Troubadour

by Isolde Martyn

  ‘Have the wench serve me here!’ commanded the person occupying the great bed that dominated half the chamber.

  God be praised! Adela thought with relief, not recognising the voice. Then she almost fell backwards with shock; a hideous face was staring at her from the pillows. Leprosy? And then she could have laughed aloud for it was oatmeal pasted with honey that coated the lady’s face.

  ‘Oh, lordy,’ exclaimed the bed’s occupant. ‘I’ve terrified the poor soul. All Bordeaux will hear there’s a monster staying here.’

  ‘Well, go on, set the tray before my lady, you foolish girl!’ shrilled someone else. A vicious poke accompanied the scolding. Behind Adela stood a lanky domicella, clad in a gown of tawny wool and neat white coif. As their eyes met, the woman’s jaw gaped as though she beheld a demon with horns and a tail. For an instant, she seemed to have lost the power of speech, but then she made up for it. ‘Don’t stand there gaping, girl! Clear those away!’ The grumpy hag directed a bony finger at the platters of last night’s supper stacked beside the hearth. ‘And the fire has gone out. Bring fresh kindling!’

  Adela removed the crockery, dumped it outside the door, hastened back for the scuttle and ran through the rain to the barn where the convent’s firewood was stacked.

  I was once hairbraider to the Queen of England, she reminded herself, and what is that shrew but an arsewiper! I will not endure this. Yes, she had agreed to become a servant to the nuns, but not to be cuffed and treated like a drudge by strangers. She dashed away her tears; what choice did she have now? When she had hidden among the hides on the ship at Wareham, she had seen it as her destiny. She would find work and somehow journey across France to Mirascon, but her only week of employment had ended in unwelcome advances from her mistress’s husband and she had been dismissed. A friendless foreigner, she had tramped every street, pleaded with every stallholder until it became obvious as she understood their dialect better that people only wanted menservants—brawny lads who could heft an axe, lift a cauldron or run alongside their master’s horse and whip away scroungers. ‘Virtuous women’ had kinsmen to protect them. Adela had become just another starving n’er-do-well.

  Sadly, she stared down at the dun, drab kirtle the nuns had found for her. I must remember to be grateful. Grateful and not proud.

  But why not proud? Her mother had been a gentlewoman so it was possible she did have some worthy blood in her veins, and her father had taught her to read and write. Yet why had God permitted her to acquire learning if this drudgery was to be her fate? When she had pleaded to the Monastère almoness to prove her worth, the nun had scoffed at her: ‘Work as an amanuensis for our abbess? My dear, we have novices of high birth who assist her. Be content to be humble, daughter. That is what God desires of us all.’ The message was clear: Serve us or starve!

  Well, God had never had to scrub floors for a living!

  Seething at that memory, Adela staggered back to the guest bedchamber with the firewood, but seeing Lady Alys cleansed of her creamy mask, she almost dropped the wood scuttle.

  Clothed in a fur-collared wrap of carnelian samite, my lady had left her bed and was sitting near the window light, suffering the tiring woman to unplait her night braids. Astonishingly, she was a reflection of Adela’s own face and colouring—or at least how Adela had seen herself in Queen Isabella’s hand mirror at Corfe—wide blue eyes, fine, fair hair, heart-shaped face, even to the lips she had always thought too full or a nose that could have been more tilted. For an instance, she wondered absurdly if her father could have cuckolded the lady’s sire.

  There were differences: Lady Alys was plumper about the bosom and maybe a taste for sweetmeats might explain why she was more fleshed about the waist (although wholesome food and lack of exercise through the winter could cause that, too). What did rouse Adela’s envy were my lady’s white, uncallused hands and flawless nails. She probably had delicate, slender feet, too, only those were hidden under the wrap that swathed her legs. The rich were taller so she probably topped Adela by an inch or so.

  Lady Alys glanced across and looked away. Evidently, she saw no similarity between them, but then what noblewoman would compare herself to a convent menial, whose hair was hidden under an ugly head cloth? Most wealthy people were blind to the presence of servants except when they needed a task done.

  ‘God save us, this creature is a gawking idiot,’ exclaimed the tiring woman. ‘Are you going to light the fire, wench, or shall I send for someone with a brain?’

