The Pope referred to the Cathars as man-catchers, and the man in the kitchen wondered if this term applied to him as well, as he weighed a sharp knife in his hand and looked at it thoughtfully.
No, I haven't caught anyone yet. I kill them.
A tiny engraving on the blade, two crescents under a cross, gave a hint as to the origin oft the knife. It was excellent steel from Toledo, far too good for cutting cabbage and turnips, but an unmistakable sign of the homeowner's prosperity. He knew a thing or two about knives, and they had made him a small fortune.
He put it back on the shelf next to the stove, where a stew of fish and vegetables was bubbling in a cauldron. The spicy scent rose seductively into his nose. He hummed a melody softly to himself, took a wooden spoon from the scrubbed kitchen table and tasted carefully. The chunks of fish were cooked, soft as thick cream, melting on his tongue. This soup tasted delicious, of onions, garlic, radish and spicy because of the precious peppercorns that swam in it like tiny black pearls.
A smile lit up his face. A sorceress cooking and a goddess among the sheets was the woman who lay in her bed upstairs on the first floor of the spacious house.
Before he met her, he had made many women happy or unhappy, depending on the way he admitted to himself.
Some probably still hated him. Slender and stout, young and old, smaller and true giantesses of stature. Some had been married, others had been virgins, and only a few had been embarrassed for more than three days before succumbing to his kindnesses.
He got to know most of them during his years of wandering as a minstrel and juggler. They liked his sinewy body, his dark curly hair, his deep, velvety voice, and his brown, sometimes sad-looking eyes, which seemed to be full of secrets that he himself had not yet fathomed.
But no one has been able to get close to this ravishing creature up there. Scratchy and tender, passionate and curious, sometimes a little too anxious. At first, she resisted during lovemaking, pinching and scratching him, but he had gently taken away her unfounded fear of his manhood.
He had always wanted such a woman, almost as much as this wonderful house in the middle of the city of Carcassonne, just a stone's throw from the church of Saint Nazaire. Built of grey limestone blocks, with massive wooden stairs leading to the upper floors. The eye-catcher in the living room was a cooling mosaic floor made of burnt pieces of clay, laid by Moorish craftsmen, depicting a panorama of flat mountains with palm trees against an azure sea. It reminded him of the country he grew up in. A long time ago, he had to leave it.
The building rose three stories high, nearly fifty feet high. Bales of cloth from Ghent and Lyon were stored on the top floor.
Gold and silver spools of yarn from Cordoba, tanned skins of cattle, pigs and wild animals, boxes with hundreds of buckles, brooches made of silver sheet and buttons made of horn and wood. On the first floor was the cloth workshop with two looms and the couple's bedchamber. In the basement they sometimes sold their wares, on long poles hung dresses, coats, headgear, camisoles, bodices and skirts. The living room was adjacent to a kitchen with a brick stove, the soot-blackened stones of which piled up to form a flue from which iron kitchen utensils hung from nails.
In the past, a councillor had lived here with his family for several years, who had become rich through his spice trade with the Moors. But the infidels were driven into the south of Spain in many battles by Christian armies. King Alfonso of Castile forbade trade with them, and the suddenly impoverished merchant had no choice but to sell his house far below its value. He had moved to Marseilles, it was said.
Tailoring, on the other hand, was currently making good money. Since the noble pilgrims had arrived here in droves to fight against the Moors for the cross, the need for robes, cloaks, horse saddle pads, tents and banners increased immeasurably. War was not only a lucrative business for armourers.
Three maids had to be hired to help the couple with the assignments.
He took the iron pot from the hook, placed it on the floor, and stoked apart the glowing wood of the cooking fire. Perhaps he would eat something later and then thank the glowing-eyed cook for this excellent meal with a kiss.
Slowly, he opened the door to the pantry adjacent to the kitchen. A smell of fish, garlic and onions hit him and almost took his breath away. Smoked sea trout hung from the ceiling on ropes, sacks of grain were piled up in the corners, two baskets full of black olives and figs stood on the floor next to three waist-high wine barrels. Next to it were clay jars of olive oil of various sizes.
He found a jug on a shelf to the right of the entrance, poured wine from a barrel, shuffled back through the kitchen into the living room, and took a tin cup from an iron-studded wooden chest.
Noisily, he poured the dark red drink from a yard away, then held the cup under his nose with his eyes closed and took a sample. Before swallowing, he chewed the liquid and pulled it through the gaps between his teeth. The aromatic wine came from Burgundy, he was sure of that. When it came to wine and women, no one could fool him.
