1

The falcon abandoned the cliff and took flight at great speed, taking advantage of the Pyrenean wind. Propelled by icy gusts foretelling autumn, its nervous eyes captured images of what was going on down below, on the earth. First the mountains, then the valley, the fields, and finally the wall. As it approached the town, it beat its wings forcefully, accelerated and gained height.

It hovered near the clouds and watched the traffic of people in the streets. It was market day. The red awnings of the itinerant stalls swelled with air, sometimes becoming loose and momentarily revealing the products on offer: baskets with spices, Flemish cloths, pork chops, barrels of Navarrese and Aquitanian wine… The sun came out, and the falcon climbed even higher, startled by the glint of weapons and helmets being sold by veterans of the crusades. It understood the danger of that gleam, but it was hungry and needed to run the risk of approaching that large human gathering.

A cloud of dust attracted its pupils’ attention, and it changed trajectory. At one of the openings in the wall, several knights of the Order of Saint Christina were escorting a sizeable group of pilgrims on their way to Santiago. The falcon dropped down and headed south, where, in the midst of the anthill, three wagons stood out. Their roofs were covered in blue and yellow cloths. The bright colours on top of the wagons aroused the falcon’s curiosity. The vehicles moved with the fluency of those who are not crossing the town for the first time. But, as was inevitable, there came a time when they had to halt their advance. The three wagons looked stuck. The falcon’s eyes noticed something. Some prey? It beat its wings and with the inertia it had acquired started descending slowly, in large circles, opening and closing its talons to get them moving… and attack.

2

“Where are you taking us?” asked a woman’s voice from inside the wagon.

With a view to avoiding the pile-up, the driver of the first wagon had turned right, but his passenger’s shout had made him stop.

“This street looks less busy.”

“You’re wrong,” the woman contradicted him. “Whoever would have thought of cutting behind the cathedral! We’d never get out of those alleyways. Turn around and go back!”

The order was simpler to pronounce than it was to carry out, especially now the second and third wagons had appeared at the entrance to the street. The driver jumped off his seat and started running so the vehicles behind him wouldn’t make the same mistake.

“Stop! Stop!” he shouted, waving his arms. “We’re going to keep going along the main road! There’s no way out on this one!”

The second carter restrained his two horses and changed direction. He then disappeared, followed by the third wagon.

The passengers of the wagon that was stuck, a woman and a male dwarf, got out to help with the manoeuvre, pushing the wheels backwards whenever the driver told them to do so. Once they were in a position to continue, the woman said she needed a pee and slipped down an alley.

“Nuno, don’t you know Jaca by now?” the dwarf rebuked the carter.

“If you’re so keen to criticize my ideas, then I suggest you take the reins,” retorted Nuno. “I’m dying to escape the cold and the dust of the road.”

“This is your part of the journey, so don’t bother me with it.”

Nuno was about to answer when a shadow and a prolonged screech drew their attention. The dwarf shouted and dropped to the ground, dodging what appeared to be a large-sized bird. They just had time to hear the disconsolate whimper of a rat disappearing into the air, helplessly wagging its tail, trapped in the beak of a falcon that was already racing towards the clouds. The two men blinked, wondering whether that scene had been real, and realized someone else had witnessed the bird’s attack, someone they hadn’t noticed. At the entrance to the street their companion had gone down, a stranger on horseback was waiting. The stranger was wearing a dark green tunic, while a hood cast shadows on their features. They were rather slim, and an Arabian horse made them look even smaller. Nuno and the dwarf glanced at each other surreptitiously and instinctively grabbed hold of their daggers. But the rider stayed where they were and didn’t come any closer, simply watching the others, while the white horse twitched its hindquarters uneasily.

“I finished! Come on, we’ll be late reaching Baños Gate!” the woman came out of the alley to be met by her companions’ startled gaze. She didn’t even pay attention to the stranger, who went backwards on their steed. “What’s with those faces? You look like you’ve seen a ghost! Come on, let’s get moving!”

The two men obeyed. The wooden wheels creaked and slowly joined the traffic crossing the town from south to north. From time to time, Nuno glanced backwards and was disturbed to find the rider was still following them at a distance.

At that precise moment, one league away, a Pyrenean falcon tucked into some nice, juicy rat meat on top of its favourite peak. The visit to the humans’ market had been well worth the effort.

3

“By virtue of the mandate conferred on us to carry out the necessary inquisitions in the burg of Toulouse, and after the corresponding proceedings, we declare that the thirty-two defendants are, in effect, heretics notoriously infected with the heretic vice.”

