Quest: The Heretic's Secret, #2

By John Wilson

"…a brave book, an unsettling book, and one that is very much needed at this time."—The Globe and Mail

 

The Heretic's Secret Trilogy is a rollicking historical adventure set during the bloody 13th century wars against the Cathar Heretics of Languedoc. When the armoured knights of Pope Innocent III swept south in 1209, most thought they would be gone by summer's end but, led by the fanatical Arnaud Aumery and the ambitious Simon de Montfort, they stayed for three fiery decades. In that time they slaughtered thousands of Cathars, burned countless towns and castles, destroyed a thriving country that rivaled France in power and culture, and created the foundations for the shape of western Europe we recognize. Quest follows the stories of Adso, the soldier who helped John escape from Beziers, John and Peter, as they struggle to come to terms with the increasingly bloody war that is engulfing their homeland. Adso determines to fight a guerilla war against the invaders, and in particular, the mercenary Oddo and his Falcons. John and Isabella flee to Al-Andalus to seek peace and the lost knowledge preserved in libraries of the Moors. Increasingly troubled by mysterious voices, and teetering on the edge of insanity, Peter embarks on a quest to find the relic that will announce Christ's coming and the End of Days. Nothing turns out as the characters expect, but each finds a piece of a puzzle that might hold the key to the future.

 

"…an astonishingly nuanced and masterfully told story…"—Quill & Quire

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Wilson
• Release date: Jul 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223544210

John Wilson

John Wilson is an ex-geologist and award-winning author of fifty novels and non-fiction books for adults and teens. His passion for history informs everything he writes, from the recreated journal of an officer on Sir John Franklin's doomed Arctic expedition to young soldiers experiencing the horrors of the First and Second World Wars and a memoir of his own history. John researches and writes in Lantzville on Vancouver Island

Book preview

THE STORY SO FAR

The first volume, Heretic, tells the story of Peter and John, two orphans brought up and educated by nuns in Toulouse in the early years of the 13th century. Both have a love of learning, but Peter seeks knowledge as a way to achieve power and as something that can only be true if it does not conflict with the teachings of the Catholic church. John loves learning for its own sake and absorbs everything, regardless of whether the church approves or not. The boys choose different paths as Peter is subject to terrifying visions of death and John is falsely accused of aiding in the murder of a Papal Legate.

The two friends’ differences become a matter of life and death when Pope Innocent III launches a crusade against an ancient sect of heretics, the Cathars, who have long been tolerated in the boys’ homeland of Languedoc.

The crusader knights, led by Simon de Montfort and Peter’s religious mentor, Arnaud Aumery, invade Languedoc in the summer of 1209. Although on opposite sides in the conflict, both boys are horrified by the slaughter that Aumery orders at Béziers.

John escapes Béziers with the help of Beatrice, a Cathar, and Adso, a rough soldier. Beatrice and John go to Minerve, where Beatrice enlists John in the task of preserving books that are threatened with destruction by the crusaders. She teaches him the memory cloister, a way of memorizing entire books, and he travels to nearby towns reading and storing the endangered books in his head. He discovers some extremely controversial, heretical texts and also hears of an ancient book that teaches a new way to draw the world, something he is been interested in for some time.

As the crusade gains strength, John witnesses atrocities and becomes trapped when de Montfort’s knights, led by a vicious mercenary called Oddo, besiege Minerva. Unbeknownst to John, Peter is already there as a spy for de Montfort and, on Aumery’s orders, seeking clues to the secret of the Cathar treasure. John and Peter meet by the town well. but the encounter leads to tragedy and Peter flees back to the army.

On a sortie from the town, where Adso was also trapped, John confronts Oddo and scars the man’s face with burning coals, earning his undying hatred. After the failure of the sortie, Minerva surrenders and Beatrice and the other Cathars are burned at the stake. John and Isabella, a childhood friend from Toulouse, escape to Al-Andalus to seek peace and learning, Adso takes to the hills to fight the crusaders, Peter, now an ordained monk, is sent to Aumery’s abbey to learn and prepared to continue the quest for the Cathar treasure.

