Capcir Spring Read online

  Capcir Spring

  By Jean de Beurre

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form (including photocopying or storing in any medium by electronic means and whether or not transiently or incidentally to some other use of this publication) without the written permission of the copyright owner John Butterfield.

  Warning: The doing of unauthorised act in relation to a copyright work may result in both a civil claim for damages and criminal prosecution.

  The right of the author to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First Published 2006 in the UK by the Lulu. Copyright © J.A. Butterfield 2006

  Author’s note:

  The Capcir Plateau, the village of Les Angles and the ruins at Iglesiettes exist as described in this novel and are waiting to be discovered by the visitor. The bloody history of the Cathars or Albigensians and the inquisition in this Catalan area on the border of France of Spain is also real. But the events and persons described in the book are pure fiction and exist only in the mind of the author. Any resemblance to any person alive, dead or in the service of the church is purely coincidental. JB.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  1

  The small settlement, nestling in a wide clearing on the floor of the high valley, was silent after the last activities of the day. The stockade gates were shut and there was no movement in or around the thatched wooden huts inside the boundary of the heavy timber fencing. All was still except for an isolated spiral of smoke drifting up from the glowing cinders of an outdoor earth hearth. The last daylight was sinking above the outline of the distant mountain peaks and the sky, which moments before had been red was turning slowly through purple to blue black.

  An owl hooted twice and was almost immediately answered by another from the other side of the valley. And then there was fire. Fire was approaching the stockade from up the valley and down. At first there were just a few torches but all the while their number expanded into a mighty army of individual flames that together brought a flickering orange glow to the leaves of the overhanging trees and even to the night sky itself. From among the mass of torches flaming missiles flew through the night air and almost immediately the roof of one and then another of the thatched huts was alight.

  A sudden anguished cry ripped through the darkness as the sleeping villagers were harshly shocked out of their slumbers. More screams filled the night air as people of all ages were kicked awake and ran at first in blind confusion but then, lemming like, together, to find sanctuary in the chapel, the one stone building of the settlement, at the centre of the stockade. The noise and light and fire seemed to be coming at them from all sides. The gates had been broken down and the fiery torches were inside. They were moving closer, advancing slowly, setting aflame all that was in their pathway. Where was safety now? The chapel was crammed full of frightened, trembling bodies. The air was heavy with the smell of fire and sweat and fear.

  I too followed the crowds and headed for the chapel. It already seemed full. I could hardly get in. As one of the last to arrive I was standing in the doorway. I could feel the press of bodies cowering behind me but I was facing outwards. The chapel was too small. There were too many people and it was too late to bar the door. They were almost upon us. In the torchlight the approaching faces were gross and distorted. I could see that they were full of rage and hatred.

  Then I saw James. There could be no mistake. The same familiar outlines, the gangling gait, the prominent forehead and weak chin. The torchlight deepened the shadows under his sunken eyes giving his face a menacing quality. He was at the front of the crowd. It was James who was leading them on and they were chanting in unison. He was leading the rhythmic chant. I didn't understand the words but I sensed a pure hatred tinged with fear. His face was distorted in an violent grimace of blood lust that I had seen once before. Their anger bit into my flesh as physical pain. In his right hand was a sword. Slowly, with small steps and in time with the chanting they moved ever closer.

  Angry men with torches and swords and spears and staves were beside him and a mass of hate filled faces were crowding behind. Their advance inched forward step by step. The cowering mass behind me in the chapel was now screaming. Voices of young and old united in a crescendo of terror, prayer, supplication and fear. And then they were at the door, a few yards from my face. One from the advancing throng threw a flaming torch over my head and it sailed over me into the crowded chapel. I was conscious of a strong pressure from behind as those inside moved to avoid the fiery missile. Bodies pressed against trembling bodies and I was being pushed inevitably towards the enemy. I was being forced forwards. I was being forced to move closer and closer to the raw hatred and the swords and the fire and the certainty of death. Oh God! No! No!

  *****

  The scream pierced the silence of the Pyrenean mountain valley. It was a sultry day in early May. The sky was a cloudless blue, typical of that region of France. John was hot. He had been walking for several hours and though it was not long since his lunch break, he was again looking for somewhere out of the glaring sun to rest. He was ambling gently down a track that wound into a little wide floored clearing in the valley with some ancient stone ruins. Then there was a scream. It was a sound he remembered vividly. It started quite softly almost as a low pitched, half stifled murmur but it gradually grew louder until a high pitched whine flooded the lightly wooded valley and echoed round the rocks and hills above.