The voice of the inquisitor reading out the sentence was deep and deliberate.

“They have been summoned and recognize themselves as heretics after sure, legitimate testimony. Many of them, having made an oath to the Church, having carried the cross and suffered due penance for previous heresies, have relapsed into their sin. So they have sworn in their confessions. All the accused declare that they are willing to complete the holy penance that our mandate and will should inflict upon them. They are given over to us, on oath, to be imprisoned for perpetuity or exiled, so we may fulfil our dissuasive mandate and so their goods may be utterly confiscated, as the ex-communicated heretics that they are. In view of the precedents, and with the certainty that the accused may corrupt others and seek to destroy the Roman Church’s faith, we sentence them all, men and woman, to life imprisonment, with the possibility of a more severe punishment.”

The inquisitor paused, took a sip from a cup of water and continued.

“We order the secular arm to put this sentence into action immediately and the condemned to remain in their current prison until the new prison building should be built. All those who manifestly or secretly offer help or counsel to prevent our verdict being fulfilled are ex-communicated ad aeternum. We, Guillaume Arnaud and Étienne de Saint-Thibéry, dictate this sentence in Toulouse, before representatives of the people and clergy, on the eighth day of the calends of September in the year of our Lord 1237, in the reign of Louis, King of France, with Raymond as Count of Toulouse.”

4

It took the wagon half an hour to cross the space within the walls of the Pyrenean capital. When they passed through Baños Gate, they glimpsed the other wagons standing next to the river Gas, in an area far from the wall. It was an ideal spot for allowing the horses to drink, for filling the barrels with water and washing.

“You won’t believe what just happened!” exclaimed the dwarf, once they were all together. “We were attacked by a falcon!”

“Stop exaggerating!” said Nuno. “It was after the rats.”

“Perhaps you think it was going to whisk you off to the heights?” asked Xoán, the driver of the last wagon, who was now brushing down the horses. “Or you have an affinity for rodents?”

“You’re very small, but also very chubby,” spat the woman. “I don’t think a falcon could carry you off. Or a griffon.”

Everybody laughed at her remark, except the dwarf, who still seemed terrified by the experience he had just been through.

“I’m going to talk to Manrique, wait for me here,” announced the woman, heading for that part of the riverbank where the last wagon was stationed.

“I’ll come with you,” said Xoán, taking the animals so they could drink in the river.

The couple left the dwarf and Nuno. The latter kept glancing at Baños Gate with a worried expression. This was the exit for Santiago, and there were lots of people, but there was something else that drew his attention.

“You recognize that white stallion?” asked Nuno. He then nodded at the rider positioned next to the gate. “They’re following us, we should inform the others.”

When the dwarf looked in the direction of the mysterious personage, they raised an arm and gestured to them to come over. At the two men’s refusal, the rider got down and removed their hood. They then saw it was a girl with a fair complexion and hair in a long plait that went down to her waist. In surprise, Nuno started walking towards her.

The Arabian horse the girl was riding was a thoroughbred, something quite unusual in those parts. The animal was tired, covered in dust and scratches, but even so it had a lordly bearing. It was rare to come across riders that weren’t nobles or knights, since owning a mount was the kind of luxury few people could afford.

“May God keep you!” greeted Nuno.

The girl didn’t reply, but made a few exaggerated gestures. Nuno shrugged his shoulders. She knelt down and drew a line on the ground, one mark followed by another, which she surrounded with a circle. At her insistence, Nuno whistled to the dwarf to join them. The more he studied the girl, the more he thought her face was familiar. She must have been about fifteen. Her eyes were blue, going on grey. Her beauty was undeniable.

“What is it?” asked the dwarf, huffing and panting, having run up the hill. On meeting the stranger, he reacted quickly, “My lady, allow me to introduce myself. I am Máximo, at your service,” he said, bowing low.

“I think she wants to tell us something,” declared Nuno, “but she must be mute.”

Máximo studied the girl’s drawing on the ground. The girl kept pointing to the wall and the first mark she had made. The dwarf understood. He touched the mark with his forefinger and said, “Ja-ca.” She nodded and stepped insistently on the second token she had drawn.

“She’s asking where we’re headed,” guessed the dwarf. “Bur-gos. Bur-gos,” repeated Máximo several times. The girl smiled and nodded.

“I think she wants to go with us, but I don’t know why,” admitted Nuno.

