‘Ma domna,’ Sir Tibaut exclaimed, flourishing his hat within an inch of the stony track as he bowed to her, and he said in his own tongue something like, ‘we are your humble liegemen and we welcome you to your new demesne.’
Adela caught the gist of it with growing panic. Before she could enlighten him that she was not Lady Alys, he was introducing the men who accompanied him: several noble vassals of my Lord of Mirascon, two city consuls and a handful of accosselhadores, some sort of advisers.
Despite her torn nails, each man bowed over Adela’s hand without a flicker of revulsion. Sir Tibaut even condescended to kiss her on both cheeks. A dutiful huzzah erupted from the company only to subside as he swung round and shot out a quiverful of commands in their tongue. Instantly, poles and canvas were being plucked from the wagons.
‘Well, I never did,’ Maud whispered in English, clearly feeling it was safe to rise to her feet. ‘You certainly put ’em in their place. Is that ’im?’
‘No, but he’s family,’ Adela whispered behind her hand, pretending to wipe a speck from her cheek. ‘Maud, I think I’ve just made a monstrous error. I believe they’ve mistaken me for Lady Alys.’
Maud shrugged. ‘I don’t care whether they think you’re the Queen of England, just ask ’em for some ruddy food.’
Adela was too concerned to answer. The demoiselles were advancing on her with battle-phalanx determination in their faces. ‘Maud, this is getting unfortunate.’
‘Aye, look at them pails being filled. I reckon you’re about to experience a proper sponging.’
‘Merde!’
‘Don’t squawk at me. Try telling ’im you’re the apprentice laundress.’
Adela tried—well, not the laundress part.
‘Later, later,’ an impatient Sir Tibaut assured her and, regaining possession of her hand, he joyfully surrendered her to the women.
The unclothing was embarrassing, not to mention the attention with the Castilian soap, but thank Heaven she knew the bathing procedure (she’d usually been the one with the jug), and if she closed her eyes as Queen Isabella usually did, it would make these twittering maidens disappear.
Her exhausted body welcomed the lap of the perfumed water, and for a few wonderful moments she forgot her predicament and enjoyed the pleasure of being a noblewoman, of having her hair washed, scented and wrapped in soft cloths. It could be like this every day if she was a real lady—violet and rose petals bobbing round her breasts and the grimy existence of Adela de Handley washed away. With regret, she allowed their gentle hands to compel her to her feet and closed her eyes in delight at the soft towels that embraced her. Oh to be Lord Richart’s bride!
She opened her eyes with a start as something furry touched her thighs. A demoiselle, armed with a rabbit tail of powdered myrtle, proceeded upwards, whisking across Adela’s nipples and beneath her arms. Oh Heavens, despite her dilemma, she laughed. She had not known her breasts could blush. Encouraged, her ardent attendant giggled in appalling Northern French, ‘Perhaps, you are thinking of your wedding night, madame?’ She repeated her jest in her own tongue and caused immense merriment.
Still giggling, they brought her clean underlinen, a kirtle of robin-egg blue and Cordovan leather slippers stitched with tiny marguerites. This was getting out of hand.
‘I must explain …’ Adela began again, only they took her reluctance for displeasure at the garments and it was necessary to smile once more like a cheerful stone saint and be accepting.
Sir Tibaut was impatient to have her loaded into a chariot, but at least he offered her some sweet wine, figs and cakes.
Maud looked tidier and better tempered when she appeared at the back steps of the chariot, ready to elbow her way in. The demoiselles, however, courteously made room.
‘I scrounged some of your bathwater,’ Maud muttered. ‘You haven’t told them yet, I gather?’
‘No, I keep trying.’ At least they both smelled sweeter.
‘Trouble is you plaguey well scrub up like a princess an’ they won’t like it when they find out you ain’t.’
‘Not far now, madame!’
Adela nodded wearily. Sir Tibaut might dress like a popinjay, but beneath the feathered cap reposed the mind of a schoolmaster with an agrarian passion. By the time they reached a wider road, she had been ear-bruised about navigation on the river, a grasshopper plague in somewhere called Lacaune, informed that one of Mirascon’s main crops was woad (apparently Mirascon Blue was much sought after in the Holy Roman Empire) and lectured about why the English serfs should nail tiles to north-facing walls like his people did. Fortunately, even he, sweating beneath the sun, eventually fell silent and Adela drifted into sleep.
