All Things Are Lights | Page 4

faith."
"Is it not also your faith, then?" asked the woman. "Are you not one of
us??
"If I were a liar and a spy as you think, I would claim to be one of you.
But since I am an honest man and a friend, I tell you I was raised as a
Catholic. I am Roland de Vency, born here in Languedoc. You may
have heard of my father, Arnaut de Vency."
"De Vency? The Sire Arnaut? I remember him. A Catholic, but as
fierce a fighter against the crusaders as any of our own men." The
woman lowered her crossbow.
Roland expelled a long, relieved breath. "My father loved Languedoc,"

he said. "So do I. The crusaders are our enemies, too. And I am here
because I love a woman here."
"Let us take him to the perfecti, Corba," said the second woman. "They
shall decide. But, Sire de Vency, if you make a single move that puts us
in doubt of you, we will run you through."
They walked through an alley between darkened wooden buildings.
The suffocating odor and an eerie silence told Roland that behind the
shut doorways people were listening, waiting.
He saw no guard at the entrance to the stone keep. Doubtless every able
man had joined the attack on the crusaders. Roland's escorts leaned
their weapons beside a tall double door and pulled it open. As he
stepped within, he blinked. Only a few candles lit the room, but his
eyes had gotten used to the night's darkness.
The keep of Mont Segur, he knew, was a most sacred place of the
Cathar church. Yet, as Roland looked around the large room, he could
see no adornments anywhere, save for white candles in black
wrought-iron candelabra. As a place of religion it seemed strangely
bare. He was used to churches resplendent with brightly painted statues.
Yet the plainness spoke of humility and peace.
The room was crowded with men and women, intermingled, standing
with heads bowed. Some prayed aloud, some silently. All were
bareheaded and wore black robes. Roland was awestruck. He had seen
Cathar perfecti many times before, but never so many in one place. His
parents, though they were Catholics, had taught him to admire the holy
ones of the other religion as saints, almost angels, because of their
heroic virtue and simplicity of life. The spectacle of so many of these
good men and women gathered together was overwhelming.
Even though the room was full of people, the smell of unbathed bodies
was fainter here. Roland did not doubt that the perfecti shared the
hardships of all within this fortress, but their austerity seemed to have
purified their flesh.

Roland saw beyond them, at the far end, an ancient, white-haired man
who sat in a plain wooden chair on a stone dais. Roland knew he must
be their spiritual leader, Bishop Bertran d'en Marti, sometimes called
the Pope of the Cathar church.
Diane would not be here, Roland thought. She probably would be out
there in the wooden building with the credentes, those men and women
who had not taken holy vows and who were seeing to the defense of the
stronghold. The perfecti, Roland knew, never bore arms.
A young man came over, his black robe swirling around a body that
seemed no thicker than a lance pole. The woman called Corba told him
about Roland's climbing over the wall. The perfectus stared at the cross
on Roland's chest.
Roland sensed his revulsion. "Forgive me for offending you. I had to
wear this to get through to you." He dug his ragged fingernails in under
the red silk and tore away the cross. The sound of ripping cloth in the
quiet room made heads turn. Roland dropped the strips of silk to the
floor.
"Who is that?" said Bertran d'en Marti in a voice that was soft yet
carried across the room. "Does he bring news?"
Roland strode across the room before anyone could stop him and knelt
at Bishop Bertran's sandaled feet. He reached for the old man's hand. It
was as light and small as a bird's wing, and Roland's large fingers held
it with care as he pressed his lips to the shiny knuckles. When he was
growing up, Roland had often heard stories of Bishop Bertran,
especially how, years ago, he had debated and won against the famous
Catholic preacher Saint Dominic. The bishop must be over ninety,
Roland thought. His face was skeletal and wreathed by wisps of white
hair. His dark brown eyes glowed with an inner illumination.
"I wish you had not treated the cross with such scorn, young man,"
Bishop Bertran said in a voice that was like the rustling of parchment.
"Our greatest failing has been disrespect for the religion