The two of them stared at her, and she trembled and shivered in an exaggerated manner, giving them to understand that she was afraid.

“Do I know you, my lady?” asked Nuno, who had just identified her face. “You were at our spectacle the night before last, weren’t you?”

The girl nodded.

“You’re on your way to Burgos and prefer not to make the journey on your own?” hazarded Máximo.

The girl closed her eyelids in affirmation.

The dwarf tugged Nuno’s sleeve so he would lower his head.

“Something doesn’t smell right,” he whispered. “If I’d said Santiago instead of Burgos, she’d still want to go with us. She may be lying, she looks like a fugitive.”

“We’d better talk to Manrique. He’ll know what to do,” murmured Nuno. He then addressed the girl, “My lady, would you be so kind as to accompany us to the river?”

5

Nuno and the juggler Máximo formed part of a travelling company of performers, led by Manrique, a Leonese strong man. The three wagons went around the different kingdoms of the peninsula, putting on all kinds of shows.

Nuno was the son of a noble family from the outskirts of Pontevedra. A poorly healed fracture in his childhood and subsequent limp had damaged Nuno and ruined his father’s hopes that he might become a knight. His mother had sent him to a Franciscan monastery, where, in addition to musical knowledge, he had acquired the skills of reading and writing. But he hadn’t been able to withstand the monastery’s iron discipline and had fled at the age of sixteen. Ever since then, he had eked out a living as a minstrel. The friars’ teachings had been the best gift of his life, since he was the only one in the company who knew how to read and write.

The other artists were Xoán, a blond-haired musician also from Galicia, and Fadhila, a Moorish dancer who was married to the boss. The troupe of five people was completed by a macaque, Ximena, and a brown bear, Úrsula, undoubtedly one of the star attractions. The two animals shared the cage being towed by Xoán’s wagon and got on well together. Ximena would delouse Úrsula, and the bear would let the monkey pester her from time to time with supreme patience.

Nobody rummaged around in the others’ vital histories. They were all under twenty-five, and each of them had a past, so the first rule was discretion. It didn’t matter if they had unfinished business with the authorities. Robberies committed, adulteries put into action or wars they had fought in were not important. Manrique’s iron fist and size ensured they kept their mouths shut and the past at a safe distance.

The landlord hardly ever doled out cash. All they got was board and lodging. When they were rewarded with coins, something that happened only rarely, Manrique kept them and used them to buy new horses to pull the wagons. The aim was to put some food in their stomachs… “and to see the world,” as Máximo, a native of Guimarães, used to say.

Before arriving in Jaca, they had performed near the Aragonese border, and now they were preparing to leave the Pyrenees. Their intention was to put on shows along the Road to Santiago until the end of November. The summer season had been highly productive, but they had to get back to Compostela before the end of autumn, because it wouldn’t be long before the snows appeared.

When Nuno, Máximo and the stranger approached the bank of the river Gas, Manrique was feeding Ximena and Úrsula. The monkey had just snatched an apple from the bear, and the bear was roaring with rage in an attempt to seize it. The monkey leapt from bar to bar at top speed and whizzed about the roof of the cage.

“Manrique!” shouted Máximo. “This lady wants to ask us something. You others should come over as well. You need to hear this.”

The other artists left what they were doing and formed a circle around their companions and the girl who had come with them.

The expedition leader listened to the minstrel and juggler’s explanations, while the girl nodded. Manrique then spoke.

“You can’t come with us, my lady. A mute woman wandering helplessly around the world will only bring problems. We don’t travel with tramps or camp followers… or whatever it is you are.”

The girl slapped her horse a couple of times, letting them understand they could keep it once she reached her destination.

“It’s no good to us with so many leagues on its back. It’s a good animal, but it wasn’t raised to be a beast of burden.”

The girl waited a few moments, as if immersed in thought. She then undid her fair ponytail, and out of her mane there appeared three gold dinars. Muslim coins circulated normally in all the kingdoms, but it wasn’t so usual to come across the most valuable of them.

“Where did you get all that money?” asked Fadhila in astonishment. “Are you a camp follower… or a thief? That horse, those coins… And why don’t you speak? Was your tongue cut out for being a delinquent?”

“Or a witch…” added Máximo. “My late mother always used to say red hair was a punishment from the devil.”

Overwhelmed by the artists’ rudeness, the girl knelt down and burst into tears. She carried on offering the dinars in the palm of her hand, in between restless grunts from her mount.