MAJOR CHARACTERS

* denotes fictitious character

Abdul*—Swordsmith in Toledo

Adam*—One of John and Peter’s friends.

Adso*—Soldier and John’s friend.

Albrecht*—Expert in siege engines.

Alessandro*—Scribe for King Pedro of Aragon.

Angels—Band of thugs supported by Bishop Foulques in Toulouse.

Armand Gauthier*—Provost of the Abbey at Citeaux.

Arnaud Aumery—Abbot of the Cistercian Monastery of Citeaux and spiritual leader of the Crusade.

Arnulf*—A Falcon.

Beatrice of Albi*—Cathar Perfect and John’s teacher.

Bertrand*—Brigand leader.

Dario*—Mysterious artist from Languedoc who drew the new cathedrals being built in the north.

Diogenes*—Hermit living in the hills above Plovdiv.

Dominic Guzman—Travelling priest and preacher. Now known as St. Dominic, founder of the Dominicans and the formal Inquisition. The first nunnery he founded was a copy of a Cathar Perfect House.

Esclarmonde—Raymond Roger's sister and a famous Cathar Perfect.

Eudes III—Duke of Burgundy, Knight of the Crusade.

Fernando-del-Huesca*—Knight who fought on the Moorish side in Al-Andalus.

Foulques—Bishop of Toulouse.

Francesco—St. Francis of Assisi.

Henri*—Monk who works for Arnaud Aumery

Herodotus—Roman historian.

Herve de Donzy—Count of Nevers, Knight of the Crusade.

Innocent III—Pope who called for the Crusade against the Cathar heretics.

Isabella*—Friend of Peter and John in Toulouse.

Jacques*—A spy for Adso and Bertrand.

John*—Boy who gets caught up in the war.

Lucius*—Ancient Roman author.

Marcus Britannicus*—Roman villa owner in Languedoc.

Marie*—One of John and Peter’s friends.

Mother Marie*—Abbess of the Priory of St. Anne in Toulouse. She taught John and Peter to read and write.

Muhammad an-Nasir—Caliph of Al-Andalus.

Nasir al-Din*—Librarian at Madinat al-Zahra.

Nicodemus*—Eastern Orthodox monk.

Oddo of Saxony*—Mercenary soldier in the Crusader army and leader of a band called the Falcons.

Olivier*—Abbot of St. Gilles.

Origen—Early church father whose ideas were later rejected.

Paulus*—A merchant.

Pedro II—King of Aragon and Count of Barcelona.

Peire*—Soldier in the Crusader army.

Peter*—John’s childhood friend.

Philip*—Cistercian lay brother with the Crusader army.

Pierre of Castelnau—Papal Legate to Languedoc.

Pierre des Vaux de Cernay—Catholic chronicaller of the crusade

Raymond of Toulouse—Count of Languedoc and, before the Crusade, the equal in standing to the King of France.

Raymond Roger—Count of Foix.

Roger Trenceval—Viscount of Carcassonne and Béziers. Liege to Raymond of Toulouse.

Shabaka*—Freed Nubian slave.

Simon de Montfort—Landless lord who took over the Crusade in exchange for the lands he could conquer. His youngest son, also called Simon, is credited with calling the first parliament in England.

Stephen*—Boy who grew up in Minerve.

Ugolini di Conti—Cardinal in Rome and the future Pope Gregory IX. Supporter of Francesco.

Umar of Cordova*—Half Moorish Cathar Perfect.

William of Arles*—Troubadour

William Belibaste—The last known Cathar Perfect.

William of Minerve—Lord of Minerve.

NEW BEGINNINGS

1211

Adso

near Lavaur

May 4

I really wish you’d cover that up, Adso said with a shiver, staring at the hideously scarred face before him. At least put a patch over the ’ole where your eye used to be."

Oddo’s damned Falcons did this to me, Bertrand said, twisting the tight scar tissue of his face into a parody of a grin. He spoke slowly so that the slurred speech coming from his lipless mouth could be understood. I can’t forget and I don’t want them to. I’ll kill every one of those devils I come upon, and I want my face to be the last thing they see as I send them to hell.

