Troubadour

by Isolde Martyn

  Tormented by thirst and hunger, she climbed the rope ladder and shouldered open the wooden grille onto the deck. The unnatural, dark waves thrusting the wooden vessel this way, then that, beneath her hands and knees, had her desperately pleading with God and his saints to safeguard her as she crawled forth. Surely the crew must have drinking water, a rainbutt? What her knuckles did encounter was a wooden pail containing—not urine, praise be—just a miserly dribble of water. She awkwardly used her palm and lapped with no fear of being heard since this hostile heaving world was groaning and tossing like a woman in childbirth.

  Back in the womb of the hold, she lay hungry, losing all sense of time until the drag of anchor chains alerted her that the ship had reached land. Expecting that a crane would soon claw the cargo skywards, she flattened herself against the cog’s side up to her calves in seawater, but the watermen were in no hurry. Eventually two fellows clambered down. One of them, his leather cape shiny with rain and his Norman French dialect hard to follow, officiously poked and examined the piles. The other man stood by impatiently. Fortunately, their lantern light did not reach her. After they had gone, she waited until the cog was silent before she stole forth. Pelting rain lashed her as she risked the oily board that linked the vessel to a half-made quay. Pray God this was an English port!

  Except for a row of rowdy alehouses belching drunken mariners back to their boats, the town behind them lay sodden, silent and too small. Too small for an outsider to find work; no welcoming lights anywhere as Adela trudged past warehouses and shuttered shops as far as the church. A ragged whore hunched in a doorway informed her this was St Peter Port then spat at her to go drown!

  Wet to the bone and her belly aching with hunger, Adela returned in misery to her refuge. She could have starved to death in the many days that followed if the ship boy, who had discovered her creeping back aboard, had not risked helping her every night by leaving a bowl of gruel and a pail to hand. She suspected two reasons for his charity: amazement that she had not given away her hiding place by being seasick like most landlubbers, and the admission that she reminded him of his eldest sister. Better not get caught, he warned her, because since she was a pretty handful, the crew would be certain to ravish her before they whipped her and tossed her to the fishes to devour—cheerful news that made Adela decide that the she would give the fish priority. Only when the nights were as black as pitch, did she dare to wriggle out of her hiding place.

  It was the same boy who told her of their destination—the Bay of Biscay and the Gascon port of Bordeaux, where they would take on wine and salt for the return journey to Wareham. The city belonged to King John, he said, and, like London, it was up river. The news cheered her. If the ship was making for France, then maybe she might journey to Mirascon, for to her it still seemed a land of courtesy where women were valued.

  A week later, stinking of cloth, and stiff from lack of movement, Adela sent a prayer of thanks to St Jude, as bustle around the vessel proclaimed their arrival in Bordeaux on his feast day. Of course, the hold would soon be thrust open for the derricks to hook up the bales, so when the ship boy silently beckoned her up, there was little choice except to clamber out into the blinding daylight. He drew her into the shelter of the forecastle and as her sight cleared, she realised with dismay that the cog was anchored away from the riverbank.

  ‘I dunno how I’m a-goin’ to get you ashore,’ the boy muttered, finger on lips as heavy footsteps crossed above their heads. Adela glanced beyond the mast. She could hear more movement in the enclosed chamber at the stern of the vessel. ‘Leastways most of ’em have gone a-drinking but the master’s still aboard.’

  ‘There are other ways.’ Adela pointed to the rope ladder hanging over the ship’s side.

  ‘Wha’ d’yer mean?’ Horror filled the lad’s voice. ‘Baise-mon-cul! Yer not going over the side?’ He grabbed her arm. ‘Ask a wherryman! Any one’ll take yer if yer’ll lie with ’im.’ Then his grip tightened further. ‘An’, by Heaven, I reckon yer owe me a tup afore the long boat comes back. I’ve never had a wench before.’

  ‘And you are not getting one now,’ Adela muttered fiercely. ‘How old are you, ten? Wait until you have a beard.’ She unfastened his grubby fingers and swiftly straddled the side. ‘So fare you well and God keep you!’

  ‘You’ll drown, you dafty!’

  ‘I’ll swim.’ Her feet confidently found the second rung.

  ‘Swim! You can swim?’