All looks focused on Manrique and the girl. She was begging them with her eyes to accept her company. Manrique called the others. They moved away a few paces and formed a circle to deliberate.

“What do you think?” asked the greedy Leonese, who was already starting to change his mind. “That’s a lot of money we can earn.”

“I don’t trust her,” said Fadhila. “We took on other companions, but she’s hiding some kind of secret. How could she want to pay us so much? It’s better to continue travelling on our own. She’s running from somebody, perhaps her parents, a wedding… or her husband.”

“I agree with Fadhila,” said Máximo. “I propose not taking her, she has all the appearance of a witch.”

“But it’s only as far as Burgos!” protested Nuno. “And we’d earn a bunch load of money. I’m for letting her come with us.”

“Only as far as Burgos? My God! Don’t you think that’s very far?” complained Fadhila.

“I think the same as Fadhila and Máximo,” affirmed Xoán. “I prefer not to take her with us, she’ll only cause problems.”

Manrique sighed in frustration at the division in the group and returned to the girl with the others. He would take the final decision.

“My lady,” he said, “we’ll take you as far as Burgos, but that’s where your journey will end. And we’ll only do this if you give us all the money you’re carrying in security. I’m certain you’re hiding more coins. If you don’t cause any trouble, we’ll hand them back to you when we part ways.”

The girl stood up, nodded and spat on the ground. She then went over to her horse and opened a sack that was attached to the saddle. She took out three more dinars, which she tossed, one by one, at Manrique’s feet, gazing at him defiantly. Nuno felt embarrassed by the advantageous deal his boss had struck, especially bearing in mind none of the rest of the company would see any of the coins. The Leonese was an expert at taking advantage of people – once again, he was profiting from a situation in which one of the parties was desperate. And yet the girl’s hard, challenging stare at Manrique had taken them aback.

“Since you don’t speak and don’t have a name, we’ll call you Elvira,” said the Leonese, spitting on the ground as well and picking up the coins. “That was the name of the last actress who occupied your position. She was raped and then killed in Zaragoza by some highwaymen. I hope you have a better fate. You won’t act, at least.”

Manrique ordered their new companion to get on the first wagon, much to the chagrin of Máximo, whose space would now be reduced. The Leonese took the Arabian horse in order to yoke it to the wagon towing the animals’ cage. When he took off the saddle, however, the girl came running over and quickly removed the sack from where she’d taken the dinars. She pressed it to her chest a couple of times to show it was her property.

“Don’t worry, we don’t care what you have in there, we’ll stay away from the sack and your saddle,” declared Manrique. “We’re no thieves.”

6

The dining hall of Guy de Lille’s new Occitan fortress was decorated in the Flemish style. The adornments were recent because the castle had only belonged to him for a couple of weeks. Bright tapestries from Jerusalem covered the walls; banners from crusades undertaken in the name of the French king hung from the magnificent coffered ceiling. In the hall, forty guests, mostly Picard and Flemish nobles, chatted noisily in their seats. The servants from the kitchen had already laid out the delicacies and the wine, but nobody dared to touch them. Not yet. The banquet would have to wait.

The two doors of the hall, carved out of oak wood, opened suddenly, and a Franciscan friar appeared. The guests fell silent almost at once.

“Guillaume Arnaud! Inquisitor by the faith of Christ and by obedience to the Church of Rome!” announced the Franciscan, moving to one side, and all those present got to their feet. The chief inquisitor, who belonged to the Dominican order, quickly entered the room, advancing along the space that like a corridor was demarcated by two lines of rectangular tables. The guests bowed their heads so as not to look at him directly. Guillaume Arnaud’s sandals clattered against the floor decorated with diamond-shaped mosaics, in which the colours blue and grey alternated. Owing to the sheer force of his perambulation, the black cape he was wearing floated above his white habit, indicating the distance that had to be observed with regard to him. Behind this imaginary barrier walked the assistant inquisitor, Étienne de Saint-Thibéry, a Franciscan, and some of the most important consuls in the city of Toulouse. But Count Raymond was missing.

Guy de Lille, the host, was fed up of these continuous snubs on the part of the highest authority in the land of Oc. Raymond, Count of Toulouse, did not hide his hatred towards the northern lords, whom he treated as usurpers, and despised the inquisitors who had come to put an end to the Cathar heresy, but diplomacy and his own inferiority with regard to the military power that had invaded forced him to send the odd political representative – in this case, the consuls, or capitols in the Provençal language.

