All Things Are Lights | Page 5

of our
opponents. We cannot build a sound church on hatred. Who are you,

my son?"
"Your Holiness, I am Roland de Vency. I am a troubadour and a knight.
I have also been a faidit, an exile from this land. My parents, my sister,
and I fled with a price on our heads. Now I have come back to
Languedoc."
The bishop's penetrating eyes held Roland's "You are dark and have a
Roman face, like our southern people. But you are tall and blue-eyed
like the men of the north. I sense in you a mixture, a union of north and
south, of Frank and Gaul. A tormented union, even as this land is
tortured by war between northern and southern Frenchmen. You are a
sorrowful man ? you wear somber colors, for a troubadour. You have
trouble living with yourself, my son. You do not know who you are."
Roland's chest ached at this reminder of the secret shame of his birth.
And he felt fear as well, at the power of this mind that could so easily
penetrate his heart.
"Doubtless you are named for the ancient hero Roland, whom The
Song of Roland tells us died fighting Saracens in these very
mountains," the bishop went on. "And the name, perhaps, has inspired
you to perilous deeds. Why have you come to this place, Roland de
Vency?"
"Your Holiness, I seek the woman I love, Diane de Combret."
A buzzing murmur came from behind Roland, and the bishop's eyes
widened.
"Diane is of your faith, Your Holiness, and I was raised a Catholic, but
before I fled into exile we loved each other and were betrothed. The
war tore us apart. I took a new name and came back to look for her, but
it was as if she had vanished. Then I learned that she is here, and
pretended to join the crusaders. I entered the camp of my enemies so
that I could rescue her from them." He spread his arms wide. "If I could
save all here, I would. But I am only one knight. If all the gallant
warriors who defend this place cannot defeat your enemies, can I? But

perhaps I can save this one woman's life, which is precious to me above
all others."
Bishop Bertran gazed kindly and sadly at him. "Diane. She is here, my
son. She has heard all of your brave speech." He gestured with a frail
hand.
Roland felt himself starting to tremble. Diane, here in this room?
Unsteadily he rose from his knees and turned.
He saw her before him, tall, pale in a long black robe. The candlelight
suddenly seemed to grow brighter. The subtle flush in her cheeks, her
long shining hair, her huge eyes - Diane had appeared, and color was
reborn in the world.
"Roland, Roland," she said. "How did you get here? Roland, I am so
happy to see you."
The sound of her voice came to him like the most beautiful of songs
played on a well-seasoned vielle. He could not speak. He was stunned,
yet more fully conscious than he had ever been.
Diane was crying now, tears streaming down her cheeks. She reached
out to embrace him.
Then she checked herself. With an obvious effort, she pulled her arms
down to her sides and stepped back, her eyes still fixed on his but now
full of misery.
He fell to his knees. "Diane, I love you." The crowd of perfecti was
watching him, but he didn't care.
"It is no longer possible" - she shook her head - "for you to speak so."
He knelt there, desolate. His mind had finally grasped what had already
penetrated his heart.
He knew now what he had suspected from her presence here. She had
taken the consolamentum. She was a perfecta. She could no longer

know human love.
His heart weighted his chest like a lump of iron. Pain spread from that
crushing center to fill his body and limbs with anguish.
He stood up. "Your people's stone-caster just missed me a while ago. I
wish it had not."
"Oh, Roland, if only I could share my joy with you," she said softly.
"No man could have won me away from you. Every day I heard your
voice singing in my heart. But even your songs could not rival the
sweetness of God's own music."
Diane wore no ornament, but her long red-gold hair, hanging in ringlets
to her shoulders, adorned her more gloriously than any jewelry might
have. Her eyes, neither blue nor brown, were a mixture, a catlike green.
Her face had always been fine-boned; now months of fasting had put
shadows in her cheeks that made her look like an angel on a cathedral
pillar.
"I must bow to what