Troubadour

by Isolde Martyn

  ‘We are shamed by this killing. No merchants will travel between Toulouse and Mirascon if we cannot safeguard them.’ Richart dragged his fingers across his chin and turned decisively. ‘I want those bloody rogues caught and hanged from the highest gallows! When my lady is recovered enough to tell us more, I’ll require you to discover exactly where the attack took place, Jaufré.’

  ‘Your pardon, cousin,’ intervened Tibaut, ‘should we not wait and see if any of Lady Alys’s retinue are being held for ransom?’

  ‘Did the lady not say that none survived?’ retorted Richart. ‘Brother, leave not a stone unturned! Scour the woods for the curs that did this, lay waste any camps and bring back any man who cannot answer for his purpose there.’ He turned his head to Henri. ‘Let him have twenty fully armed horsemen.’

  ‘But what about your wedding nuptials?’ asked Jaufré. ‘I may not return in time for the tournament, especially if I’ve a procession of prisoners.’

  Beyond Jaufré, one of the other councillors drew a breath; however, Richart wanted no more discussion. ‘I’ve no doubt you will ride fast and to the purpose, brother, so you will not miss the feasting. None of our guests has arrived yet and that’s as well. I warrant Lady Alys will need a few days to recover before the festivities begin.’

  Jaufré set down his wine-cup. ‘Wasn’t there a woman servant or has she collapsed at the sight of the dwarf as well?’

  ‘I wish you joy there, cousin.’ Tibaut meaningfully whirled a finger by his temple. ‘Either the creature only understands English or else she’s hollow between the ears. I tried her in the northern tongue and she stared at me as though I was chattering like an ape.’

  Richart ignored Jaufré’s sudden coughing fit and sat down on his chair of estate. ‘But have you consulted the dwarf, cousin? He may well be fluent in English.’

  Henri forestalled Tibaut’s answer with a snort. ‘If he is, my lord, I’ll wager the braggart won’t help.’ There was agreement from the others. Encouraged, Henri added, ‘In my opinion, he’s the Devil’s imp. His jests are not amusing, they cut to the bone. Forgive my bluntness, my lord, but I can only wonder that you have not sent him on already to the King of Navarre.’

  Richart took no offence. ‘It’s customary these days for a great lord to keep a dwarf. He can amuse my wedding guests and then Navarre may have him.’

  ‘Well, good luck to that, brother,’ muttered Jaufré. ‘He’s already frightened your bride half to death. No doubt he’ll finish the task today by skewering her with his wit. And if we are done now, I should like a private word with you, if I may.’

  ‘Messieurs, thank you.’ Richart acknowledged their courteous bows then gave his attention to his half-brother. ‘Well?’

  Jaufré watched the doors close and, looking down to finger the embroidery on his gloves, murmured, ‘Remember the little matter we discussed earlier?’

  ‘Which one, Jaufré? There were so many.’

  His kinsman’s silky gaze rose. ‘It may not be exhaustion or the dwarf that caused your bride to swoon. Have you ordered your physician to examine her?’

  ‘My dear Jaufré, if she was carrying another man’s babe, why would she have delayed her journey in Toulouse?’

  His half-brother’s unpleasant smile deepened further. ‘Now there’s a hypothesis.’ He was keeping a long sword’s distance from Richart’s fist. ‘She’s been delaying for half a year already.’

  ‘If you dare—’ An instant more and he would smash his fist into that smirking mouth. ‘It is for the good of Mirascon, this alliance.’ He rose to his feet, terminating further argument.

  ‘Ah, the good of Mirascon.’ Jaufré spread his hands as if in apology and retreated towards the doors but there he paused. ‘To shop for trinkets in Toulouse must heat her blood more than a Court of Love in Mirascon or maybe something else did.’ A flourish of clasped gloves in deference and he reached for the ring handle. ‘I look forward to interrogating my beautiful new sister-to-be. I take it you have no issue with that.’

  ‘I’ve agreed already or weren’t you listening?’

  ‘Oh, I always listen.’ Another bow and across the empty chamber, the doors kissed and were silent.

  No issue. Richart felt the whisper of words like a lash of leather upon his cheekbone.

  He must sire a healthy boy-child upon his bride, this stranger in his castle, but could he raise his prick with a wife who had the eyes of a dead girl?

  ‘Almighty Lord and Angels of Grace,’ he beseeched, crossing himself. ‘I ask your help not for myself but to save my people. Give me the strength I need.’

  Confusion clouded Adela’s mind as she stirred from a night’s deep sleep. Instead of being cursed with a prickly straw pallet, she was cosseted like a precious egg in the midst of the softest featherbed. Above her head was a canopy of gilt-hued silk. Beyond the hangings of finest lawn that enclosed her bed shimmered whitewashed walls bright with sunlight from the open window, and somewhere the bells were ringing. Not a dutiful summons to mass from a modest church but a full-throated peal that might only serve a great abbey.