He sat down in the comfortable chair near the entrance to the house, hung his legs over the right backrest and rocked his feet contentedly. He regretted that he could not open the shutters.
It was warm and sunny outside, but the house stood on a busy alley that led from the south gate directly to the market square. Today was market day, farmers and traders flocked to the city from the early hours of the morning to set up their stalls and pile up the most diverse goods on long boards next to their wagons and carts. He wanted to avoid prying eyes on the ground floor, so he had closed the shutters as a precaution shortly after his arrival.
The sun's rays penetrated through a crack, small grains of dust danced in the light, rising from the fresh rushes on the ground.
He heard a rattling sound at the entrance, someone was trying to open the door lock. His muscles tensed, he rose quickly and drew two sharp daggers from under his robe.
The heavy door creaked on its hinges, and a gaunt bareheaded man with thinning gray hair entered. He wore a loose black-brown cowl pulled around his bony hips with a hemp rope.
Coughing noisily, he closed the entrance behind him and squinted into the room. Immediately, his gaze fell on the two knives, which suddenly flashed in the sunlight and were aimed at his face.
His eyes widened in fright, and he croaked hoarsely: "Good God, who are you? And what are you doing in my house?"
He had often seen him, that expression of incredulous wonder and horror on the faces of his victims, when he stood unexpectedly before them, his daggers drawn close to their eyes. This man was no exception.
"Sit down, Bishop."
His voice brooked no contradiction, and with a nod of his head he pointed to the stool that stood in the middle of the room.
The scrawny, lanky heretic caught himself surprisingly quickly. He sat down thoughtfully and surveyed the intruder. In front of him stood a middle-aged man, slender, with a square, bearded face. Long dark brown hair, in which the first gray strands appeared, fell down to his shoulders, the thin lips curled a disparaging smile. He wore a poor brown frock of coarse woollen cloth, which would not match his finely wrought leather boots, which peeped out from under the frayed hem of his robe. This wasn't a thief, and he looked strangely familiar.
"You're Bishop Guilhabert de Castres, aren't you?" the intruder's light brown eyes looked impassive.
"That's what they call me," he answered calmly, looking up, "and what is your name, my son?"
"I'm not your son, perfectus."
Guilhabert noticed a slight mockery in the reply, almost amused, but the man's face darkened.
No one had ever asked him his name in view of his daggers. They had begged, pleaded and cried for their lives. Later, her screams were drowned in her blood.
There had been many, he had long since grown tired of hearing them rattle. He killed the first with the conviction that he was doing praiseworthy works in the service of the Lord and for the protection of the true faith. In the meantime, doubts were eating away at him, driving him restlessly through taverns and at night, so that he could sink these thoughts into wine and willing wombs. This old man in front of him didn't seem to feel any fear. He deserved to know the name of his executioner.
"My name is Gabriel. But that won't do you much good."
"No, no," interrupted Guilhabert, "that's not your name. I remember you, you are Ramon de Valencia! A knight of Count Raymond of Toulouse, I saw you at his side, a year ago at the Abbey of Saint Gilles, when we were all negotiating with the Pope's legate, Pierre de Castelnau, to lift the Count's excommunication."
Satisfied with the performance of his memory, he leaned back and stroked his thinning beard. A blink of an eye later, fear finally flickered in his eyes.
"It is rumoured that you murdered the legate with a dagger on the banks of the Rhône shortly afterwards and then disappeared. Am I the ... next?"
Gabriel was silent at first and tilted his head to the side. Not a dagger, but a well-aimed lance thrust, which pierced the chest of the papal envoy a year ago, fulfilled the order of his Roman ruler at that time. Gabriel had not asked the reason why the high-ranking clergyman had to die. He never asked for it, only for the reward for his successful services, which was getting higher each time.
Since January, many princes of Christendom had gathered with their warriors in Marseilles to avenge the martyrdom of the legate on the unpopular Cathars, who were blamed for the crime. The occasion that moved Pope Innocent, who had been hesitant until then, to appeal against the heretics was undoubtedly his work. Or his master's, you could see that as you liked.
"Speak, are you that man?", asked Guilhabert calmly.