  John ran towards it. He hadn't seen anyone on his walk all day. The sound seemed to be coming from the small group of walled ruins surrounded by a dense thicket. His mind raced over the possibilities. An assault? A murder? A rape? In his curious anxiety he did not stop to think what he would do if he discovered a crime in progress. He continued pushing his way through the thicket of dense bushes and brambles. As he did so the scream changed into a series of uncontrolled sobs and a distinctly English expression of "No! No!" At that moment he didn't even think it strange that the voice was the first English one he had heard since he had arrived in Capcir eight days before.

  As he emerged from the last branches he caught sight of her across a heap of stones that had once been a wall of a now ruined building. She was a young woman, perhaps in her mid thirties, with striking long blonde hair. At first he thought it was a much younger girl because of the length and colour of the hair but there was something about her demeanour that even at a brief glance suggested maturity. She was sitting alone on the grassy floor of the roofless ruin of some ancient structure. She was cradling her head in her hands and was now weeping uncontrollably. In one glance he took in the fact that she was alone and that her clothing was smart yet casual and perfectly appropriate for the early summer. An open rucksack was at her side and files, maps and a tape measure were laid out haphazardly on the grass. She was so engrossed in her own concerns that she was unaware of John's approach.

  "Are you all right?" he asked, in the voice he might have used to address a crying child in a school playground, "I heard you scream and thought something terrible was going on." He then realised that he had spoken in English instinctively and half expected a look of incomprehension to be the result.

  She looked up with a start and for the first time he saw her face. Her eyes were deep set and red with tears yet still gave of an impression of the clearest, purest blue.

  "Yes, yes I'm OK now
. I've just had a bit of a bad dream. I must have dropped off after my picnic. Silly really." She looked a little like an embarrassed child, caught by an adult, sulking over a minor hurt. She continued immediately in a brisk, business like tone. John sensed in her attitude a feeling of embarrassment and a strong need to explain herself.

  "I've been working at these old ruins all morning and just settled down here on the grass for a few moments after lunch. It was so hot and I felt quite weary after working all morning that I must have dozed off and then I had a strange and rather frightening dream. I expect it is because I have been out in the sun for too long without a hat. It is all because of vanity. I wanted my hair to be bleached by the strong high altitude sunshine. I have been using a very high factor sun block but I didn't intend to fall asleep." She paused and got up, wiping her face with her shirt's sleeve, and then, looking directly at John, remarked "But you are English!"

  John laughed and Mary laughed too. The whole atmosphere of the valley seemed to lighten as they recognised that, in this most Catalan part of France, where few English tourists ever venture, they had met in such strange and embarrassing circumstances.

  "What are you doing here?" John asked looking round at her belongings scattered at her feet.

  "Historical research," she replied. "I'm completing my PhD and this ruin is a crucial part of the argument that I am making about the last Cathars in the Pyrenees." John sensed as she was speaking, that, somewhere beyond her calm and rational façade, she was still quite disturbed by her recent bad dream. But he knew better than to reveal his intuition.

  "Would you like a drink?" Asked John, slipping his rucksack off his back and pulling out an unopened bottle of mineral water. She accepted thankfully.

  "I think I had better finish for today. I must remember to bring my hat up with me the next time I come up here. I can't always count on good Samaritans passing with mineral water bottles helping out women spent too long in the noonday sun!" After a pause she added, "Perhaps you'd like to walk back to Les Angles with me if you are headed in that direction."

  "My Pleasure" John agreed, genuinely grateful to have some friendly English conversation after the first eight days of his French exile. John crouched down to help her gather her belongings and as he did so he realised that he was looking straight into the front of her loose fitting cotton shirt. He froze momentarily, his eyes transfixed on the smooth rounds of flesh that he saw above the fancy white lace. He looked hastily down at the file he was reaching for and roughly brought his thoughts into the present. Keep control he thought to himself. She had not noticed and together they collected up the scattered possessions. She slung the large rucksack easily onto her shoulder and together they strode out along the path down the valley heading back towards the village.

  At the back of John's mind an alarm bell was starting to ring. Watch out. Here is an attractive young woman alone with me in an isolated place. Derek wouldn't like this. Thoughts that John had successfully suppressed for weeks had begun to surface from the deep recesses of his subconscious. Those thoughts and feelings from the deepest and darkest backwaters of his mind usually only dared to creep into his consciousness in the long, dark, sleepless hours of his many restless nights. But John's training was good. He pushed the inappropriate thoughts back down to the depths where they belong. He concentrated on the present moment. The present moment is all that exists. I will stay in control. I'll prove to Derek the sort of man that I am. The light has overcome the darkness and the darkness will never overcome it.