  ‘Ah, you’re back with us at last, I see. You slept the entire day yesterday.’ The English voice spoke with relief. Maud, clad in a fresh dove-grey kirtle with a clean linen cap fastened beneath her chin, rose from sitting on the bed-steps. ‘However, you might almost join his lordship at the high table if you make haste.’

  A day lost? ‘Jesu!’ Adela sat up in panic and immediately two demoiselles sprang from their cushions and came scurrying over.

  ‘And what does your ladyship desire first?’ asked Maud. ‘To relieve yourself, take a bath, or listen to minstrels?’

  ‘In Heaven’s name, Maud!’ It was difficult to smile like Lady Alys and speak through clenched teeth. The dilemma was back with her. Had Derwent already told Lord Richart?

  She swung her feet to the floor, allowed the demoiselles to clothe her in a soft cotton wrap and walked stiffly across to the window. A miracle her legs supported her! Behind her, the young women hung back, affording her privacy, but their presence still disturbed her. Kneeling upon the cushions of the window embrasure, she leaned forward. Mercy! Why had they not woken her? The sun was high, too high, too blazing. She needed to have some sort of strategy in place, except where was the time to think, to plan? Far from being needle sharp, her head felt like it was stuffed with rags, and facing the vicomte again would be like single combat with an unpredictable foe.

  Maud came to stand at her elbow. ‘Well?’ the older woman prompted softly. ‘What have you decided? And I’m not askin’ whether it’s to be the crimson or the blue that we wear today.’

  Adela was staring out, amazed, dazzled. Here was no glimmer of wintry ocean, ploughed field strips or soaring hill ridges, fringed by gorse. Instead, a haphazard, cheerful patchwork of roofs and vine-shaded courtyards lay within the protective walls of the city. Beyond, hazy in the heat, a green-gold tapestry of fertile vineyards and orchards stretched to the south. Lured by the music of the bells, she leaned further; now she could see the pinnacled towers of a cathedral and to the west, the wooded hills that led back to bitter memories.

  ‘It beats the view from the oubliettes, I’ll grant you that,’ muttered Maud, her shoulder by the wall. ‘An’ them bells were tolling all yester eve. For Emmott an’ the rest, I said to myself.’

  ‘Maud …’

  ‘Kiss your hand to the vee-comte, while you’re at it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Down there, looking up at you.’

  ‘Oh, lord!’ Maud was right. The bailey was directly below them and so was its master. Lord Richart must have been at combat practice for he was wearing a sleeveless tunic over his chausses and his tanned arms glistened with sweat. Despair mingled with longing swept through Adela as she beheld his strong, fit body, a man any woman would take pride to wed, yet she must shame him and he must punish her. He was looking up at her as he wiped his brow with his wrist, but there was no salute.

  �
�He knows,’ she murmured. ‘The dwarf has spoken.’

  ‘Dwarf? Are you bewitched? Our lives are in the pesty balance and you’re whittlin’ on about elves an—’

  ‘Hush!’ Adela cautioned, keeping her voice low and level lest foreign ears construe there was no distance of rank between them. She glanced behind her. The demoiselles were waiting with perfumed water, napkins and body-linen. ‘Maud, it’s already too late. Queen Isabella’s dwarf from Corfe has recognised me. I think you should leave as soon as you can.’ Then she gave a nod to the waiting attendants. She needed to dress and face her accusers. Why delay further, except she was determined that Maud should not suffer. She had to find a means of getting her friend away before Lord Richart learned the truth, but the poor creature was already looking like a barge about to sink. ‘Have you been keeping watch over me all the while?’

  ‘Aye, most of it.’

  ‘Then, in Sweet Christ’s name, sit down before you fall down!’ For once there was no argument. Exhausted, Maud sank down with relief on the nearest stool. With her own hands, ‘Lady Alys’ poured a beaker of perry and carried it across to her loyal servant. Only then did she give the nod to the demoiselles and submit to being sponged and adorned.

  A curl of anxiety, the laundress sat hunched with her hands between her knees. Thankfully, she had the wit to keep her voice humble. ‘But surely this lord would not have let you sleep in like my Lady Lazybones if—’

  ‘You need to leave, Maud, today before the banquet ends.’

  More attendants had arrived. One carried away the silver ewer, another secured an underkirtle of soft cotton about Adela’s waist, and Lady Marie, the older woman of higher rank, stood waiting with a blue kirtle of embroidered samite.