  Adela came to her senses and set down the wood. As she knelt to reset the fire with dried toadstools and twigs, she chided herself for her foolish fancy in seeing her own likeness in a face with soft, flawless cheeks while she must look such a haggard.

  The lady must be very rich. From her knees, Adela observed a pot of cream and a flask of expensive perfume standing beside a silver laver where my lady had cleansed her face, and on the other side of the hearth was a pair of dainty shoes, made of scarlet leather with fine embroidery across the tongues. Peeking sideways, Adela could see a joint stool bearing an open, silver coffer, and spilled out upon the shiny wood was a clutch of costly rings, each with a precious stone clasped within claws of gold. Beside these lay two slender amulets studded with amethysts and sapphires and a light coronet of golden wire that was exquisitely furnished with enamelled leaves and loops of glistening pearls. Adela’s jaw slackened. Oh, what splendour to wear such jewels. Then she realised the shrew was watching her with suspicion. Swiftly, she darted her gaze back to her task.

  ‘No, Herliva, that is not good enough,’ protested Lady Alys, perusing her image in the lead-and-glass hand mirror. ‘I do not want my future husband thinking me unworthy.’

  ‘But, my lady, this is just for travelling,’ clucked her attendant. ‘And,’ she lowered her voice, ‘and—if I may be frank—the fashioning of your braids will be the last thing on his mind. Leastways, not if he’s manly.’

  ‘That is true.’ A purr briefly softened Lady Alys’s voice. ‘However,’ she added, her irritation all afroth again, ‘the ladies of my new lord’s court may think me dowdy even if he doesn’t, so practise now! I desire coils fastened in the French fashion like Queen Isabella wears hers.’

  Like Queen Isabella? Dispatching a prayer of thanks to St Wita for this opportunity, Adela called out daringly in English, ‘I can do that, madame.’

  Lady Alys swivelled round, her face alight with interest. ‘You’re from England, woman?’

  ‘Yes, madame,’ Adela answered proudly from her knees. ‘And I can dress your hair better than the queen’s.’

  ‘Pah,’ scoffed Herliva, her voice haughty with the Norman French of the court. ‘This one’s a little braggart, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Let me prove my worth, my lady,’ Adela insisted.

  ‘Get out of here, you peasant!’

  ‘No, wait!’ Lady Alys commanded, her blue eyes wicked with rebellion. ‘Let’s try her. But wash those filthy hands of yours first, girl, and if you’re telling lies, I’ll have you whipped for your insolence.’

  As Adela turned towards the bowl of scented water, she received a cruel clip from Herliva. ‘Not my lady’s laver! Outside, you dirty creature! Use the well!’

  It was tempting to spit. Cursing beneath her breath, Adela hastened to the courtyard well only to find that the windlass was already being used by a sturdy laundry woman, a stranger to her. At Adela’s English mutter, the servant straightened from filling her pail, her face wreathed with delight. ‘Well, I’m blessed, you from England, eh?’

  ‘Yes. Shall you take long, pray you? I’m in great haste.’ Would the nearest rainbutt be swifter? However, the woman offered her full pail and Adela gratefully accepted. ‘Are you with Lady Alys’s retinue, then?’ she asked as she furiously scrubbed her hands.

  ‘Aye, for now, dearie, but who is to say what will happen when we reach Mirror-scon. Maud’s my name an’ I’m Lady Alys’s lavendière—sounds better in French, don’t it? Have I met you afore?
There’s something about your—’

  ‘Mirascon!’

  ‘Heard of the place, have you? Aye, her high-and-mightiness is to wed the great lord there. Hope the poor wight knows what he’s bargained for,’ she chortled, nudging Adela in the ribs. ‘He ain’t set eyes on her yet.’

  Smiling—something rare now—Adela clapped the woman on the shoulder. ‘My thanks, good Maud. I dare not tarry longer. Good luck to you!’

  ‘Aye, lass, to you as well!’

  Amen to that, please. Adela cast a beseeching glance heavenwards, hoping that somewhere above the louring greyness, God was enjoying, well, whatever God enjoyed. Oh, if only she might find a man as comely as the grandson of my Lord of Mirascon to carry her away. Please, please, change my fortune. Help me to become the lady’s handmaid. Alas, no burst of heavenly sunlight descended. Nothing had changed indoors either; when she re-entered Lady Alys’s bedchamber, mistrust still hung in the air like a miasma.

