The Collected Prose, page 18
Whoever thinks that the protocols of the Inquisition contain shocking material, suitable for literary treatment, is mistaken. The dialogues—as we discover by reading the “Collection Doat”—do not consist of violent responses, passion, threats, resistance, and breakdowns, but a terrible monotony. The real terror is to be found in the inventories of torture chambers.
What can be found in the protocols? Names, dates, places, and little else. “During consolamentum administered to Auger Isorn in Fanjeaux were present: Bec from Fanjeaux, Guillaume from La Ilhe, Gaillard from Feste, Arnaud from Ovo, Jourdain from Roquefort…” “Atho Arnaud from Castelverdun demanded consolamentum in the house of his relatives named Covars, from Mongradail…” “Deacons Bernard Coldefi and Arnaud Guiraud lived permanently in Montréal, and their meetings were attended by Raymond from Sanchos, Peteria, wife of a Moor from Montréal…,” and so on, page after page.
Bernard Gui, an inquisitor of the next century, the fourteenth, is the author of an instructive work: Libellis de ordine praedicatorum, a handbook for inquisitors, which gives us some idea of the nature of the interrogations of Albigensians.
“…The suspect is asked whether he saw or met one or many heretics; where it was, how many times, and when…
“item: whether he had any relations with them; where, when, and who recommended him;
“item: whether he received in his dwelling one or many heretics, who in particular, and who brought them; how long they stayed with him, where they went, who visited them, whether he heard their preaching, and what it concerned;
“item: whether he revered heretics, or knew of anyone else revering them;
“item: whether he ate consecrated bread with them, and how this bread was consecrated…
“item: whether he greeted heretics, or saw other people greeting them…
“item: whether he believed that a person adhering to the heretic creed can be saved…
Other questions concerned the views and the past of people with whom the suspect had any contact.
This means of inquiry is only apparently narrow, dull, and aimless. In fact its cool, impersonal logic allowed the examiner to pursue his goal without engaging in a psychological game, trying to penetrate motives and circumstances; it paralyzed the suspect with the fear we always experience when instead of a living person, we encounter stern necessity. The two orders—the moral and psychological, and that of facts—are perfectly separated.
THE POETRY OF THE troubadours came under violent attack, as though it were not enough that courts and patrons should be in the hands of northern soldiers. “The world has changed so much that it is impossible to recognize it,” laments Bertran d’Alamanon24. Bishops and Dominicans call for the rejection of “songs full of vanity,” and the papal legate hears oaths of knights nevermore to write verse. Lyrical poetry—a phenomenon known from other historical epochs—is replaced by weighty ideological diatribes, composed by pious rhymsters. One of the poems preserved is simply an elaboration of the catechism, and would not be counted among works of literature were it not for the fact that each article of the creed is followed by this refrain:
If you do not believe, turn your eyes to the flames
which burn your companions.
Answer in one or two words only—
You will either burn in this fire, or join us.
Provençal poetry is permeated with the idea of “sinful love,” which is expounded in tedious poems. Bréviaire d’Amour by the master Matfre Ermengau25 has 30,000 lines. Scholasticism enters poetry; the aforementioned poem also contains a chapter “On the Abjectness of Flesh.” “Satan, wishing to inflict suffering on a man, instilled in him idolatrous love for a woman. Instead of worshipping his Creator with all his heart and with the whole force of his mind, with a burning love, he gives to a woman what belongs to God…Remember, whosoever reveres a woman reveres Satan, and makes the lawless demon his God.”
Of course genuine troubadours still existed, and perhaps even had clandestine meetings and conventions. The last of them, Guiraut Riquier26, died in 1280, almost forty years after the stakes of Montségur. His voice is sad, like the voice of a grasshopper among ruins. He was faithful to the tradition and for twenty years platonically loved the wife of the Viscount of Narbonne; the delicacy of his sentiments ensures him a place among the finest representatives of the genre. Towards the end of his life, he yielded to the new current and wrote only Marian hymns, where the confusion of objects of earthly and celestial love is almost too disturbing. “Until recently I sang of love, but truly I did not know what it was, taking vanity and madness for emotion; but now true love overwhelms me, forcing me to give my heart to a lady whom I shall never be able to worship as she deserves…I am not at all jealous of others who desire her heart, and I pray for her adorers, that she will hear the supplication of each.”