Guy de Lille watched as Guillaume Arnaud came towards him. The power that emanated from this small, lean Dominican never ceased to amaze him. The procession came to a halt at the stage on which stood the long presidential table. The two inquisitors climbed onto the platform, and the host gestured to them to sit on either side of him. Once everybody had been assigned a place, the chief inquisitor raised his hand and blessed the meal set before them.

“Aaaaameeeen!” sang out his second in command, Étienne, and those present repeated the response. Arnaud nodded, and the guests settled in their seats to begin the banquet.

Before uttering a word, Guy de Lille grabbed his cup of wine and downed it in one. Being flanked by two monks made him nervous. The evening before, both the Dominican and the Franciscan had resisted taking part in the meal with which he was going to delight the other nobles. The monks had asked only for bread soup, declaring gluttony to be one of the vices the Lord had had to banish from this world of sinners.

“The Cathars criticize our Holy Estate for eating too much,” the Dominican had declared with a grimace. “Let us not give them any justification in front of a hungry people. Let us lead by example.”

A cold sweat had run down Guy de Lille’s back; caution was necessary when it came to the inquisitors. These monks were austere, very different from the bishops and priests he knew. That was why he had requested the same menu as the friars, even though he would now have to put up with the rumblings of his stomach. At least, he still had some wine, so he refilled his cup, envying his battle comrades tucking into the pheasants that adorned the platters on all the tables. The knights’ excessive appetite required a constant traffic of servants in and out of the hall as the trays were emptied.

There was a good reason for this banquet. A court case against about thirty Cathars, including some nobles and prominent figures in the county, had just been celebrated in Toulouse. It was to be expected that there would be complaints from the people of Toulouse to the French monarch and the Pope, owing to the pontifical inquisitors’ excessive zeal, but they would come later, once most of the heretics were serving life sentences in prison… or had been turned to ash.

“They will get what they deserve,” pondered Guy de Lille, smiling inwardly. “We need to spread fear, finish off with these apostates once and for all, and undermine the morale of the people who support them.”

As he was thinking this, the host listened with disgust to Étienne de Saint-Thibéry’s slurps as he ate his soup and gazed in frustration at the other diners who were gobbling down game meat. The Inquisition had chosen Étienne because he was a Franciscan. The aim was to soften the Dominicans’ legendary strictness, personified in Arnaud, and to avoid the aversion they caused the people. In the meantime, the assistant inquisitor combined lethal doses of intelligence and sadism, which made him an excellent helper.

“The soup is good, brother Étienne?” inquired the knight. The squalid Franciscan closed his eyes in affirmation. “I’m glad.”

Guy de Lille filled his third cup and recalled how he had come to Toulouse. For some time, in those southern territories, the Albigensian heretics, the Cathars, had renounced Apostolic Roman doctrine. De Lille had left his native Flanders to embark on a crusade with other Picard and Flemish nobles. The French king, Louis IX, and before him his father, Louis VIII, and his grandfather, Philip Augustus, had promised lands and riches, and this time there was no need to go to Jerusalem. The Occitanians would pay with blood and gold.

Eight years had passed since the end of the Albigensian Crusade. The situation had stabilized, as if there was some kind of tacit agreement, but accusations of witchcraft and heretical practices had been on the increase recently. Most Cathars were not rich – they were peasants or had abandoned the little they had to engage in asceticism. But there were Occitan nobles who shared their ideas or protected those who spread them. Needless to say, the hunting down of heretics and those who supported them had begun again in the county of Toulouse – it didn’t matter what social class they belonged to. Making use of the sentences of the Inquisition, founded with the express purpose of combating Catharism, the northern lords had pillaged the possessions of noble families that had been condemned.

“Noble flesh burns just the same as serf flesh,” mused Guy de Lille, licking his lips and thinking of the gust of fresh wind his personal fortune was about to receive.

The banquet was progressing well. The guests were devouring the viands almost without speaking. Suddenly, the host noticed one of the capitols was calling him from one end of the table. He apologized to the inquisitors and approached the consul with disdain.

“I tried to see Bernard Rosendus in the dungeons today,” the capitol whispered in his ear.

“It’s forbidden to communicate with defendants during the interrogations, you know that,” said Guy de Lille, filching an enormous piece of pheasant breast from the Occitanian’s plate and stuffing it in his mouth with an obvious lack of respect.

“It’s inhuman what’s happening to the lord of this castle and his family!” protested the capitol with indignation.

