife with her ear to the keyhole, “would know of someone who could oblige here in the village for a few days.”

Clearly somewhat discomfited, the midwife looked up and nodded. “My own daughter gave birth not three months ago and she has enough milk for six. I'm sure she would oblige.”

Arnaud was relieved. Although he had looked forward to this baby, he had not a clue what to do with her and wished to be left alone to grieve as he wanted. He dare not think what his wife’s family would say. They had objected to their union at the outset because they had not wanted their daughter to marry a non-believer. Only the thought that she might convert him to their way of believing had softened the blow for them when she told them she would have Arnaud and no other.

The trek to Montsegur was difficult as winter approached. There was snow on the mountaintops, and the many mountain streams that had to be crossed were already frozen at the edges. The route that Arnaud, Pons and Maurina had been obliged to take had brought them worryingly close to the action at Puivert. Whereas Arnaud had thought it possible to take some rest in the small village below the chateau, he quickly reconsidered this idea when Pons pointed out that some of the soldiers there might recognise him.

Although Maurina had made a valiant attempt to keep up with the two men, it was her blistered and swollen feet that finally made them call a halt in their great rush to reach Montsegur safely with the linen. They were obliged to take shelter in a rundown hovel that had been abandoned by its former shepherd owner.

Arnaud treated Maurina's burning feet with a soothing paste made of wild amaranth flowers. Then, while she rested comfortably, he attempted to coax some life into the wet faggots of wood that Pons gathered. They were soaked having lain scattered about the mountainside since the last wintry storm. He had collected enough wood to last through the night, and after several attempts, a fire of sorts was eventually lit—although it gave out more smoke than heat. Water collected from a raging torrent, which, in summer would have been a gurgling mountain stream, soon produced enough boiling water to make a vegetable soup. By the time they had finished eating, the small room was appreciably warmer and Maurina's eyes began to close.

Arnaud pushed the sack containing the linen towards the girl. “Here, you might as well use this for a pillow. It still has the herbs in it and you may as well make yourself as comfortable as possible. We should press on tomorrow. Apart from other dangers, the sky looks threatening to me and I shouldn't wonder if it snowed at this level soon.” He sniffed the air as though the forthcoming snow might have a scent of its own.

Just after daybreak the next day, they were woken by the sound of voices coming up the track near their makeshift shelter. Arnaud quickly bundled the sack containing the linen into one of the packs they were carrying and warned Maurina to say nothing. He and Pons went outside to meet the strangers. They were glad to see there were only two of them and that they were afoot. They had been dreading the appearance of some of de Montforts plundering routiers and were relieved to see their visitors were two young men, one of them younger than Pons, both of them dressed in country homespun.

“ Bonjorn !” The cheerful greeting called out in their native O c served to allay the small group's fears that these two might be spies for de Montfort.

“I am travelling from Montsegur,” the younger one said, shivering, “but the road is lonely and we are having difficulty finding shelter. We have been walking all night, afraid to stop in these mountains. We have been told the wolves are particularly hungry at this time of year!”

“Come inside. I am afraid we have little food to offer, but the fire is still alight and it's warmer inside than out.”

Grateful, the two young men entered the hovel, rubbing their hands as they knelt by the now dying embers of the fire. Maurina made to stand up awkwardly, her feet still very painful. The newcomers noticed her for the first time and the younger one of the two moved from the fire to help her.

“This is my daughter,” Arnaud said. “And this is her brother.” He did not elaborate on the relationship, believing that to do so might complicate matters. “Her mother thinks she will be safer with her uncle in Merens than here near the fighting. We are travelling there before winter arrives.”

“I am Paul Maulen. This is my friend Guy. We met a few miles back and decided to walk together over the mountains. Where have you come from?” As he spoke, the elder of the two newcomers looked at Pons curiously.

“We live in Lavaur and we've been travelling for nearly three weeks. We cannot travel fast because of my young sister here.”

“I know you!” the elder newcomer exclaimed. “I met you once near Fanjeaux. What happened to you? You disappeared so quickly we thought you were dead!”

Pons felt his stomach turn. What he had dreaded most on this journey—beyond even the fears of wolves and bears—had indeed transpired. He had bumped into one of the soldiers he had met on his first mission for the Count of Toulouse. “I went to see my family.” The excuse sounded lame, even to Pons himself.

