spared. Women, children, and the elderly were equally murdered along with their defeated soldiers. It was a bloodbath. This was at the command of Pope Innocent, who, when asked how to tell a Catholic from a heretic, replied, ‘Slay all; the Lord will know his own!’”
*
§
*
The Count’s voice broke with emotion, as if the intervening eight hundred years had done nothing to dim the horror he recounted. To break the spell, he said lightly, “I hope I don’t make you feel as if you were plunged back into some dreary grade school history class. I simply am setting the stage, because it is during this time that the first coherent history of my family emerges.
“You see, we did not always have our lands here in the Loire valley. This castle is part of a property that was acquired much later. Originally, we came from Languedoc and it was there that the dark stain of fate seeped into the warp and weft of our family.
“We were not then, you see, MontMarans, because
this,
this chateau, sits on Mount Maran. We were then of the town of Muret. My ancestor was called simply Richard de Muret. He was a vassal under the Comte de Toulouse and so was under duty to his liege to raise an army to fight the oncoming Crusade. It was a terrible decision not only for him, I am sure, but for men like him who were both staunch defenders of the True Church but also loyal vassals to the Count. Richard chose to support the cause of the Count and paid, in the end, a high price for his loyalty.
“But there was more to it than that. There was a secret that influenced his decision, I am sure—his wife, Eleanore, came from a Cathari family. Not only that, but despite her decision to marry and bear children, she practiced, in secret, the heretical forms of worship in the family chapel and her husband, while not completely won over, had great sympathy for her pure and simple ways.
“These two had two children, a son named Godfrey and a daughter, Blanche. As the army of the Crusade advanced, burning, looting, and murdering as it came, Richard and Eleanore made a desperate decision. Sensing that their cause was already lost before it was truly undertaken, they arranged to have the children removed from the south to St. Denys, near Paris, where his brother was a member of the bishop’s staff.
“The children, both under the age of twelve, were mounted on swift horses and given into the responsible hands of Richard’s closest lieutenant. They left Muret in the middle of the night, leaving behind heartsick parents whom they would never see again.
“That was in 1212, and one year later, you see, the Battle of Muret put an end to all organized resistance on the part of the Cathari. The banner of the Cross waved in victory over a devastated land; the armies of the General of the Holy Ghost performed unspeakable atrocities and orgies, surrounded by their booty; and Pope Innocent was informed that false religion and immorality had been extirpated. Isn’t it ironic how inextricably mixed are tragedy and comedy?”
*
§
*
The Count paused in thoughtful silence. Outside, the night wind was rising sharply as the leading edge of the storm advanced. Despite the warmth of their fire-lit circle, the peaceful crackling of the hearth fire and the slow, lambent flame of the candles, the wind’s incessant violence created a background of eerie tension.
The long French doors and windows rattled in their casements. Waves of air rolled against the castle walls, crashing like the sea. As the night wore on into the early hours of the next morning, its bass voice rose to a shrieking wail that was a Greek chorus of woe, underscoring the tale of terror and loss related by the Count.
Maria-Elena had worried at first that with a fine, rich dinner and two glasses of Cointreau behind her, she might fall into a stupor of relaxation and fatigue. But the Count was a fine raconteur. His deep voice was nuanced and compelling, rising and falling contrapuntally with the
*
§
*
The Count’s voice broke with emotion, as if the intervening eight hundred years had done nothing to dim the horror he recounted. To break the spell, he said lightly, “I hope I don’t make you feel as if you were plunged back into some dreary grade school history class. I simply am setting the stage, because it is during this time that the first coherent history of my family emerges.
“You see, we did not always have our lands here in the Loire valley. This castle is part of a property that was acquired much later. Originally, we came from Languedoc and it was there that the dark stain of fate seeped into the warp and weft of our family.
“We were not then, you see, MontMarans, because
this,
this chateau, sits on Mount Maran. We were then of the town of Muret. My ancestor was called simply Richard de Muret. He was a vassal under the Comte de Toulouse and so was under duty to his liege to raise an army to fight the oncoming Crusade. It was a terrible decision not only for him, I am sure, but for men like him who were both staunch defenders of the True Church but also loyal vassals to the Count. Richard chose to support the cause of the Count and paid, in the end, a high price for his loyalty.
“But there was more to it than that. There was a secret that influenced his decision, I am sure—his wife, Eleanore, came from a Cathari family. Not only that, but despite her decision to marry and bear children, she practiced, in secret, the heretical forms of worship in the family chapel and her husband, while not completely won over, had great sympathy for her pure and simple ways.
“These two had two children, a son named Godfrey and a daughter, Blanche. As the army of the Crusade advanced, burning, looting, and murdering as it came, Richard and Eleanore made a desperate decision. Sensing that their cause was already lost before it was truly undertaken, they arranged to have the children removed from the south to St. Denys, near Paris, where his brother was a member of the bishop’s staff.
“The children, both under the age of twelve, were mounted on swift horses and given into the responsible hands of Richard’s closest lieutenant. They left Muret in the middle of the night, leaving behind heartsick parents whom they would never see again.
“That was in 1212, and one year later, you see, the Battle of Muret put an end to all organized resistance on the part of the Cathari. The banner of the Cross waved in victory over a devastated land; the armies of the General of the Holy Ghost performed unspeakable atrocities and orgies, surrounded by their booty; and Pope Innocent was informed that false religion and immorality had been extirpated. Isn’t it ironic how inextricably mixed are tragedy and comedy?”
*
§
*
The Count paused in thoughtful silence. Outside, the night wind was rising sharply as the leading edge of the storm advanced. Despite the warmth of their fire-lit circle, the peaceful crackling of the hearth fire and the slow, lambent flame of the candles, the wind’s incessant violence created a background of eerie tension.
The long French doors and windows rattled in their casements. Waves of air rolled against the castle walls, crashing like the sea. As the night wore on into the early hours of the next morning, its bass voice rose to a shrieking wail that was a Greek chorus of woe, underscoring the tale of terror and loss related by the Count.
Maria-Elena had worried at first that with a fine, rich dinner and two glasses of Cointreau behind her, she might fall into a stupor of relaxation and fatigue. But the Count was a fine raconteur. His deep voice was nuanced and compelling, rising and falling contrapuntally with the
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