  ‘Get started then, you hedge-born upstart!’ hissed Herliva. ‘You’ve kept my lady waiting long enough.’

  Because it was not freshly washed, Lady Alys’s hair was not as sleek and clean as it needed to be for plaiting the best braids, but Adela would have been slapped and sent away for saying so. The lady’s hair was also longer than the queen’s and the ends of the strands tiptoed on the floor behind the bench. There were still some parsley seeds, a deterrent to head lice, creating tangles in the strands and it took a while before Adela was able to divide the smoothed hair into sections and begin to prove her skill.

  She was out of practice. Her hands were rough and chafed, no longer the soft fingers of a hairbraider. The fine, silken strands snared upon her callused skin and broken nails, and with Herliva watching like a hungry cat, eager for a killing, it made her fumble all the more. She needed to distract them somehow. ‘May I ask which herbs are used in lathering your hair, madame?’

  ‘What do we use, Herliva?’ asked Lady Alys.

  ‘Camomile flowers infused in lye, my dear lady, and against lice, yellow broom boiled in oil.’

  ‘That’s good,’ agreed Adela. ‘But should you desire to enhance the gold in your hair, my lady, I pray you try ashes of barberry and water.’ She tried smiling at Herliva; it was like trying to melt a frozen pond with a candle. ‘And a trim might be a good idea, madame,’ she added bravely. ‘The tips of your hair are all forked.’

  ‘Show me!’ Lady Alys tugged some over her bosom and squinted at the ends. ‘Yes, I see what you mean.’

  Herliva folded her arms. ‘The Countess of Gloucester swears by camomile and her hair is fine enow.’

  Adela ignored her. ‘My lady, I could ask our infirmarian here if she has any barberry and, if she has, I’ll make up a pot for your ladyship to take with you.’

  ‘Yes, do so.’

  ‘Madame!’

  ‘Well, why not, Herliva? A bride must look her best.’

  Bride? Another wave of envy washed through Adela. Her ambition of marrying a man with intelligence and wealth was an illusion. She would be lucky to find a ploughman willing to take her.

  ‘Are you not done yet, girl?’ sneered the tiring woman, arms folded angrily.

  ‘No, I would have this perfect.’

  When every inch was coiled and every pin comfortably in place, she held her breath as Lady Alys was presented with the hand mirror. Turning her head this way and that, her lips pursed as tight as a drawstring bag, my lady regarded her reflection.

  At last she smiled. ‘This is as good as Queen Isabella’s, I warrant. Where did you learn such skills, girl?’

  ‘I was taught by my mother, madame.’ That was the truth, if somewhat ancient. ‘One glimpse of a noblewoman’s hair and her fingers could recreate the style.’

  ‘One glimpse of the lady’s wealth, too, I’ll wager,’ muttered Herliva.

  ‘You have done well,’ trilled Lady Alys. ‘Give her a denier.’

  Herliva did so reluctantly. ‘Now be off with you!’

  ‘Wait, girl!’ exclaimed Lady Alys, rising to her feet. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Adela, madame.’ It would have been foolish to give a false name when the nuns knew her by her true one.

  ‘Well, bring me the lotion for my hair by suppertime, and you shall have further reward.’

  Once outside the door, Adela leaned against it with a prayer. The coin within her fingers felt so good until she heard the cruel voice.

  ‘That maggot is up to no good, my lady. I saw her eyeing your gems. I think we should sleep with the coffer between us tonight. And I am going to complain about her worming her way in.’

  A grateful, exquisitely braided Lady Alys should have argued, but the room behind the door was disappointingly silent.

  * * *

  ‘Oh, excellent, you’ve brought the lotion.’ Lady Alys snatched the pot from the tray as Adela brought in supper, sniffed it and grimaced. ‘Bah, I daresay it will suffice!’

  ‘I pray so, my lady.’ Adela swiftly set down the platter. Since the infirmarian had already taken her silver denier in return for making up the lotion, she was anxious for payment.

  ‘Oh, ask Herliva,’ my lady exclaimed with not even a ‘thank you’.

  ‘And I’m busy.’ The tiring woman was on her knees packing one of the travelling chests. ‘Come back later!’

  It was needful for Adela to stand her ground. ‘I have to serve in the refectory later, mistress,’ she pointed out politely. ‘Please you to pay me now.’