“Ha!” the young man said with a sly wink. “We thought you had a paramour hidden away somewhere, if you know what I mean!”

Pons knew only too well what he meant. All the soldiers he had been with had been convinced he was a sodomite because he never made use of any of the camp followers, wouldn't join the army and had kept strictly to himself. Being unable to explain why he did not take part in the roistering to his soldier companions had made his life difficult. However, he had been happy to let them to think what they wanted; it had taken some of the pressure off his mission and allowed him some peace. Now what would he say? How would he explain his sudden disappearance? He hadn't said so much as a goodbye, and they had been a good crowd of men!

It was Arnaud who saved him from more explanations. “We must leave soon,” he said. “I don't want to waste any daylight, and I think we're due some heavy weather.”

The younger of the two men spoke again. “I must get back to Puivert. My family is waiting for me close by. They wish to be away from there and all the fighting.”

Guy mentally crossed himself as he heard his mouth spout the lies he had been accustomed to telling since he had begun his father's quest for information regarding the fabled linen cloth. His visit to Montsegur in search of information had been a dismal failure. He could find no one who had even heard of it—at least that's what they all said.

He had discovered that the place below the fortress was a thriving village with many artisans building new cottages on the mountainside. He knew that many of the people were believers and that in all probability, a goodly proportion of them were perfecti . He found them to be a hard-working lot; even the winter weather did not dim their enthusiasm for the tasks at hand. In order for him to earn his bed and board, they suggested he join them in a little carpentry, and they had laughed good-naturedly at his ineptness. When some of them viewed his smooth hands with suspicion, he lied, saying his parents had wanted him to enter the church but he had declined!

Paul moved towards the sack containing the precious linen. “Here, let me help you with that. It looks very heavy, and although we are going in opposite directions, I can at least help you down the mountain a little way.” In spite of Arnaud's objections, he heaved the sack over his shoulder and went outside.

It took the others only a moment to gather the rest of their things and join the young men outside. As they set off down the mountain trail, Maurina was still walking with difficulty. The thin layer of frost blanketing the sparse grass was very slippery, and it was only a matter of a few minutes before she lost her balance and her feet slid out from beneath her. With a scream, she began to slide down the rocky slope. It was Guy who rescued her, catching her skirt as she slid past him, but her weight pulled him over too, and they tumbled together until their headlong flight was halted by a boulder. It took the others several minutes to catch up with them, picking their way carefully over the frozen track.

By the time the other three arrived, Guy and Maurina had both managed to catch their breath and were beginning to untangle themselves. Guy stood up and held out his hand to Maurina, who struggled to arrange her skirt that had ridden up over her thighs, and adjust her bodice, which had become entangled with her father's carving.

“That's a very fine carving you are wearing,” Guy said, holding out his hand to look at the little ornament more closely.

“My father carved it for me when I was a baby and I have worn it ever since. Do you see how shiny the wood has become?” She pointed to it proudly. “I would never give it up willingly,” she said.

Guy smiled. As used as he was to many fine things in his life, he could only remember being that proud of one thing: the suit of armour that his father had had made for Amaury, which Amaury had passed to him. That was several years ago, but he clearly remembered the excitement he had felt when Amaury had given it to him on Bernard's estate. His face clouded over with the thought that his father's friend was currently his father's enemy. He wondered if he would ever see Petronille, Bernard's daughter, again in this life.

Reaching the end of the track that joined the road, the two groups made their goodbyes, anxious to be underway before the weather broke.

“Here's your sack,” said Paul cheerfully as he handed it to Pons. “Don't know what's in it, but it's mighty heavy!”

Pons took the sack without saying anything. Arnaud broke the silence by telling the friendly young man that it contained supplies for Maurina's uncle and aunt.

“Well, God be with you.” The farewell was cheerfully given by the younger man, who smiled as he warned Maurina not to break her neck before she arrived at her uncle's and to take care of her little carving.

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The group who perform in this music, composed by Christian Sales come from Languedoc where the events in The Dove and the Devil took place.

It is modern music, performed on medieval instruments, which draws heavily on early medieval troubadour tradition. This selection is part of a longer piece which is based on the poetry of Aimeric de Peghuilhan (1175-1225) and it would have been current at the time of the setting of The Dove and the Devil.