"I am no more a knight than you are a bishop," Gabriel answered evasively, "you are mistaken. You are called perfectus among your own, but you do not seem to be perfect. I am here to remove you from the entourage of Count Raymond, who promotes your heresy and thus does great harm to the true Church. Your death will bring the Count to his senses."
"I have never considered myself a bishop, only a shepherd who can lead people to salvation. I don't care about my body, it was created by the devil to make it difficult for the soul to enter the kingdom of heaven. If you want to kill me, I'll go straight up to the Lord, for I'm God's chosen one. I can promise you peace of mind too. You should listen to my words."
He had been warned against this sentence. A preaching Cathar wore the poison of his faith on his tongue like a honey-dripping delicacy. Not only ordinary people fell for them, but also nobles, even Catholic dignitaries were not immune to them. Gabriel suppressed a grin.
"Spare me. You think you're Christ, what a presumption. Your doctrine denies the resurrection, supposedly the souls of people wander into animal bodies if they are not redeemed from your blasphemous prayers and live on in them. That is why you despise meat and eat only grains like birds. Not for me, old man."
"How nice, you are quite acquainted with my faith. However, our food has more variety to offer. Bread, fresh vegetables and fruits, even fish, are part of it, because this is made from pure water, not from sinful procreation. I would like to expand your knowledge so that you can see how well we mean it. I can help you too, I recognize tormented souls. Let me ease your pain."
Guilhabert raised his hands in blessing and was about to rise, but suddenly one of the daggers cut through the air and struck a leg of the stool near his left foot. Frightened, he looked at the trembling knob.
"Keep your room. I'm not done with you yet," Gabriel said calmly, pouring himself a sip of wine. Guilhabert slumped back into his chair, his gentle smile frozen.
"It's no use killing me. Others will come and replace me."
"You mean your two deputies? One of you, your deacon Ernest, or filius major as you call him, had an accident last night. You're coming straight out of his house in the Dyer's Alley, right? On market days, you go to him in the morning after supervising your servants in setting up your stall. You discuss with him the services for the weekend, manage the donations of the faithful and prepare the sermons while your pretty housekeeper cooks the midday meal here. Only today it took a little longer, I can imagine how great the consternation was in the dyer's house. A very tragic accident, he stumbled on the steep stairs in his house and broke his neck..."
"It was you!" said Guilhabert, looking at him in amazement.
"Accidents happen sometimes. His substitute and filius minor, the weaver Fabrice, on the other hand, hanged himself yesterday in the stable of his estate. A pity, probably an attack of mental derangement after a long period of Lent."
"You are the devil, verily!" the bishop shook his head, tears welling up in his eyes, "what have you done to the innocent Marielle, monster! She was here in the house when I left!"
"Oh, your modest housekeeper," Gabriel sighed thoughtfully, rubbing his chin, "she's not as innocent as you think. It took less than three days to ensnare her, voluntarily she let me into your estate and into her bed. She is well, and resting from the exertion, as well as one can with gags and fetters."
"You don't know what you've done. She was on her way to becoming a good woman, a perfect one, and to carry our faith into the dark world to redeem many sinners!"
"I'm sure you've picked the wrong one for that. Your faith is fraud and deceit. You are calling for disobedience, because for you this world is created by evil and rules would only manage evil. You preach poverty and you live in a house full of riches, you renounce fermented beverages as the work of the devil, but in your cellar the wine barrels are piled up. Sinfulness with women would be an abomination, but there is a maid up there, beautiful as the Virgin Mary and corrupt as Salomè once was, to use the words of the Holy Scriptures, which you so vehemently reject. Enough talking."
Gabriel rose, his dagger circling in his wrist, and he stepped up to the head-shaking Cathar, who held out his hands to him in defence.
"You are mistaken. The wine belonged to the previous owner of the house, and I did not drink a drop of it. I never laid hands on a woman, never used the donated funds for myself. Your prelates revel in wealth and power, bought by the sweat and blood of the faithful. We are the friends of God, preaching poverty, fraternity and renunciation of all sinfulness. The world of this world is created by evil, and it is our goal to fight it. And the Holy Scriptures are known to me, you bear the name of the Archangel Gabriel, through whom God is said to have spoken. But God spoke to us only through Christ, the Bible is a testimony to the works of Satan. Only the Gospel of John describes the true story of the Redeemer."
Gabriel paused, wondering at his hesitation. The dagger hovered menacingly over the bowed head of the heretic bishop.