Maud nudged her awake as the road began to follow a river’s meander past orchards, vineyards and bean fields. Finally, sweeping round the slopes of the valley, they arrived at a long, stone bridge. ‘Built by the Romans,’ Sir Tibaut informed her. On the other side, rising above the sprawling inns flanking the riverbank was a steep cliff and a sight that stole Adela’s breath away. She at last beheld the myriad towers of Mirascon.
The city shone like a reliquary of gold set against the blue robe of the sky. Rising from the hillside were high walls of honey-hued sandstone with slender watchtowers, and soaring from the city’s heart were ornate pinnacles and pepperpot turrets with glinting, delicate spires. Here was her Jerusalem. Surely once the misunderstandings were sorted out, she might find acceptance and contentment.
So that the company might pass unhindered, a jumble of carts, barrows and packasses had jammed into the bridge’s recesses on its eastern side. The women’s chariot with its bevy of maidens was saluted with respect except for some cheeky shouts in Occitan that might have been, ‘Eh, what are you doing tonight, my lovely?’
The chariot rattled across the cobbles, passed under a barbican and then was tugged by the sweating horses up a steep cobbled way, protected either side by a palisade. Adela drew breath, assailed by awe and fear, as she beheld the massive gates ahead. The pennons of Mirascon’s master adorned the wall towers and a massive banner bearing the golden, crossed swords rippled from the ramparts of the gatehouse in welcome. Alas, now she must put matters right and quickly tell them the unhappy news that Alys was dead.
‘Seigneur Tibaut,’ she called out as the procession bumped to a halt. The infuriating man looked round, smiled and took no notice. He was far too intent instructing two of the esquires, and to Adela’s further dismay, the young men put horns to their lips and cheerfully spurred ahead, making as much noise as they could. On the city walls the trumpets answered, reverberating across the valley. Inside the city, the bells began to peal.
‘You’ve done it now!’ muttered Maud in English. ‘By the blessed saints, how will this end for us? And you ain’t even met ’is high an’ mightiness wots s’posed to bed you.’
The earth felt as though it had tilted. Too little sleep, Richart rationalised, but he was staring slack-jawed as Tibaut helped Alys FitzPoyntz from the chariot and led her to greet him. Though he could not see her face properly with all that gauzy stuff, she had the height and slenderness of the poor dead hairbraider from Corfe, and thankfully, there was nothing of the noble-born harlot in the way she walked and yet … And yet Lady Alys was wearing a gown so low across her breasts. By Heaven, if he was seeing too much, then curse it, so was every other man in Mirascon!
‘Well done, my lord.’ Jaufré had moved up to lurk behind him like a grinning Satan. ‘Bonne robe! All you were promised and more.’
A pox on you! Richart had intended that his bride be led to him, but now it was he who strode forward, away from the poisonous barbs. He kept his face stern. A dignified nod would suffice. Maybe he would kiss his bride’s hand; however, he would show no weakness even though his male imagination was already peeling down her stockings and sliding eager fingers up her silky thighs.
‘Richart, Vicomte of Mirascon.’ Not at your service, he let his face tell her. This wanton Jezebel must understa
nd that he intended to be master.
As if to smooth the awkwardness, Tibaut moved to stand at his elbow. Behind him, he sensed Jaufré and Uncle Seguinus savouring his discomfort.
Playing the virtuous widow, Lady Alys was still keeping her gaze modestly lowered. That female stratagem put him doubly on his guard. His treacherous body might be anticipating enjoying the experience she might bring with her, but his mind was asking how many other men had already enjoyed her skills. Had she borne John’s bastard?
‘Madame.’ He was waiting.
Compelled by courtesy, Alys finally raised her head.
Jesu! His blood ran cold. Tibaut was saying something but he was not listening. He could only look down at her, stunned, cursed by the Almighty or tricked by the Devil. Snared in some colossal web like a helpless fly.