The phenomenon of formalism can be studied in the troubadours’ decadent poetry, as in an anatomical sample. Formalism is not the excess of metaphor or linguistic ornament, but a procedure by which old means of expression try to render a new, changed emotional and historical atmosphere. We should add that it would be naïve to claim all troubadour poetry is a reflection of crystal purity and platonic love. History preserves the names of a number of poets like Sordel27 and Bertran d’Alamanon, libertine poets notorious for their free-thinking poems and numerous scandals.
The poetry of the troubadours was always a mixture of flame and blue sky, but perhaps that is not the worst poetic alloy. The whole of Canto XXVI of the Divine Comedy is the color of deep purple and chilly radiance. In Purgatory the soul of a good poet, Amaut Daniel28, awaits the day of its liberation. Dante constructs a beautiful monument to his master. The song ends in Provençal, and has the charm of fading beauty.
BUT LET US RETURN to our broken-off story. It is after the Treaty of Meaux and the council in Toulouse, which extended the Inquisition’s control over the whole country. Not entirely, since irredentism still smolders in inaccessible castles. Other countries, and especially Lombardy—with which the heretics of Toulouse and Provence had always been in close contact—were relatively peaceful oases, and aided their sister church.
What was to be done? The apostolic activities of the Cathars were branded with all the miseries of conspiracy. The cities were unsafe, so the “perfected” met with believers in the mountains, in forest clearings; trailed by spies, delivered to the Inquisition yet undaunted, sneaking out under cover of night, under friendly glances, searching glances, glances inert with fear. Sometimes they managed to perch for a while over a shoemaker’s last, or wearing a baker’s hat, or practicing medicine—a profession beloved of Cathars and suited to their attitude of active charity.
In the meantime Raymond VII, following a policy of appeasement towards the Pope, made no secret of his desire to get rid of the inquisitors. Trying to prove his goodwill, he initiated the capture and burning of a number of Albigensians, among them Deacon Jehan Cambitor and his three companions hiding in Montségur. The activities of the Inquisition in the duchy were suspended for three years between 1237 and 1241. It seemed that internal peace was near.
But quite unexpectedly in 1240 an avenger appears, descending upon the country with the speed of a rising mountain stream: Raymond Trencavel, the son of the Viscount of Béziers who had died in prison. With him are the lords of occupied castles, dispossessed by the French, and the fine Aragonese cavalry. The army advances rapidly, taking castles along the way that put up no resistance at all. But instead of striking at the capital Carcassonne, the young leader contents himself with minor victories. The French governor organizes the defense, sends a messenger to Paris and demands aid from the Count of Toulouse who, however, refuses in unequivocal terms. Young Trencavel furiously assaults the capital: the walls shake and crumble, but the relief led by Jean de Beaumont, Louis IX’s chamberlain, forces the young warrior to retreat. The second fatal error of the campaign consists in Trencavel’s marching westward, directly into the enemy’s embrace, instead of retreating inland, where mountains and allies would guarantee a lasting defense. No wonder he has to barricade himself in Montréal. His defense, however, is so valiant that he receives honorable terms of surrender: permission to retreat with his armies and supplies to Aragon. The French begin to recapture the lost castles, less by means of siege-machines than by negotiations, although cruelty and violence are not totally absent.
The behavior of Raymond VII is full of contradictions. On the one hand it is known that he supported Trencavel, but at the same time he promised the Pope to destroy Montségur, the capital of the Cathars. Had the Count of Toulouse joined the battle against the French, he could have changed the course of events, but he looked fatalistically upon the defeat of his ally, just like his father apathetically watching the defeat of Raymond-Roger. Historia magistra vitae? If anyone ever tries to write a psychoanalytic account of historical figures, these events deserve their own chapter.