“The previous lord of my castle,” the Flemish noble corrected him, spitting bits of chewed meat in his face. He then grabbed the capitol by the arm. “If I were you, I’d watch my words, because if they should reach the inquisitor’s ears, God knows what would happen.”

The consul fell silent in fear and felt his stomach churning as he observed Guy de Lille’s smug expression. The bearded knight gave a crooked, ample smile covered in the abundant fat of game bird and cherry sauce.

7

Two days had gone by since they’d left Jaca, and the artists were intrigued by their new companion’s behaviour. Elvira, as Manrique had baptized her, spent most of the day sleeping in the wagon and hardly ever came out. They thought she was exhausted. And yet, at night, she would abandon the wagon and stay alone. She would leave the place where they’d stopped, going off with her inseparable sack and a lit torch, until she was out of sight. Fadhila and Máximo, convinced the girl was a witch and was practising some kind of esoteric ritual, were in favour of watching her during her nocturnal outings, but the others decided to give her a day’s grace and then, should her absences continue, someone would spy on her.

Halfway between Jaca and Burgos, they were due to stop and put on a performance at one of the inns along the way. Although they were in the habit of putting on shows in town squares and streets, they did occasionally perform in hostels. The usual agreement at such performances was to put on a show in exchange for a night’s board and lodging, since it was much more comfortable sleeping under a roof than in the wagons.

The rain kept them company over the last stretch. After several leagues during which all they crossed was fields of mud and oceanic puddles, they arrived in front of the hostel. Lots of horses were tethered outside. The artists could hear the uproar coming from inside the public house and glanced at each other nervously. After several days of silence, the hustle and bustle of humanity ought to have livened their hearts, but they were also aware of the bad reputation that inn had. Other times, they’d had problems with the audience in that same place – Fortunata sold the cheapest wine in those parts, and the drink flowed in large quantities.

They got off the wagons and, when Manrique opened the establishment’s massive door, they realized the uproar was greater than normal. The inn had a big dining room with numerous tables and benches filled with customers. Jugs were being passed from side to side, and the innkeeper and her husband were finding it difficult to keep up. As soon as she caught sight of the artists, the landlady gestured to them to go out back while she struggled to cut chunks off an enormous slab of cheese. When the owner saw Elvira, however, she couldn’t hide her surprise. Manrique went over and explained they had an extra member.

“We agreed five dinners, not six!” protested the woman behind the counter, waving her knife at Manrique in a threatening manner.

“It was unexpected. We won’t perform unless you give her dinner,” declared the man. He didn’t really care whether Elvira got dinner, but the astute Leonese never passed up an opportunity to win a negotiation, however small it might be.

After a few moments’ hesitation, the landlady said “all right then” through gritted teeth and went back to cutting cheese.

The artists headed to the inn’s storeroom to get ready and waited there until the owners instructed them to begin the spectacle. By way of a stage, the hostelers had created a raised area with planks at one end, where a small door led directly to the storeroom.

Slowly, the innkeeper extinguished the candles that illuminated the room, darkness descended on the premises, and the conversations petered out, giving way to an expectant silence. The little door opened, and out came Fadhila, holding a candelabrum. There then emerged the silhouettes of the minstrels Xoán and Nuno, who took up position either side of the woman. Xoán was carrying a zither, Nuno a drum. Fadhila’s features were deformed by the light of the candles; the faces of her companions were hidden in the dark. The Moor placed the candelabrum on the floor and raised her arms. At that moment, the percussion began with a soft, syncopated rhythm, which she accompanied with a sinuous movement of her hips. Then, a melancholic lament came out of the zither, and Xoán started singing.

My beautiful mother, don’t stop me

going to Saint Servandus, if you do,

I will die of loves.

Don’t stop me, if you don’t mind,

going to Saint Servandus, for, if you do,

I will die of loves.

If you stop me with such obstinacy

going to Saint Servandus on pilgrimage,

I will die of loves.

If you stop me, I tell you again,

going to Saint Servandus to see my friend,

I will die of loves.

The minstrel’s voice was remarkable, and the audience admired this strange language which came from western kingdoms. The customers listened attentively and, when the song finished, burst into applause and shouts of jubilation.

“Güena nuei,” the dancer greeted them in Aragonese. She then continued with a slight Moorish accent, “We thank you for your ovation. For those who don’t know me, my name is Fadhila. My companions come from far away, from a green, damp land where spirits wander in sea mist. We would like to dedicate the next song to Fortunata, who always treats us so well.”