  ‘Yes, can’t you?’

  ‘Nah.’ His face was a squash of panic.

  ‘Listen,’ she whispered quickly, ‘I can give you no payment save wise counsel. Learn! Find someone to teach you. Adieu and thanks.’ She kissed her fingers and touched his cheek, then she clambered down until her skirt hem was teasing the river water.

  For an instant, she hung there with the sun warm upon her back, wondering if this would be a dreadful mistake. The thought of returning to England to face the king’s wrath panicked her to her very soul, whereas, behind her, rising beyond the sturdy walls and watchtowers were spires and turrets. Here was a city that offered a livelihood.

  With new hope in her heart, Adela lowered herself into the chilly water and let go of the rope ladder. A baptism of river water to cleanse her body and start life anew?

  Well, welcome to Gascony and then maybe Mirascon!

  Bordeaux, Gascony, November 1208

  It was well past sparrow fart several weeks later when the vessel bearing Richart of Mirascon and his retinue made sense of the vast Garonne estuary. By the time the tiresome sixteen-mile journey upriver was completed, Richart’s need to stand on dry, unsalted land and enjoy an uncomplicated evening in one (or several) friendly taverns had become essential.

  As the ship swung closer to the river’s western bank, he almost felt home. After the stark and lonely beauty of Corfe, the port of Bordeaux buzzed with an insect-like determination. The shore beneath the city ramparts teemed with labourers loading pipes of wine and other goods, and since the nearest bridge was ninety miles upstream, a swarm of ferryboats worked back and forth, their oars rippling with the fluency of millipede legs.

  ‘Hey, seigneur!’

  Richart laughed. You knew you were back in Bordeaux when the bobbing swarm of yelling Bordelais surrounded your ship.

  ‘Fresh shellfish? Best prices!’

  ‘You want pretty girl, seigneur?’

  ‘Special rates at the city’s largest brothel, seigneur?’

  Barelegged, importuning urchins with tongues like quicksilver wobbled on the thwarts, but it was a longboat with a pennon at its prow that nosed its rivals out of the way and gained the ship’s ladder. A cheerful emissary climbed on deck bearing a message from King John’s seneschal, Sir Reginald de Pons: an invitation to dine at the royal Castle of Ombrières. Because Sir Reginald was a good trencherman who owned some of the best vineyards, it was predictable that any guests would have the mother and father of all headaches next day, but Richart had King John’s dispatches to deliver and he was anxious for news.

  It was only when Sir Reginald’s questions about King John’s quarrel with his baron, William de Briouze, had been answered, every guest’s stomach was replete with Potage de calamars, quail pie and marzipan pastries, and they had sufficiently teased one of the merchant guests about his freshly bedded young bride, that Richart initiated a more private conversation with his host. It needed to be now while he felt reasonably sensible, and even though he would meet his own local agents next morning, he knew Sir Reginald would have reports from all over France.

  With Tibaut already lecturing the table on England’s shortcomings, his host was happy to be distracted.

  ‘Any tidings of my grandsire?’ Richart asked.

  ‘None that is bad, my young friend. As far as I know, he intends to meet with the Comte de Toulouse at Saint-Gilles for further talks about dealing with the Cathars. Probably it’s just to appease the pope, who’s still blathering about a crusade. While you’ve been away, Innocent
has been sending letters out all over Christendom calling on us to take arms against the heretics. “Canker and criminals”, he calls ’em. Still wants revenge for the murder of his legate last January.’

  ‘At least he cannot do anything without King Philippe-Augustus’s consent.’ Pray God!

  ‘Pah, not yet, but I’ll wager his highness’ll come around. Too many knights yapping at him to agree. Not good, eh! So, tell me now, did you make a treaty with my master?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Spit it out then, young’un.’

  Encouraged by quaffing another cup of heady wine, his announcement of his betrothal to Alys FitzPoyntz prompted a rise of Sir Reginald’s bristly eyebrows but evoked no hearty congratulations. It underscored Richart’s knowledge that he was wedding a discarded royal mistress. Inquiries at Corfe had gleaned little gossip until one of the baron’s dames had proved a flapmouth.

  ‘So, was it all child’s play, then?’ Sir Reginald prompted.

