Seeds of Heretics and Lovers

 

A writer and I were sharing where the ideas for our novels come from.  

Heretics and Lovers was my learner novel. Although unpublished, I used the story of Jacques Fournier, later Pope Benedict XII, as the historical part of Murder in Paris. 

I was living in Boston. Neighbors, two town houses down on Wigglesworth Street, were a couple of anthropologists. The three of us read Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie's book Montaillou.

Montaillou was a tiny village high in the Pyrenees under the control of the Clergue brothers, Priest Pierre and Bayle Bernard in the late 1200s-early 1300s. 

Enter the Cathars, Goodmen, who traveled in the mountains, wearing yellow crosses and converting Catholics. A dualistic Christian religion emphasizing good and evil, it included one sacrament and then only at death. Unlike the Catholic church, there was no interest in wealth.

Bishop of Parmiers Jacques Fournier with the help of Pierre Clergue who played both sides for his own gain, held an inquisition. Fournier's records of the trial told the lives of the villagers. All I needed to do a fictionalized account of the power struggles and greed not unlike modern times.

I decided to go to Montaillou, France. Although my French was limited to bonjour, bonsoir, merci, and je ne parle pas françis, a French friend living in Toulouse pointed me in the right direction(s), and yes directions is plural.

In a bookstore, a man who spoke English, took me for coffee(s) and for almost three hours told me about the Cathars, the Cathar castles, Montaillou, Béatrice de Plannissoles, the slutty chatelaine, and how to reach Montaillou.

The mountain road to the village was via a twisty narrow road that scared me fecesless. 

Once there, none of the houses remained from the early 1300s, but the church was still functional. It was strange to know that the priest's mother, Mengard, was buried there although in an unmarked grave so many centuries before. Only those who read Ladurie's book would know that and probably very few would ever have gone there.

With no common language, communication was impossible with the villagers, but I learned a Clergue still lived in Montaillou. I've no idea if their DNA is the same.

I stayed too long and started down the mountain with dusk giving way to dark. I pulled over into a sheep field. Any idea to sleep on the ground was ruled out. The car would be cleaner.

I wrote the book. I was told by 30+ publishers that the market was bad for historical novels. I entered a Florida literary contest and won an award that gave me hope I could write.  

My next novel would be set in Boston, which was without mountain roads and I could use my knowledge of  universities. It too won an award. Chickpea Lover: Not a Cookbook was published in the U.S. and Russia.  

I have been thinking about the seeds of my other novels, grateful they have all taken root.