“Long live Fortunata!” shouted someone in the audience in a liquorish voice, and at once the whole establishment started chanting the owner’s name.

Fadhila raised her arms, demanding silence, and went to get something from behind the stage. The innkeeper lit the candles that had been extinguished, and Nuno swapped the drum for a flute. The musicians continued their concert, without singing this time, and Manrique emerged from the storeroom, juggling several yellow wooden balls. Fadhila did the same, but with green balls. After a few moments, they stood opposite each other and began to exchange balls, forming a two-coloured circuit.

“This is boring!” exclaimed Máximo, who had turned up on stage with the macaque, Ximena, causing the audience to shout out. Manrique continued juggling only with the yellow balls and knelt down. Máximo took a run-up and jumped, placing his feet on the Leonese’s shoulders. Supporting the weight of the dwarf, who skilfully kept his balance, the man stood up. Máximo took some red apples out of a bag and accompanied Manrique’s juggling. From time to time, Ximena the monkey would climb the human tower and steal one of the fruits, grabbing it in mid-air and taking a bite, which caused hilarity among those present.

As time went by, the spectacle got more complicated. First, Manrique and Máximo mixed the balls and apples, and then Fadhila joined in. When the three of them had formed a circuit, Xoán and Nuno quickened the pace of the music, and the customers started accompanying them with their hands, until they finished at a dizzying speed. Once the performance was over, there was an explosion of applause and shouts. The company knew how to manage the public’s enthusiasm, much to the delight of the owners, who rushed to meet the increasing demand for jugs of wine.

When the juggling had finished, the two minstrels were left alone on the stage and began a repertoire of obscene songs that always pleased an audience getting more and more bogged down in emotions and alcohol. This time, it was Nuno who sang.

With these nostrils of mine

I cover yours, Marinha,

with my hands your ears,

your eyes with my brows,

at first sleep I cover

your cunt with my penis,

so nobody will see it,

your arse with my balls.

How is it you don’t explode, Marinha?

Although they were Galician songs, the sexual terms were well known in every kingdom. The guffaws and shrill laughter revealed that Fortunata’s followers were enjoying the show, accompanying the tunes with cups of wine which they beat on the tables. The atmosphere was heating up. Xoán then interpreted a song of vilification he’d written himself, not without first asking whether Don Domingo Caorinha and the camp follower Marinha were in the audience.

Don Domingo, you can’t cope

with your pants,

with your penis you cause

Marinha great problems,

the way you fuck her,

you’re wasting your time,

up and down like that,

you’re breaking your balls.

The evening carried on getting hotter and hotter. Xoán and Nuno performed two more songs, which they finished to great applause.

“My dear friends,” announced Fadhila. “After these pious songs from our homeland, we would like to introduce you to our special guest tonight: Duke Piggery in person!”

To titters all around, Máximo appeared on stage, dressed in a red cape, holding a drum and wearing a pig’s head. Fadhila knelt down and started emitting a high-pitched, continuous squeal, like that of a pig being slaughtered, while compulsively moving her black, curly locks from left to right. The dwarf started banging on the drum at a devilish rhythm. Xoán and Nuno picked up the flute and the zither and played simple, rapid chords.

The artists heard the noise of tables and benches being moved. Some inebriated customers had stood up and approached the stage. They didn’t stop laughing at the irreverent scene and rolled in spasms on the floor. Suddenly, the musicians were cornered between the wall and two groups of drunks, some dancing to the sound of frenetic music and others shouting, “Get Duke Piggery!” The most intoxicated tried to grab Máximo and take off the pig’s head he was using as a mask, but the latter slipped between their legs. The landlady and her husband noticed the anxious looks the artists were giving each other and became frightened. Suddenly, Máximo flew through the air, having been thrown by one of the drunks. The masked juggler landed on a table, scattering plates, jugs and cups. The customers sitting there stood up, ready to avenge this insult and combat the assailants. The music stopped, the artists ran to protect themselves in a corner of the room, and several swords were unsheathed.

Just as it seemed the spilling of blood was inevitable, just as nobody was looking at the platform that served as a stage, a dark, discordant lament caught everybody’s attention. Someone was singing a disturbing song at a very high pitch. The sound pierced the customers’ eardrums and led to a strange sense of panic. After the initial shock, the song’s tone descended the scale, and the high-pitched voice became sweet and melodious, infusing the violent atmosphere in the inn with tenderness.