  ‘I suppose so, sir, unless you count the dwarf.’ John’s testy-tempered fool was still confined aboard the ship.

  ‘Dwarf?’

  ‘Yes, it seems his highness wishes me to act as trader on his behalf.’

  Behind the facial hair, his host sucked in his cheeks, clearly amused now. ‘Aye, well, mind that you ask a high price, though I’ve met the fellow and wouldn’t give a pail of piss for him.’ Then, since Richart was offering no more juicy morsels, Sir Reginald added, ‘Well, I have to admit you are a clever young fellow. Making any alliance with my lord the king is a master coup when the whole world knows he’s as slithery as a skinned rabbit.’

  ‘Hey, should you not be more careful with your words, Seneschal?’ muttered another officer, the king’s custodian of forests, catching the cuff end of their conversation. ‘You know very well John bears grudges like no one else in Christendom.’

  Except Pope Innocent, thought Richart. He hoped his grandfather would be able to talk some sense into Raymon and that Philippe-Augustus would develop deaf ears to papal twitterings. Then he took another swig of red wine.

  After advice on acquiring horses upriver, several jokes about abbesses and one about a pig, their generous host unpenned his inebriated guests back into a city beset by drizzling rain. Being good horsemen, Richart and his cousin managed to stay in their saddles without throwing up on any of the touting apprentices. Fortunately, one of their fellow diners, who was riding with them, diverted Tibaut from braining himself on a chandler’s iron sign. Even Richart, with all worries of northern armies and prospective brides temporarily stoppered, might have reached his logement in a damp but pickled state except …

  Except he saw her across the crowded marketplace of Saint-Christoly.

  Her. The dead servant girl from Corfe. The same anguished heart-shaped face, fair braids and nut-brown kirtle.

  ‘By the saints, look, look!’ he exclaimed to his cousin, reining in his horse and jabbing the air towards the jumble of stalls. ‘Over there! No, she’s gone now. Hell, Tib, didn’t you see her?’

  ‘Come on, cousin,’ muttered Tibaut. ‘There’s a line of carts behind us and I need to—’

  ‘But I saw her, Tib, Adela, the girl who threw herself off the battlements.’

  ‘Ha, very likely. I bet you even saw two of her.’

  Richart’s head swam as he stood up in the stirrups. Was he drunk or going mad? Before he could knee his horse into the crowd, his cousin leaned across and grabbed the reins. ‘Stow it, you idiot! You’re in your ruddy cups, and so am I. Next you’ll be seeing goblins and dwarves.’

  ‘I have been seeing dwarves,’ muttered Richart, trying to shake him off. That part was true. But the girl? Get a grip on your damned sanity, man! he chided himself, yet he could not stop staring across the furore of stalls and barrows. She had looked like a lost soul—sagging with weariness as though her neck was broken. And she had been looking straight at him.

  ‘Leave it, cousin!’ laughed Tibaut, drawing his horse to follow. ‘You’re as pissed as I am.’

  In vino veritas? Richart crossed himself.

  The Cathars in Mirascon believed the Devil ruled the Earth. Was the Lord of Hell playing with his mind or …? Or … could the dead yoke themselves to living men? God forbid! With a prayer for the maidservant’s soul, he hoped that that would be the end of it.

  Toulouse, December 1208

  Leonor, Comtesse de Toulouse and sister to King Alphonso of Aragon, was available for gossip. She had only herself to please since Raymon, her fifty-two-year-old husband, was away at Saint-Gilles, one of his other palaces. Being worldly and only half his age, she might have made herself available for some other amusements, too, had she been a woman of less honour. Instead, my lady was content to venture out, warmly shod, and stroll arm in arm with her guest in the pleasure garden of her castle with both their retinues in their wake as chaperones.

  As they lingered at the bird cages observing the grey, hook-beaked popinjay from Africa, Richart was wondering what Raymon had decided about the heretics; Leonor, however, was thinking about weddings.

  ‘My friend, you must persuade your grandsire to let your bride hold a Court of Love so you may invite all the troubadours. Your grand-mère will love that and so indeed shall I. We must show this northern sister that we southern ladies are persons of culture and refinement.’

  ‘Must you?’ he teased. ‘Won’t it be obvious?’