Fair enough, Adso said with a sigh, "but it’s ’ard on the rest of us when there’s no Falcons about. You didn’t ’ave a face the troubadours’d sing about afore they took a knife to you."

In the year since Bertrand had led the hundred mutilated knights from Bram to Cabaret, his face had healed well and knots of livid red scar tissue had formed over his wounds. He had grown his hair long to cover his disfigured ears, but he couldn’t hide the teeth beneath his missing upper lip or the deep, black hole where his left eye had been. His nose was a shapeless mass with two small, irregular holes through which the air whistled when he breathed. Nevertheless, Bertrand was one of the lucky ones. He had been left with one eye so that he could lead his blinded companions away from Bram. The others, if they hadn’t died agonizingly after infections ate away at their ravaged faces, were completely blind and reduced to a pitiful begging existence on the streets of Toulouse or Carcassonne.

Bertrand maintained that it was his fiery hatred for Simon de Montfort’s crusaders, and in particular the mercenary Oddo and his Falcons, that had kept him alive the previous summer. It had also driven him to persuade Adso to help gather a band of twenty landless knights—men from Minerve, Cabaret and Carcassonne, whose lords had surrendered or been defeated and who did not wish to swear allegiance to de Montfort—and lead them to ambush and kill any knights, priests or merchants who aided the crusade. The band killed indiscriminately, but Bertrand ordered that one victim be left alive in every attack. The survivor was to be mutilated, as Bertrand had been, and sent on his way to tell the tale.

For two months now, since the fortress at Cabaret had surrendered in March, Bertrand, Adso and their men had been living in the wooded hills east of Toulouse. They had little trouble supplying themselves with food, either through hunting or from sympathetic villagers, and the limestone walls of the deep gullies were riddled with caves that provided dry, comfortable shelter. The pickings on the roads had been good too, as knights travelled to join de Montfort’s army besieging Lavaur, twenty miles northeast of Toulouse. Today, in the warm afternoon sun, Adso and the others were waiting for a small band of men whom scouts had spotted heading east from Lavaur along a little-travelled track at the base of the hills.

Where in ’ell are they? Adso grumbled as he shifted his position on the steep hillside. Below him, the narrow path was empty. Should be ’ere by now.

They’ll be here, Bertrand said. He was sitting beside Adso, his back against a wide oak tree. A loaded crossbow lay across his knees and he stroked the weapon lovingly.

You’re more fond of that crossbow than a woman, Adso remarked.

Saladin doesn’t care about my looks and with only one eye, I’m no good with a sword or axe.

Why d’you call it Saladin? Weren’t ’e a Saracen out by Jerusalem?

He was, and that’s where my Saladin comes from. Look. Bertrand held up the bow and pointed to the crosspiece, which was bent sharply back by the taut string. That’s the prod. It’s where all the power comes from.

I know that, Adso interrupted. I don’t need a lesson in ’ow a crossbow works.

As a rule, crossbows have a wooden prod—yew or ash, mostly, Bertrand went on, ignoring his companion’s comments. Look closely at this one.

Adso bent forward and stared. It’s built up in layers.

Exactly. It’s called a composite prod. Not just wood, but alternating layers of horn, sinew and wood, glued together and shaped. Much more powerful than wood alone. Makes it hard to draw, which is why it’s got this foot stirrup on the nose. Bertrand put his right foot into the triangular piece of metal that hung from the nose of the bow. After I’ve fired, I put my foot in there, grab the string and simply stand up. It’s hard on the hands, but faster than most crossbows, and this bow can kill a man a hundred yards away.

Adso nodded appreciatively.

But mainly, Bertrand went on, I call it Saladin because he was a great warrior who killed seventeen thousand enemies at the Horns of Hattin. Both Saladin the Saracen and my crossbow are great crusader killers.