In an orchard beneath the leaves of the hawthorn

the lady had her friend beside her,

until the lookout shouted he could see the dawn.

Oh God, oh God, oh God, the dawn! Here so soon!

A girl sitting on a stool was singing and playing the zither that had been left on the stage. To the surprise of the company of artists, Elvira the mute had regained her speech, or perhaps she’d never lost it. Her voice was so refined, the words in Occitan so sweet, that like tamed beasts everybody soon sat down.

May God allow the night to continue,

my friend not to go far from me,

and the lookout to see neither day nor dawn!

Oh God, oh God, oh God, the dawn! Here so soon!

Elvira continued with that dawn when the light of morning had surprised two lovers. She abruptly stared at Nuno, and the minstrel realized the girl was begging him for help: the song wouldn’t last forever. He quickly spoke to Xoán, and the two of them approached the stage. When Elvira finished, there was respectful applause. The Galician minstrels allowed no time for people to recall the previous confrontation and immediately interpreted a selection of friend songs at a calm rhythm, with Elvira by their side, even though she neither played nor sang. During one of the pauses, Manrique, Fadhila and Máximo passed in front of the musicians and entered the storeroom. They were both surprised and annoyed by Elvira’s miraculous appearance.

“She lied to us!” said Manrique. “She isn’t mute, that much is obvious!”

“Yes, but she also got us out of a scrape,” Máximo pointed out. “Did you hear her voice? I’ve never heard someone sing like that. And that song… I don’t know it. Where did she get it from?”

“I still think she’s a witch,” declared Fadhila. “She must have been preparing a spell during our performance. She may sing well, but it’s not normal to calm tempers in that way. She must have used magic, some kind of charm!”

“I don’t know how she captivated those beasts,” admitted Manrique, “but she’s going to have to explain herself… we’ll make sure of that.”

8

The Dominican Guillaume Arnaud finished his prayers, took off his habit and put on the rough, long shirt he slept in. He lay down on the bed, turned his head to the humble night table and blew out the candle that illuminated the room softly.

The inquisitor breathed a sigh of relief – it had been an intense day. The lists of suspects and edicts nailed to the doors of churches had had the desired effect. Prisoners were sometimes reported by their neighbours, but other times they themselves took the initiative and turned up before the monks in charge of purging the country. The interrogations to detect heretics had increased noticeably. And yet what Arnaud wanted was to find the local spiritual guide, a kind of Cathar prior whose name never came out in confessions.

He was taken aback by the pride of these so-called Perfects, who officiated as if they were priests. These vegetarian ascetics were convinced they lived in hell, so they didn’t hesitate when it came to confessing their crimes and choosing the way of martyrdom. The inquisitor admired the unhealthy arrogance of their defiant looks when they heard their sentences. They even seemed relieved when the bonfire was promised to them.

“I’m on the right path. I will be the hammer of heretics,” thought Arnaud.

Malleus haereticorum was the title every self-respecting inquisitor hankered after, but only a few achieved it. Arnaud was fighting for the king and the Pope’s recognition and wouldn’t stop until he got it. In the past, he’d been expelled from Toulouse, but now he had carte blanche to carry out his investigations without worrying about reprisals. Like always, there were defenders of Catharism in the shadows, cunning as foxes, moving about in the dark, persuading capitols not to pursue them, but none of them would escape Arnaud’s hammer.

And then there was Guy de Lille, the northern knight. This avaricious brute had invited them to a banquet at the castle he had just taken by force. That said, he collaborated with the Church, and his troops were essential when it came to protecting and ensuring the work of the Inquisition in the region. Guy de Lille had turned into an ideal partner. He seemed to hate the people of the land of Oc so much that, were it up to him, half the population of Toulouse would be in prison. De Lille would act as a spearhead to change the composition of local power, which was dominated by the capitols, little by little. The consuls were chosen by the people, who were reluctant to appoint representatives from the conquering nobility.

Arnaud pondered Guy de Lille’s aspirations. During the banquet, the Flemish knight had confessed his intention of being proclaimed a capitol in the future. In confirmation of his words, he had finished his sentence with a resounding burp that reeked of wine.

“That Guy is a real brute, but he’s a useful brute,” mused Arnaud before succumbing to a restorative, pleasant sleep after a long day of condemnatory sentences and prisoners’ laments.

Text © Santiago González Lopo

Translation © Jonathan Dunne