The drawing had not lied; Lady Alys wore the face of the dead girl from Corfe and this was like meeting her ghost. He tried not to cross himself as she spread her skirts and curtsied before him.
‘Welcome to Mirascon.’ His voice sounded husky, as though it had been wrenched out of the depths of him.
‘My lord.’ Her Norman French was pure and her obeisance graceful—satisfying to his male pride. He needed to find fault, telling himself he was displeased that she did not address him in the langue d’oc. It took all his willpower to hold out his gloved hands to raise her.
But here was no wraith. Lady Alys’s fingers trembled in his and he saw how much this effort cost her, for at last their looks coincided. Where he expected to find a wanton gleam, he found an intelligent wariness. Her eyes, like the dead serving wench’s, were the grey-blue of rosemary flowers, and there was much suffering in them. He saw now why her veil had been plucked forward. It was to hide the bruises and dissuade the sun from further ravishment. He must not forget her recent ordeal. What Lady Alys thought of him at that moment, he could not guess. Before they could speak to each other, huzzahs broke forth from the nearby citizens. The full-throated cheers prompted her to turn and bestow the largesse of a smile upon his people.
It was then a little girl with a clutch of drooping wildflowers scrambled from the crowd before the nearest soldier could haul her back. A ragged creature she was, about seven years old and wearing a bravery that did not last. Exposed and alone, she halted, open-mouthed and wobbly with fear.
To Richart’s amazement, he found his own hand abandoned and his future vicomtesse walking across the cobbles to the child as though the cursed brat was some emperor’s daughter instead of a little rascal about to wet herself. He followed out of courtesy. That was an error; as if he was some roaring ogre, the child’s eyes grew round with terror. Fortunately, before there was embarrassing bawling—or worse—his bride held out her hand for the wilted flowers. The child surrendered her paltry offering, and scuttled back through the legs of the crowd while Lady Alys stood looking down at the drooping flower heads as though she had been offered the diadem of the Holy Roman Empire. This was the woman who might make a cuckold of him?
‘My lord and lady.’ As Tibaut joined them, bursting with apologies, Richart thrust up a hand to silence the well-meaning interference. Alys needed his strength not Tibaut’s babble. She was visibly fading like the flowers she held. It would be unseemly to put his arm about her shoulders so soon but he could offer his hand. The elder worthies had yet to be greeted.
She managed. An exchange of courtesies with the provost, a sweetness as she greeted each man in turn, blushing a deeper red and biting her lip as she guessed their flattery.
Enough! ‘My lady, shall we take you out of this heat?’
‘Please.’ Gratitude quivered in the tilt of her lips. Resting her fingers lightly on his sleeve, Alys bestowed a farewell smile of thanks upon the crowd before she gathered up her skirts to accompany him.
At least he could spare her the greetings from his officers. ‘Later,’ he mouthed to them and ignored Jaufré’s exchange of smug looks with Seguinus.
Alys was in pain. It showed in her face with every step she took, and Richart was so concerned to hurry her out of the heat that he never noticed that the hand, which leaned upon his arm, was that of a menial. He was impressed she still made an effort to acknowledge the castle servants, drawn up to salute her, and relieved that she survived the steps. Once they were inside the coolness of his castle, he heard her exhale a sigh.
‘You are not what I expected, my lady.’ The comment came from him without forethought, but it provoked a sudden flicker of fear in her eyes.
‘I need rest,’ she said.
Of your blessed mercy, grant me oblivion, Adela pleaded silently to the saints. This was Alys’s bridegroom not hers. Ever since Corfe, she had thought rosily of this great lord as a lover, but now she was fearful of the flesh-and-blood man, in dread of his power and his anger. She sensed it there seething behind his skin. The intelligent eyes were already interrogating her, and his courtesy was leashed tight. Tomorrow he might have her tormented with screws and whips. Today she was too worn out to tell him the truth even though Maud was sending her a frantic glance.
Two of the demoiselles joined Adela, their eyes on their lord as they fluttered about her with little coos of sympathy. He relinquished her to them with a formal bow, yet just as they drew her to the twist of stairs, a male voice, spiky with caprice, exclaimed in Norman French: ‘Welcome to Mirascon, my lady.’ The shrewish voice was familiar.