Well, Adso said, it’s a nice weapon, but sword ’n dagger’s good enough for me. I knew a man once who—

A soft whistle from the trees—a signal that the enemy was approaching—silenced Adso. Bertrand sat back, rested his crossbow on his knees and peered along it at the path. Adso moved to one side and unsheathed his sword.

The approaching group was led by a red-haired, mounted knight wearing a chain-mail suit that covered his arms and hung over his legs on either side of the horse. A sword dangled from his belt on the left side, a shield was slung on his right and a helmet was attached behind his saddle. His equipment glinted as he rode through the beams of sunlight that stabbed through the new leaves on the surrounding trees. He wore a surcoat over his chest, which was emblazoned with a blood-red falcon clutching a black axe in its talons.

A Falcon, Bertrand whispered with grim pleasure.

The knight was followed by half a dozen men on foot. They were dressed in short, sleeveless, leather tunics, leggings and simple helmets. Each carried a sword and had a crossbow hung over his back. Adso was relieved to see none of the bows were loaded and ready to fire. A young lay brother, leading a pair of heavily-laden donkeys, brought up the rear.

Adso watched as the party approached. They were relaxed. It was a fine day for travel, not too hot or cold, and a light breeze rustled the branches above, as birds bustled back and forth searching for insects and grubs to feed their demanding young. The men were confident, part of an invincible army besieging and capturing towns and fortresses one after the other across the land. Lavaur would surely be next.

The knight was almost level with Adso. Come on, Bertrand, Adso breathed to himself. Above his head a squirrel chattered a complaint. The knight looked up, straight at Adso. He opened his mouth to yell just as the crossbow bolt caught him in the centre of the chest, driving his chain mail through his rib cage and cartwheeling him backwards off his horse.

Adso was up and running before the man hit the ground. As he pounded down the slope and other figures rose from the trees, the knight’s companions began to react. Some reached for their swords; others unslung their crossbows. One man almost had his crossbow drawn when Bertrand’s second bolt caught him in the throat. Then Adso and his companions were in among the survivors, slashing left and right.

It was all over in moments. Adso stood breathing heavily amid the torn and bleeding bodies of the crusaders. A couple were still alive, but they were quickly dispatched with swift dagger thrusts from Bertrand’s men. The only one still on his feet was the young lay brother, who stood, eyes wide with terror, between the donkeys.

Bertrand arrived, Saladin slung across his back, and stood looking down at the dead knight. Strip the bodies, get this knight’s horse and collect the pack donkeys, he ordered. We need to get back into the hills before anyone else comes by. And bring that monk over here.

Adso dragged the lay brother over to Bertrand, where the young man fell on his knees, bowed his head and clasped his hands in prayer. Sir Knight, he pleaded, show mercy to a man of God.

Bertrand laughed unpleasantly. A man of God, are you? Look at my face, you snivelling worm.

The lay brother forced himself to look up at Bertrand’s mutilations.

This is what the servants of your God did to me, and worse to others.

Please don’t kill me, the young man begged, tears streaming down his cheeks.

I’ll not kill you, Bertrand said, drawing his dagger. You’ll take a message back to your masters, but you’ll look like me when you do it.

Bertrand stepped forward as the lay brother fell to one side and tried to scramble away.

Hold him! Bertrand ordered.

Adso hesitated. He felt stirrings of pity for the boy. He was about the same age as John had been when Adso had helped him and Beatrice escape from the massacre at Béziers. Adso grabbed the boy and hauled him to his feet, but he held a hand out to Bertrand. ’Ow much revenge d’you want?

Bertrand looked up at his friend, his knife close to the terrified boy’s face. I want all I can get. Oddo’s Falcons killed a lot of good men in the name of the god this blubbering baby worships.

But ’e’s still just a blubbering baby, and I don’t ’old with killing babies. Besides, ’oo’s going to pay attention to one maimeded lay brother? I’ve got a better idea for a message.

Bertrand nodded uncertainly and lowered his dagger.

Adso dropped the boy, drew his sword and strode over to the dead knight. In one swift movement, he grabbed the body by the hair, hauled it up and cut off the head.