As if feeling that he has slept through a perfect opportunity, the Count of Toulouse throws himself into a whirlpool of artful intrigue, which results in a strong anti-French coalition including Castille, Navarre, Aragon, and even Henry III of England. Certain of the strength of his alliances, Raymond VII denounces the Treaty of Meaux. The massacre in Avignonet speeds up events.
We have said that Raymond VII obtained from Pope Gregory IX the suspension of the inquisitorial activities of the preaching brothers. But in April 1242 the Bishop of Rome dies, and the Dominicans resume their work. In December of the same year a great stake burns heretics in Lavour.
In May 1242 the inquisitors Guillaume Arnaud and Étienne de St. Thibery arrive at the small town of Avignonet, situated in the center of the Lauraguais province. The whole party consists of eleven members of the tribunal; among them an ex-troubadour, Raymond de Costiran, canon of St. Stephen’s cathedral in Toulouse, notaries, and process servers. They establish their quarters in the castle of Raymond d’Alfaro29. No one among the inquisitorial party suspects that, despite their good welcome, they are in fact already trapped. Though it is difficult to feel sympathy for an institution called the Inquisition, one has to respect the courage of people who enter unarmed a place known as a hotbed of heresy, in a de facto state of war. Raymond d’Alfaro notifies the garrison of Montségur and soon sixty armed men rush to Avignonet. The rebels stop at the town gates near the house of the lepers, where castellan Raymond’s messenger hands them twelve axes. Then, led by Raymond d’Alfaro himself, the somber procession marches toward the chamber in which the inquisitors are asleep. When the door breaks under the blows of axes, the friars kneel on the floor, and begin to sing Salve Regina. The slaughter is full of fury and cruelty. Sources tell us that the broken skull of Guillaume Arnaud was used as a drinking cup by his murderer.
The temporary successes of the Count of Toulouse end when the French army sets out and very speedily eliminates all his allies, including Henry III, who retreats to Bordeaux after his defeat at Taillebourg.
Deserted by his vassals and allies, the Count of Toulouse remains alone, having no choice but to surrender once more to the Church and the King of France. In January 1243 a final treaty is signed in Lorris. Six years later Raymond VII dies without leaving a male heir. According to the treaty, his daughter marries Alphonse de Poitiers, the brother of Louis IX. In this way Languedoc is eternally bound to the French crown.
The victors turn their eyes to the south, toward two unconquered castles, the last bastions of the Albigensians.
Montségur, the holy city of the Cathars—now a name denoting an emptiness—stands amidst a wild, mountainous landscape. The mountain and the ruins today look like one gigantic anthill. From the south, an almost vertical cliff of solid rock falls into the valley. The position of Montségur is mysterious, since the castle does not “reign” over anything and guards no passage, as if its builders had other than practical reasons in mind. The very shape of the ruins resembles a long sarcophagus rather than a fortress. Our wonder grows when we follow a winding path toward the remains. The walls are bare and lack strategic characteristics: embrasures, battlements, towers. Moreover, this mysterious construction covers only a part of the mountain top. But the most amazing sight is two wide unfortified gates, unparalleled in medieval defensive architecture.
To all these puzzling details let us add an observation, that the layout of Montségur is quite exceptional. Research into the symbolism of art is not limited these days to the study of capitals, tympans, and other ornamental details, so that a pentagon of bare walls can convey its hidden sense. The metaphysics of architecture are expressed also in the module, the proportion of solids, the placing of windows, the direction of the building, and even in the materials and mortar. As for the castle in Montségur, its ground-plan permit the precise determination of the position of the rising sun at different times of the year. Hence the daring hypothesis that Montségur was not a fortress but a Cathar temple, perhaps all that remains of the Manichaean cult.