Saints defend her! Too exhausted to deal with accusations, she turned reluctantly.
‘No, Lady, I’m here.’ The utterance came from the stairs. She saw short legs descend and then the stubby body. A cherub-sized man with eyes like gimlets. Gimlets that balled into pommels of astonishment.
Derwent, King John’s dwarf!
A curtain of blue tumbled across her mind as anxious hands reached out to save her. The dwarf’s body disintegrated into sparks of colour, and the saints gave Adela what she had prayed for—oblivion.
Richart swiftly stepped into the confusion and slid his arms beneath Lady Alys. The dwarf was blocking the stairs, staring down at them with an open mouth like a creature bewitched to stone.
‘You look like a gargoyle, Derwent,’ snapped Richart. ‘This should not have happened. Get out of my way!’ For once the small man seemed squeezed empty of words. On tiptoes, he peered into Alys’s face. ‘Move, man!’ Richart’s tone was terse. ‘She may look damnably frail, but she doesn’t feel it.’ He struggled to adjust his hold.
Out in the courtyard his body had played traitor, yet now with the swell of her breast and curve of thigh against his hands, holding her without her consent seemed like an intrusion, an intimacy forced too soon. Enough thinking! He disciplined his feet to negotiate the curl of stairs.
Tibaut, Henri, Jaufré and a handful of his accosselhadores were waiting for him in the audience chamber when he returned below. They had shed their fine outer mantles and were sharing a flagon. He accepted a cup from Henri and brushed aside the expected questions about his bride’s health. He had left it to her women to look after her.
‘So what did Lady Alys tell you on the way here?’ he demanded of Tibaut.
His cousin shook his head. ‘Very little. They were attacked and everyone was slain except my lady and one of her women, a lowly creature. However, you will be pleased to hear that your bride escaped with her jewels, and she was relieved when I informed her that the dowry chests have arrived. Wise of the king to have had them sent on a different route.’
‘As we agreed and he would have arranged sufficient escort to safeguard her. What I do not understand is what happened to our people, the men I sent to join her escort in Toulouse. Did they never reach there or were they slain in the attack?’
‘Maybe the man in charge of her escort countermanded the king’s orders,’ suggested Jaufré.
‘Why would he?’ Tibaut turned to the others. ‘Did you know we also were attacked on that same road on our way home back in November and by brigands on horseback, all well armed? A small band fortun
ately. We slew half of them and the rest fled. In my opinion, these rogues are not just outlaws, they are former soldiers and evidently their numbers have grown. If they are the same scoundrels, they would have been after horses and weaponry.’ He received mutters of agreement from the others.
Tibaut was probably right. Could there have been more purpose behind the attack on his bride? An attempt to stop the alliance with King John? Well, that must be considered further; Uncle Seguinus sometimes itched to be rid of him, but hadn’t the bishop been in the north?
‘At least you still have a bride,’ Jaufré pointed out. ‘And her jewels, and her treasure.’
Yes he did and the unwelcome thought that Lady Alys’s concern with her wealth showed a mercenary rather than gracious disposition disturbed him. With her moral reputation already tarnished, he found himself reluctant to discover whether she had inquired after her chests before asking if any of her retinue had been found alive.
There was another question, too, one that he forced himself to ask. ‘Any tidings of Père Arbert?’
His companions glanced at one another before Tibaut answered. ‘No, my lord, it seems not, God rest his soul.’
Richart sheathed his sorrow with a curt order. ‘Masses need to be said in the cathedral for those who died. See to it, Tibaut! Make sure my uncle understands what I expect of him. He just might manage to say something charitable about poor Arbert for a change.’
‘As likely as our grandmother returning to the fold of Holy Church,’ Jaufré muttered.
Richart ignored his brother’s cynicism and strode to the window, hiding his sorrow from his advisers. He should never have left the old man in England. Damn it, he would miss him, the only cleric in Mirascon who was not afraid of Seguinus. The old scholar had even dared to speak of the Cathars with compassion when all the other priests had been as dumb as wood.
Troubadour Page 10