Holding the gruesome prize in his left hand, Adso turned to Bertrand. Cut up this one ’til he looks as good as you, then wrap ’im in ’is surcoat. The boy can take ’im to Oddo with the message that this’s what’ll ’appen to ’im and all ’is Falcons. Adso swung his arm and the head arced over to Bertrand, bounced once and came to rest at his feet.

Bertrand stared down at the bloody object for a long time. Then he laughed. I would give much to see Oddo’s face when he unwraps our gift. He looked at the wide-eyed lay brother. This is your lucky day, boy, he said, before crouching down to do his work.

The boy stumbled over to Adso. Thank you, sir. Thank you, he whined, grasping Adso’s hand.

Adso shook himself free. What’s your name, boy? You’re not from ’round ’ere.

No, Sir. My name’s Philip. I’m from up north—Orleans.

Well, you and all your kind should’ve stayed there. But listen, what’s the tale from Lavaur?

Philip’s eyes widened even more. You haven’t heard?

Course not, else I wouldn’t ’ave asked you. What ’appened?

Lavaur fell yesterday.

Not a surprise, Adso said thoughtfully. It weren’t the strongest fortress. What of the defenders?

Philip dropped his head and mumbled something.

Speak up.

De Montfort ordered every knight found in the town hanged from the walls.

How many?

Eighty.

Adso sighed. The waste of eighty knights defending a worthless town against overwhelming odds made him angry. With those same men in the hills, he could have made Oddo pay a heavy price.

What of the Perfects? Were there many in the town?

Four hundred, Philip said softly.

Four ’undred! Adso exclaimed. And...? he asked, already knowing the answer.

They walked willingly into the flames. All except for the Lord of Lavaur’s sister, Giraude. She was cast, screaming and weeping, down a well and stoned to death.

Adso cursed under his breath, the memory of Beatrice and the others climbing the pyre outside Minerve was vivid in his mind.

Bertrand finished his work, stood up and carried the mutilated head over to the body. He removed the Falcon surcoat and wrapped the head in it.

We must be quick now, he said to the knights who had collected the dead men’s weapons and added them to the donkeys’ loads.

The legate, Arnaud Aumery, Adso asked Philip, was ’e at Lavaur?

He was, the lay brother replied, but he left this morning.

Coming this way? Adso asked hopefully.

No, Philip said. He goes north to help raise an army to fight the heathens in Al-Andalus.

Does ’e? Adso said, pensively. Not content with one war, ’e wishes to begin another.

Come on, Bertrand said, thrusting the bloody bundle at Philip. Do you know who Oddo is?

Of course. Everyone knows the leader of the Falcons.

Good. Then take this to him and tell him that it pays for one of the men he mutilated at Bram.

Philip took the bundle and, with a final nod to Adso, scuttled off down the road back toward Lavaur.

We’d best be going, Bertrand said. I want to be far from here by the time Oddo receives his gift.

Leading the donkeys and the knight’s horse, the small party headed into the hills. Adso brought up the rear, occupied with his own thoughts. The mention of Al-Andalus had made him think of John and Isabella. He had wished them goodbye almost a year ago outside Minerve and he hoped their search for knowledge was going well. Some people were born to learn, others to fight. John and Isabella belonged to the former group. It made sense that they had escaped the war while Adso remained. Unfortunately, it looked as if the war was expanding. If Aumery was planning on heading south with an army, John and Isabella’s refuge in Al-Andalus might not turn out to be as secure as they had hoped.

John

Cordova

May

The drop of sweat seemed to fall in slow motion through the hot air. Silently it splashed on the open book in John’s lap, soaked into the paper and vanished. John groaned and looked up. What must the heat be like in summer? How do people manage? I feel as if I’m a wet cloth that is constantly being wrung out.

Laughing, Isabella reached a hand into the fountain pool behind them and splashed her compnion with the cool water.

Be careful of the book, John said, joining in her laughter But that does feel good. He placed the book to one side, removed the scarf from around his throat, soaked it in the fountain and squeezed it out over his head.

