All Things Are Lights – Day 4 of 200

Diane would not be here, Roland thought. She probably would be out there in the wooden building with the credentes, those men and women who had not taken holy vows and who were seeing to the defense of the stronghold. The perfecti, Roland knew, never bore arms.

A young man came over, his black robe swirling around a body that seemed no thicker than a lance pole. The woman called Corba told him about Roland’s climbing over the wall. The perfectus stared at the cross on Roland’s chest.

Roland sensed his revulsion. “Forgive me for offending you. I had to wear this to get through to you.” He dug his ragged fingernails in under the red silk and tore away the cross. The sound of ripping cloth in the quiet room made heads turn. Roland dropped the strips of silk to the floor.

“Who is that?” said Bertran d’en Marti in a voice that was soft yet carried across the room. “Does he bring news?”

Roland strode across the room before anyone could stop him and knelt at Bishop Bertran’s sandaled feet. He reached for the old man’s hand. It was as light and small as a bird’s wing, and Roland’s large fingers held it with care as he pressed his lips to the shiny knuckles. When he was growing up, Roland had often heard stories of Bishop Bertran, especially how, years ago, he had debated and won against the famous Catholic preacher Saint Dominic. The bishop must be over ninety, Roland thought. His face was skeletal and wreathed by wisps of white hair. His dark brown eyes glowed with an inner illumination.

“I wish you had not treated the cross with such scorn, young man,” Bishop Bertran said in a voice that was like the rustling of parchment. “Our greatest failing has been disrespect for the religion 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.

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