All Things Are Lights | Page 6

you have done, Diane," he said. "But if you will
not come with me as my beloved, come as a perfecta. I can smuggle
you through the crusader lines. Let me save your life."
Before Diane could answer, the door crashed open. The shrieks and
wails of women assailed his ears. From a distance came the shouts of
men in combat. The stone floor under Roland's feet vibrated, and he
heard the crashing of rock on wood.
A group of women staggered in bearing a wounded man wrapped in a
blue cloak. Roland stepped aside as the women laid their burden gently
before the bishop. The cloak fell away, and Roland saw that a sword
had cleft the man's shoulder. His arm hung by a thread. The women
tried to staunch the flow of blood by pressing cloths against the wound.
"Your Holiness," the dying man gasped. "I beg the consolamentum."
"You shall be saved, Arnald my son, and return to the One Light." The

bishop got up from his chair with surprising agility, then knelt. He
pressed his hand to the dying man's forehead and whispered words over
him.
Roland felt himself moved by the simplicity of the ritual. Yet this was
the very sacrament, he thought with bitterness, that had taken Diane
from him.
"Arnald de Lantar," Diane whispered to Roland. "One of our best."
Roland felt pity for the dying man. That could be me. I could take this
man's place. I could join these people in their good fight. I could kill
many a crusader, and joyfully.
But more good would I do if I saved this one lady.
When the bishop's soft words ceased, Arnald de Lantar spoke again
through his pain. "I am sorry, Your Holiness. We have failed you.
Bernart Roainh and Peire Ferrier... killed. Our men... many fell. Fell
from the mountain as we retreated. Too many crusaders ... too strong."
His eyes closed.
One of the women put her hand on his heart. Then, weeping, the
women who had brought him in rose up and carried the body away.
Bishop Bertran turned to Diane with a sigh. "My child, do you wish to
go with Sire Roland? I fear these are our final free moments."
"No, Your Holiness," Diane said firmly.
Roland felt himself slump in despair.
"Please, dear Bishop Bertran," she went on. "To leave here, to be safe,
while my brethren are dying? It would destroy me. It would hurt me as
much as if I were to commit the gravest of sins."
"How can it be a sin to want to live?" Roland pleaded.
"For us death is victory," said Diane, her green eyes shining.

"But if the life of anyone should be saved, there are many of more
value than mine. Your talk of spiriting me through the crusader lines is
only a frivolous troubadour fancy." She turned away as again the doors
to the keep opened.
Roland stood alone, burning with shame and anger. More wounded
were carried in and laid in rows on the floor. Calmly, lovingly, the
black-robed perfecti, Diane among them, moved along the lines of
fallen men. Bishop Bertran walked slowly past them, giving
instructions. "Treat this wound at once," he said. "That man will be all
right for a time." To those who appeared near death he gave the
consolamentum and walked on. Any of the perfecti could have
administered the Sacrament, but Roland sensed that it was a special joy
for these dying men to receive it from the bishop's hands.
Watching Diane attend the wounded, Roland brooded. He had come all
the way from Paris, risking his life over and over again for her, giving
up all other women for her - including the beautiful Countess Nicolette.
How could she scorn his effort? How could she dismiss his plan
because a troubadour thought of it? Yes, he was a troubadour, a maker
of songs, and proud of his art. She had loved his songs once.
How old had he been when Peire Cardenal came to Chateau Combret?
It had been August of the year after the eighth King Louis died and the
ninth was crowned. That would make it one thousand two hundred
twenty-seven. Seventeen years ago, so Roland was ten - two years
younger than the new boy-king. Roland's family, in flight from the
crusaders who had invaded Languedoc, had been guests of the de
Combrets, a prosperous Cathar family, for many months. Their chateau
was in Provence, east of Languedoc, where the crusade and the
persecutions had not yet penetrated. A score or more people, the de
Combrets and the de Vencys and their retainers and gentlefolk from the
countryside around, sat at tables in the great hall. Dozens of candles
lighted the hall for the occasion.
Diane usually