“You have distressed yourselves for naught, my ladies,” Alfonso said coolly, irked by Joanna’s tactless mention of his brother’s slaying; he had indeed suspected the Count of Toulouse of complicity in the plot, although it never had been proven. But he did not appreciate being reminded that he’d allied himself with a man who might have his brother’s blood on his hands. “I would never expect you to travel in the company of the Count of Toulouse. I was not speaking of Raimon de St Gilles, but of his son Raimond, the Count of Melgueil.”
He benefited momentarily from their earlier indignation. Normally they’d have balked at any member of the House of Toulouse, but because they saw the father as such a threat, his son seemed like the lesser of evils. They exchanged troubled glances, for neither of them knew enough about Raimond de St Gilles to make a persuasive argument against him.
In extinguishing one fire, though, Alfonso ignited another one. Cardinal Melior had been listening in growing concern, for the ultimate responsibility for the queens’ safety rested with the Church. He did not like this unexpected involvement of the Count of Toulouse any more than the women did. But when he heard the name Raimond de St Gilles, he reacted as if stung, coming to his feet so hastily that he nearly stepped on the tail of one of Alfonso’s dogs, who’d been napping peacefully on the dais.
“The Count of Melgueil poses a far greater danger than his father. At least the Count of Toulouse’s faith is not in question. His son is a heretic!”
Berengaria gasped at that. Joanna did not take the cardinal’s judgment as absolute the way her sister-in-law did, for she knew the religious life of the south was complex and not always conventional. But she willingly seized the weapon he’d just handed her and said challengingly, “My lord king, is this true? You’d have us escorted by a heretic?”
“Of course not!” Alfonso said through gritted teeth. “You have been misinformed, my lord cardinal. Raimond de St Gilles is no more a heretic than I am. Surely you are not suggesting that the King of Aragon is not a good Christian?”
He’d not usually have been so heavy-handed in pulling rank, but he wanted to end this argument before it spiraled out of control. The cardinal refused to take the hint, though, for more was at stake than a king’s displeasure. “Of course your faith is not in question, my liege. But I cannot say as much for Raimond de St Gilles. He often consorts with the Albigensian heretics known as Cathars, and has been seen honoring the perfecti, their so-called priests. He allows their vile beliefs to flourish in Toulouse, and vile they are indeed! They deny the Resurrection and the Eucharist, claim the Lord Christ is not the Son of God, and insist the Sacraments are snares set by the Devil!”
“I am not defending those vile beliefs, my lord cardinal! I am saying that Raimond de St Gilles is not a Cathar. He is a faithful son of the true Church.” Turning toward the women, Alfonso took up Joanna’s challenge. “I would never entrust you to Raimond’s care had I any doubts about your safety with him. I admit that his father is not a man of honor. But fathers and sons are not always alike, and Raimond and his sire are very different men. If he is guilty of any sin, it is one of courtesy. Yes, he has shown respect to the Cathar priests, but only because most are aged and he sees them as harmless—”
“‘Harmless’?” Cardinal Melior sputtered, so great was his outrage to hear enemies of the Church described in such benign terms.
Realizing he’d misspoken, Alfonso said quickly, “‘Harmless’ was an ill-chosen word. I meant that Raimond does not see the Cathars as posing a serious threat to the Holy Church. He tells me that their perfecti cause no trouble, living austere, simple lives and occupying themselves in prayers and good deeds. Raimond has a kind heart and sometimes it leads him astray. That does not make him a heretic, my lord cardinal.”
The expression on Cardinal Melior’s face said otherwise, and Alfonso raised his hand imperiously. “I regret that this does not meet with your approval, my lord cardinal, but I cannot escort the queens personally to Poitiers and I am grateful to the Count of Melgueil for offering to act in my stead. So there is no point in discussing this further.”
The cardinal was a seasoned diplomat. But he was also a prince of the Church. Struggling with these conflicting claims, he waited until he was sure his voice would not betray his anger. “I defer to your wishes, my lord king. However, I do not share your confidence in the Count of Melgueil’s goodwill. So I think it necessary to alter my own plans. Instead of bidding farewell to the queens of England and Sicily here in Marseille, I shall be accompanying them all the way to Poitiers.”
Both Berengaria and Joanna at once expressed their gratitude to the cardinal, with such obvious relief that Alfonso realized he’d not been able to ease their qualms. Looking from the unhappy queens to the irate prelate, he suppressed a sigh, thinking, Poor Raimond. He has no idea what is in store for him.