  She laughed and hit his wrist with her gloves, then her expression darkened. ‘Forgive me for asking, but is this marriage really what you want, Richart? You haven’t even set eyes on her, have you?’

  ‘No,’ he muttered, ‘but since Raymon has you as wife, and most of the southern lords are already married, I’m the sacrificial lamb. The alliance with John is vital for us, Leonor. The betrothal is binding.’

  ‘Yes, I understand that, but …’

  ‘But …?’ He tried to read her face. ‘No more beating the bushes, my lady. Come to the point.’

  ‘Then … then I feel I should mention, my dear friend—since my lord is not here to counsel you—Lady Alys is indeed a wealthy heiress; however, I have heard some unkind rumours about her.’

  He withdrew his arm. ‘Gossip she was with child by the king before she was wed to her first husband. Yes, I heard that one before I left England. So I’m probably betrothed to a whore.’

  ‘Richart, I—’ She looked embarrassed. ‘Perhaps I am wrong to judge her before I meet her. A pity I shall be at Saint-Gilles until your wedding. I pray you forget I spoke of this.’

  ‘Why should you not, Leonor? Everyone else’s tongue will be wagging.’

  ‘But, Richart, it may not be the truth. Even if it is, she must have been very young and it does not mean she won’t be a worthy wife to you now. Maybe King John forced himself upon her or … We all make mistakes.’

  He was remembering the servant girl.

  ‘If I was Lady Alys,’ added Leonor, clearly concerned for his future happiness, ‘I should be anxious to please. You must give her that chance, dear friend. The rumours may prove false.’

  He did not answer.

  The spider was in the cup and he must drink.

  Why couldn’t God find someone else to kick, Richart thought blasphemously, but the heavenly leg was moving again in his direction. Or was it the Devil’s toecap? The day before his retinue left Toulouse, as he returned from mass at the cathedral of Saint-Étienne, he found a sweaty messenger from Bordeaux awaiting him with a package from Sir Reginald. It enclosed a letter with the royal seal disclosing further details of his bride’s inheritance. That was the good news; the bad part was that King John’s missive also contained a small ink drawing of a woman’s face on vellum with the label: ‘Alys de Gloucestre’.

  ‘Reward the fellow!’ he growled at his cousin and stormed out of the stable yard as though an army of horseflies were feasting on his skin. When Tibaut sought him later, his sense of wellbeing was as precarious as his likely salvation. The words ‘cursed’, ‘ha
unted’ and ‘damned’ were in his mind. Could the girl’s restless soul be blaming him for her murder? Ridiculous! As if he could even claim acquaintance! Hell take it, he’d only smiled at her. Yes, one could argue that his interest had drawn the king’s attention, but if anyone should be haunted, it was John. It was John’s dogs that had killed her.

  ‘What’s biting you, Richart? Is the settlement less than you hoped for?’

  ‘I’m going demented, Tib. See this!’

  His cousin studied the likeness. ‘Lady Alys, eh? Well, I’d be happy to take her to my bed.’

  ‘But doesn’t she remind you of someone else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not the servant wench at Corfe?’

  ‘The dead one, you mean?’ Tibaut’s face turned sombre. ‘God forbid! Is that whom you see?’

  A troubled silence was his answer, and although Tibaut mercifully did not lecture him or speak of it further on their journey, Richart felt like a collared leopard in his cousin’s presence: observed but no longer trusted.

  Chapter Four

  I would have my share of happiness but sorrow disturbs me And I do not know where to find repose.

  La dousa votz by Bernart de Ventadorn

  Bordeaux, May 1209

  As was expected of servants, Adela kept her gaze lowered as she carried a platter of viands and cheeses into the guest quarters of the Monastère de Femmes, which lay south-east of the city. She had been given refuge here when one of the priests in the city had found her living on scraps. In return for board and lodging, one of her chores was to serve the pilgrims and wealthy travellers enjoying the nuns’ hospitality. However, tonight she was most reluctant to wait upon the widowed lady who had arrived from England on last evening’s tide. She remembered that there had been a ‘Lady Alice’ the size of a pack-horse among Queen Isabella’s attendants at Corfe and she was still afraid of being sent back and punished for attempting to kill the king.