  ‘Oh, do it!’ sighed Lady Alys, and the shrew clambered angrily to her feet. ‘And how much are you expecting?’ she sneered.

  ‘Three deniers, if you please.’

  ‘For that paltry concoction? Here!’ She tossed a coin at Adela’s feet. ‘That’s all you are getting and don’t come whining to do my lady’s hair again or I’ll have you whipped!’

  That thwarted the hope that Adela had been nourishing all day, the hope of going to Mirascon in my lady’s retinue. ‘As you wish,’ she answered with dignity and though she needed the paltry payment, she ignored the coin and left the bedchamber with her head held high.

  Mirascon

  Across the river, an owl uttered a hunting call as Richart unlocked the hidden door. He let Sir Henri, the castellan of his garrison, duck ahead of him into the narrow tunnel, then he painstakingly tugged the tangle of creepers and brambles back across the outside.

  Further up the passageway, the candle that they had left a couple of hours earlier was still burning. Henri grabbed the bark-and-broom torch from its socket, held the sprigs to catch in the flame then passed it to Richart. ‘You go first, lad … my lord.’

  Richart grinned at his castellan’s new correctness and started climbing. Even though he was younger than his companion by over thirty years, it was going to be a wearisome toil to ascend the many hundred stone steps back to the castle. He had counted them on his tenth name day, the first time his grandsire had shared the secret of the tunnel with him.

  ‘Built because one of our ancestors fell in love with a river naiad,’ Grand-père had quipped. ‘Goes all the way from my bedchamber to the watery wench’s bower.’

  That, of course, was an amusing lie. The tunnel had been constructed in case of a siege: an escape burrow and a conduit for messages and supplies. Access was from the castle chapel and the exit opened beyond the city walls at the base of the steep slope below the castle. From there it was a scramble to the river and a walk to the bridge. While most of the slopes beyond the city’s watchtowers were kept shaven of vegetation, the lords of Mirascon had permitted clumps of thorny bushes to patchwork the grass and bracken on the lower slope, just here and there, of course, but especially around the secret postern. There was a small jut of rock above it, too, with dangling vines.

  While others in Richart’s family suspected the tunnel’s existence and the townsfolk grinned at the legend, only three men now knew the truth: himself, Sir Henri and Sicres, the trustworthy labourer generously paid to maintain the tunnel (
the fellow’s ancestors had performed the same duty over the last hundred years). The fourth man, Richart’s grandsire and namesake, had died three months since, not long after coming back from the meeting with the Comte de Toulouse at Saint-Gilles.

  Richart was now Vicomte de Mirascon, much to his kinsmen’s disgust. Jaufré, son of his father’s second wife, and his uncle, Bishop Seguinus, approved neither of him nor his principles. He would have liked to exile both of them except it would stir up further trouble. They were already scoffing at his alliance with King John. ‘Where’s this bride of yours?’ they asked. ‘Is she ever going to arrive?’

  The bridegroom was wondering that, too. In February he had received word from Père Arbert that Lady Alys would embark from Dover in the spring, and now there was little choice but to wait. In the meantime, he had set about making other plans to safeguard Mirascon and its people, and this evening’s excursion outside the walls had been part of his scheme.

  Halfway up the rock steps, both men tarried to catch their breath. Henri sank thankfully onto the new bench set in the hollow of the side wall. Earlier in the week, Richart had ordered Sicres to construct one here, knowing the castellan would be glad of it.

  ‘Keep an eye on the flame, my lord,’ gasped the older man. ‘If we tarry too long, it will be purgatory climbing the rest of the way in the dark.’

  ‘Yes, Sir Castellan,’ Richart replied with a teasing salute as he watched Sir Henri relight the candle flame, ‘but you need not worry. Sicres has fixed pitch lamps every fifty steps in case we should ever need them. I thought you would have noticed as we came down, so catch your breath.’ He propped the torch in the iron wall bracket and sat down.

  Sir Henri grinned. ‘Your orders, eh? You want to watch you don’t cut yourself, la—my lord, you’ve grown so sharp of late. Must be your new exalted position that does it.’

  Richart laughed. ‘You’ll always nail my feet to the boards, Henri.’ He unhooked the leather flask at his hip and handed it over. He was in no haste. His body-servants would think that he was at leisure in the house on Rue Saint-Jacques that Grand-père had always kept for secret assignations.