Let us return to the facts. It is May 1243. Hugues des Arcis—the new royal seneschal of Carcassonne—with his ten-thousand-strong army, pitches his tents around Montségur, proclaimed a “synagogue of Satan.” Behind a wooden palisade there are many deacons, prominent Albigensians, and “perfected” ones, with Bertrand Marty as their leader. The castle’s garrison consists of fifteen knights and a hundred sergeants: no more than one hundred and fifty armed men. The French army surrounds Montségur in a semi-circle, only the southern part of the mountain is free of the besiegers: the almost vertical cliff plunging into an abyss, in which the defendants can see their fate.
Beginning their siege in May, the attackers thought that the sun would dry the cisterns in summer. After six months, with the situation unchanged, no one counted on heavenly assistance. Food supplies in the fortress were sufficient, and contacts with the outside world were maintained thanks to experienced mountaineers who lowered themselves on ropes from the vertical cliff at night. Considerable differences of altitude prevented the use of siege-machines; everything seemed to indicate that the nest of Cathars could not be taken by force but only by cunning.
The defenders and inhabitants of Montségur could not expect the mighty French army to strike its tents and depart some day. So almost five hundred people shut in the fortress, whom a common fate had made one family, have been preparing for death for many months.
The French manage to bribe some Basque volunteers, experienced mountaineers, who with great effort manage to reach a narrow platform eighty meters from the castle. In November the royal army receives considerable reinforcements. Durand, Bishop of Albi, comes to the camp. He offers technical rather than spiritual help, being an expert constructor of siege-machines, which soon take their part in the battle. The situation is not yet hopeless, since Bertrand de la Baccalaria, whom we would now call a military engineer, arrives at the fortress by night. Now the defenders can enter into a dialogue of stone-throwing machines.
Winter is very hard for the besieged, there are many casualties, and rare reinforcements do not replace all those lost in fighting. Crowded into a small space of several hundred square meters, people become exhausted by the months of struggle. The commander of the garrison frequently sends messages to the Count of Toulouse asking whether everything is going well. The answer is affirmative, yet it is not known what this question refers to—preparations for a new uprising, a relief expedition, or negotiations.
The most dangerous weapon enters the battle—cunning. During one of the long winter nights a group of volunteers, led by a Basque guide knowing all the secret passages, crosses a dangerous crest and, deceiving the garrison with friendly shouts, massacres the defenders of the eastern tower in a surprise attack. The passage is so dangerous that the next day the French have to admit that they would never have dared to take it in full daylight. The situation of the defenders becomes increasingly grave, especially since Bishop Durand constructs a new machine near the walls of Montségur, which unceasingly pitches eighty-pound stones. The commander of defense, Pierre Roger de Mirepoix31, orders the safekeeping of treasures belonging to the Cathar Church. Two Albigensians, Mathieu and Pierre Bonnet, gather the gold, silver, pecuniam infinitam, and hide it in a secure place.
Despite the hopelessness of the situation for those enclosed in the fortress, the siege continues and the defenders resist French assaults. The chronicler of the crusades Guillaume de Puylaurens writes: “The besieged were not given a moment of rest either at night or during the day.” The commander tries to secure help from outside. Corbario, the leader of the twenty-five Aragonese daredevils who would constitute a select commando unit in a modern army, promises to penetrate the lines of encirclement, recapture the eastern tower and destroy the French siege-machines. The circle of the besieging army is so tight, however, that the Aragonese have to abandon their mission. The commander decides to make a desperate excursion at night. The enemies fight at the edge of an abyss in which many find their death. At dawn the battle shifts to the fortress walls, where the sisters and daughters of knights fight side by side with the men. The counterattack is repulsed with much bloodshed. After a night full of the moaning of the wounded, the trampled, and those fallen into the abyss from the walls of Montségur, a horn sounds. Raymond de Pereille30 and Pierre Roger de Mirepoix go to the enemy’s camp to negotiate. Montségur surrenders after nine months of siege.