  *****

  Derek's office must have been set out with the intention of intimidating those he interviewed. Derek rarely interviewed anyone unless they were to be splattered on the carpet. John knew that he should have felt well and truly splattered but he had known Derek too long and too well for these tricks to work. The chair he had been politely offered was slightly too short for the desk he was seated facing to be comfortable. The height difference was not so exaggerated that one would notice initially. Everyone who faced Derek's desk had to look up to him. As he was over six feet three inches tall he had become used to almost everyone looking up at him. The high Gothic window behind the desk faced south and its brightness would often obscure Derek's facial features. John didn't understand why Derek had to play these games to establish superiority. His physical bulk was enough to intimidate most people. John had seen Derek's imposing presence regularly over the years. It was a combination of his height, broad shoulders and the raven black hair invariably plastered onto his scalp with a glossy mass of Brylcream. Derek never had to resort to power dressing to achieve the image he wanted to portray.

  Derek was getting older. John tried to count the grey hairs visible among the black. He reached thirty five in one long pause in the conversation. He then started wondering if Derek was using a dye to cover up the grey. Perhaps in ten years he would have lost some of the vitality that could wither a person in their shoes. Whatever field of enterprise Derek had chosen as his vocation he would have dominated, both by his presence and his persistent bullying nature, backed up by a first class mind, piercing intelligence and razor sharp intuition. This combination sometimes confused people but Derek had used his powerful reasoning to gain maximum benefit from his inborn intuitions. He had accurately been described as a tyrant dressed in lambs clothing. His clerical collar often lulled those first introduced to him into a sense of awe rather than terror.

  Today it almost seemed as if he were trying to be kind. His iron words were sweetened by a sugar coating. John had refused to rise to the frequent provocation made to him and after a prolonged pause in which both stared at the other, neither embarrassed by the lack of words and both understanding the other completely, Derek said,

  "You have been under supervision here at the seminary for about a month. I think you have resented every minute. You haven't responded to anyone who has tried to help you or even let anyone get close to you. Until you decide to help yourself there is nothing we can do for you. I am quite confident though that you are not a danger either to yourself or to others. So I have made up my mind. This is what you will do. You will go away for a few months. Abroad, somewhere remote I think would be best. For you're own good you must learn to be alone. Learn to live without others and learn to live with yourself. Only you can see if your vows are really too much for you. Get some healthy outdoor exercise and get some rest. I think you are spiritually exhausted by the recent tragic events at the centre and you can't think for yourself about your future. All I ask is that you consider all I've said today and don't think you've got off lightly. Remember my protection is dependent on your reformation and good behaviour. It can be withdrawn instantly if I feel my magnanimity has been misplaced. When you are ready to give me an answer about what you want to do write to me."

  Derek picked up his pen and started writing. The interview was terminated forthwith. There was no pretence of farewell pleasantries and no soft words.

  John stood and made for the door. With his hand on the handle the voice from the desk softly and menacingly said, "If there is a next time I will not do anything to help you. You will be finished. Your name will be removed from the history of the order and it will be as if you never existed. You will be thrown to the wolves of the world. And you will be entirely on your own. Period."

  Derek's last word had John smiling as he closed the door behind him. Derek had obviously picked up the word "Period" from his stay in the Chicago house of the order. It seemed to John to be an incongruous word to come from Derek's English catholic boarding school accented lips. John had to struggle to stop himself from laughing out loud as he exited the building.

  The details of the trip were put into place very quickly. John spoke French passably so a remote French resort out of the tourist season would be ideal.

  Two days later he was on a plane to Perpingan and then on the little yellow narrow gauge train up the valley high into the Pyrenees. The train crossed deep gorges on spindly suspension bridges and offered
spectacular views of old castles and the fortified town of Villefranche before it eventually chugged up onto the plateau of Cerdagne and arrived at the Mont Louis station. John then took a taxi then to the chalet at a ski resort on the Capcir Plateau called Les Angles. The Capcir plateau is a glacial basin between the solid mountain peaks of Carlit in the west and of Madrès in the east. Extensive pine forests cover the slopes of the mountains and go down on the plateau to the poor rough mountain grass fields on the edge of the villages. In the forests of the plateau there are numerous small valleys and lakes. The River Aude, arises from her source in the area of Bouillouses, crosses Capcir plateau, filling the reservoirs of Matemale and Puyvalador on the way. This river then flows down through narrow gorges towards the plain of Languedoc.

  In this area the altitude and the cold make life difficult. The traditional economy was based on the breeding of cattle and the exploitation of the forests. With the decline of these centuries old activities, due in no small part to the harshness of the life in Capcir, rural migration started. Since the nineteenth century, the plateau has lost 70% of its population. The forest has reclaimed many abandoned meadows of long forgotten farms. But a revival has come to the area from leisure activities. From 1960, several communes created their own small ski resorts. The pistes, snow-covered for many months and with a season extended by snow canons, allow the practice of the both Alpine skiing and the Scandinavian cross country skiing through the winter. Capcir has become one of the major centres of ski touring in the Pyrenees.