Guilhabert whispered, "Everyone has experienced something in their lives that has changed them so much that they can never be the same person again. Nevertheless, I see good in you, it is not too late. Remember that when you leave this house."
This man impressed him. In the face of inevitable death, he spoke calmly and thoughtfully words that led him into his own past. Suddenly he saw them before him again, the oarsmen with their backs torn to shreds by whips, heard their groans and the scornful laughter of the Saracen sailors.
Again the stench of rats rotting in damp corners below deck rose to his nostrils. The tortured smile of his companion Marco, with whom he had shared the smooth bench on the galley for years, appeared before him, and who died beside him with festering ulcers all over his body. He heard the clanking of the chains as they untied him and threw him overboard. Just one of many half-rotten carcasses whose cracked hands propelled the ship. On that day, his hope, his faith, was shattered.
He became a nobody, a piece of muscle meat without a name, until Venetian mercenaries captured the galley of the pagan pirates and later abandoned him half-naked on land below the walls of Byzantium. He was very young, destitute and hungry. But he wanted to live. Just live. Then torn jugglers picked him up and taught him skills that have helped him to this day.
Gabriel withdrew the dagger and the other from the stool. Both disappeared under his cowl. He walked to the table, took the half-full wine jug in his right hand, and turned again to the bishop.
"I'm not going to kill you today, and I'm sure my employer won't like it. I'm losing a big reward."
Guilhabert sat up and took a deep breath.
"What's your price? I will pay it, my son, so that you may not suffer any injustice."
"Very kind. I have already found your silver under your bedstead, and there are even some gold coins among them. That's quite enough. By the way, a foolish hiding-place."
Guilhabert's bated breath escaped loudly. He had stored more than a hundred Frankish bezants there, a year's worth of donations from his community. Enough to buy two houses like this.
"Then what do you want?"
"I know that you heretics reject every oath, so it is useless to ask you for a promise. So I'll give you some well-meaning advice: leave Carcassonne today. Disappear from the vicinity of Count Raymond, let yourself be seen no more at his court. Preach your heresy from me in remote mountain villages."
"If not …"
"... then I'll slit you from belly to throat and disembowel you alive," Gabriel interrupted him calmly and cold as steel.
"I have no doubt about that. I'll do what you say. Thank you, I …", he couldn't finish the sentence, the wine jug shattered on his skull, grunting the bishop fell off his stool and lost consciousness.
Gabriel didn't even look at him again and crossed the room towards the kitchen. There he heaved a full tub of water onto the brick hearth and pulled out from under his robe a linen pouch that contained a palm-sized Venetian mirror. He placed it next to the tub.
For a moment he considered whether he should go up again to the tightly bound Marielle, but he dismissed the idea. He had lost too much time with the Cathar.
Resolutely, he pulled the dark brown head of hair off his head and scratched the sweaty skin on his skull. He then carefully folded the hand-knotted piece of disguise and stowed it in the bag.
A smile curled his lips as he thought of the maker of this work of art. A quiet man with thoughtful hands who made a fortune from his work. In Rome, many of the noble ladies appreciated his expensive craft. He transformed light shaggy hairs into thick manes and hidden gray strands under dark curls, turned old spinsters into desirable brides and withered wives into charming companions. Since Gabriel became one of his customers, he was also able to tie beards in a number of shapes onto wafer-thin sheepskin, a welcome change, as the secretive artist had happily discovered.
Rome. The seat of his lord and master. His next goal, the assignments here in Occitanie, were done.
The smile vanished from Gabriel's face and he wetted it with water from the tub. Slowly, he pulled the fake beard from his upper lip and chin, which he had fixed with transparent glue made of heavily boiled bone broth. Effortlessly, he removed the remnants that looked like small scraps of skin and dried himself with a rag.
He turned over his black cloak, which was lined with blue cloth on the inside, and provided with a collar trimmed with gray rabbit skin.
A beret made of wool felt and a colorfully embroidered leather belt completed his presentation.
He carried the two throwing daggers close to his body in another belt.
A final glance in the mirror showed a young man with brown stubble hair, dark eyes, and an even, slightly tanned face that took on a bored expression. Like a rich, spoiled merchant's son that he would play on the upcoming journey.
Satisfied, Gabriel stowed the mirror together with the fake beard in the linen bag. He walked leisurely to the back entrance of the house and packed it into his leather bag, which he had left there when he arrived. The heretic's coins clinked softly as he slung it over his left shoulder and left the building.Neuer Text