Remember, Isabella said, the Moors came from a land even hotter than this. They know how to live here. They plant lots of shade trees and build fountains and high, cool rooms, and they don’t go wandering about in the hottest part of the day.

You’re right, John acknowledged. "I do like it here despite the heat, and the Moorish robes are comfortable. Even after all this time, though, I still feel out of place. I get tired of being stared at. Fair hair and skin are not very common sights down here."

You’re too sensitive. Everyone’s friendly and there’s no war going on like there was back home.

But when we passed through Aragon last winter, all the talk was of reconquering this land from the Moors.

True, but I doubt King Pedro will ever be strong enough to expand Aragon much to the south.

Maybe he’ll go north then, John said. He can’t be happy about de Montfort and Oddo thumping about in his backyard. Perhaps he'll invade Languedoc.

We certainly met a lot of Good Christians in Aragon, Isabella observed.

The mention of Isabella’s birthplace prompted John to change the subject and bring up something that had been bothering him for a while. In all our time in Aragon, you never made an attempt to find any relatives.

I told you—Isabella spoke sharply and her brow furrowed with irritation, but John detected an underlying nervousness in her tone—my father was killed in 1195 at the Battle of Alarcos when I was only two years old. My mother was sick and dying, and sent me to live in Toulouse. You know the rest.

But there must be other relatives—aunts, uncles, cousins—still alive in Aragon. We could have found someone.

Well, we didn’t, Isabella snapped. I wanted to see the land I was born in, but I have no interest in the people.

All right! John held up his hands in mock surrender. We’re just a pair of orphans with no pasts.

Isabella relaxed. "And another thing. If you really want to fit in, she scolded John gently, don’t call the wars that the Christians fight in Al-Andalus a reconquest. This land has been Moorish for over five hundred years. The Christians have only been in Aragon for two hundred. The people the Moors took it from are not the same people who are trying to conquer it now."

You always see the other side of things, John said, relieved that Isabella was no longer upset.

"Because there always is another side."

John laughed and splashed water in her direction. Sometimes I think you just argue for the sake of it!

And you don’t? Isabella asked in mock amazement.

No, John said seriously. I’m always right.

Isabella sent a large wave to soak John’s back.

Watch the book, John repeated, grabbing it off the edge of the fountain.

Well don’t be so arrogant, Isabella said with a smile. How’s the drawing coming along, anyway?

Same as always, John opened the book and showing Isabella what he was working on. I can’t get it right.

The sketch showed the view before the, the grove of orange trees with the ornate wall of the mosque behind. On the right, the tall minaret from which the faithful were called to prayer five times a day soared into the empty sky. John had obviously spent a lot of effort on the trees, carefully drawing leaves and individual branches, and on the ornate carvings around the door of the mosque.

It’s very good, Isabella said. You’ve spent a lot of time on the details.

No, it’s not very good! John said despondently. The details are easy, they just take some care, but look at the view. He swept his arm wide. "It’s real, we can get up and walk into it. I want to capture that in my drawings."

"Maybe it’s not possible. The page you draw on is flat. You can’t walk into it. How could a drawing show that?"

"I don’t know, but I’m certain there’s a way. As soon as I find Lucius' Perspectiva, I’ll know. Umar and Beatrice both said the secrets to the way I want to draw are in that book. John paused thoughtfully. Peter also said what I was trying was impossible. He said God didn’t want me to draw a different way."

Whether it’s possible or not, I’m certain it’s not because God wants or doesn’t want you to succeed. Isabella trailed her fingers through the water. Where do you think Peter is now?

I often wonder that, John said. I suppose he’s still with Aumery and de Montfort, fighting for the crusade. I wonder about the others as well. Is Adso still fighting against the crusaders? Is William still singing? I miss them.

I miss our home. I wonder if the crusade will ever end and let us go back and live in peace. Isabella sighed. But sitting here being miserable won’t help, and we have to find your book first. Speaking of which, I think it’s probably time to meet the guide who’s going to take us to the library.

In the weeks since they had crossed from Aragon into Al-Andalus, John had found the mention of Umar’s