  Wrists crossed against her chest, Maud watched the procedure in misery. ‘Oh, lordy, darlin’.’ Her mouth was a trembling slash of frustration before she buried her face in her hands. ‘Pah, always my luck! Just when I think I can start livin’ in comfort, no more labourin’ an’ …’

  ‘Maud, you’re one of the most resourceful women I have ever met and I shall miss you—’ The word ‘sorely’ was lost as the kirtle was lowered over her head. ‘I … I am going to give you a gemstone ring now in full view of these demoiselles, then no one can say you thieved it.’

  Her friend looked up. Gratitude warred with rebellion, but Maud kept her tone sounding humble. ‘No an’ neither will they say it was your right to give it once their master hears what you really are.’

  ‘Lady Alys’ waved back her attendants and placed her hands on her servant’s shoulders. ‘Enough! Flee to another city and lie low somehow until the danger is over. Once the vicomte has dealt with me, you should find it safe to journey on. Here.’ She drew the pearl ring from her finger. It was sufficiently modest yet of enough value to keep her friend victualled for several months. ‘Take it!’ She wanted to embrace her and weep; instead, she decorously kissed her on each cheek. ‘Thank you with all my heart for your courageous company.’

  The older woman had the wit to fall to her knees and carry Adela’s hand to her lips. ‘I’ll keep it for a rainy day if they ever have ’em here—and I live to see it—that is.’

  ‘You will, you must! Go back into my bedchamber now and rest a little, but be sure to leave the city and God keep you in his care!’

  It was disconcerting that a patter of applause suddenly surrounded them. The demoiselles had been listening even though, please Heaven, they had not understood a word of English. Lady Marie sweetly tapped her heart and pointed her palms towards Adela. Condoned compassion, did they? Pah, come sunset, these butterflies would be anxious to spit upon her corpse.

  ‘By the ruddy saints!’ Astonishment paralysed Maud for an instant and then she scurried back to the inner chamber, wiping her wrist across her upper lip; Adela, left on display, swallowed back her own tears. Once Maud was gone, she would be truly without friends.

  ‘Ma domna?’ They were waiting to dress her hair. Yes, she would wear the jewelled band. Go like a queen to face judgement just as long as she gave Maude time to flee. And ‘Lady Alys’ would savour the feel of gems in her ears and about her throat. Soon it would be a rope.

  Chapter Nine

  I know everything is difficult in the beginning; but it is glorious to courageously start a worthwhile action …

  Peter Abelard to Héloïse

  If he had been a married man already, Richart might not have waited so patiently for Lady Alys to join him at the high table. However, considering her trials on the journey and that it was polite to be conciliatory, he was prepared to be indulgent. This was the trouble with great ladies. A future bride, especially, needed to be attired with appropriate ceremony.

  When Lady Alys, accompanied by Marie and a full froth of attendants, finally arrived at the door of the great hall, she looked even more uneasy than two days earlier, although there was still the same patina of bravery about her—shoulders-back bravery—like an empress facing a mob of peasants. Or was it to face him? Of course that did not make sense. If Alys’s reputation was as tarnished as his kinsmen believed, she would expect to conquer him easily. Well, he was armoured and ready.

  Today’s grand feast was far from the small supper he had planned for last night, the chance for himself and Alys to become acquainted. Instead, they were still meeting as strangers with his household watching their every blink and gesture.

  They had clad Alys in a silken robe the colour of the sea, with tiny shells embroidered on the braid that edged the neckline. It showed her shapeliness to perfection. Her fair hair was tucked into a sort of latticework of tiny pearl strings. He would have preferred it loose.

  ‘Is the English servant in her retinue?’ Tibaut muttered. ‘I cannot see her there.’

  ‘Probably in a heap at meeting Derwent,’ Jaufré snorted.

  ‘Yes, where is that odious fool, my lord nephew?’ asked Seguinus. ‘About to surprise us, is he?’

  It was hard to be dignified with blistered heels and the knowledge you were about to face judgement. Adela glanced swiftly round the hall for Derwent but he was nowhere to be seen. Nor did the pride of noblemen watching her progress towards them look insulted or hostile. Thank God for that at least. Even the vicomte acknowledged her presence with a nod, although his body was half-turned towards his companions. So had Derwent not told him?

  An even greater panic surged through her. Derwent could be cruel; it would be just like him to appear in the middle of this feast and point an accusing finger, and if that was what the dwarf intended, she must forestall him by making confession and forewarning the vicomte. But how, when this noble lord was about to greet her with the military on his left, the church on his right and everyone else gaping?

  Lord Richart was freshly shaven. His dark hair lapped his shoulder bones and he seemed taller than at Corfe. A simple circlet of authority crowned his forehead and a reliquary cross gleamed against the stiff bronze silk of his tunic. He turned fully as Adela reached him and bowed. His handsome face betrayed neither sinister vindictiveness nor welcome—still that cool reserve in his green eyes.

  Her nerves calmed a little, but she was certainly afraid. She would have to play Alys at the high table through some interminable banquet and she could see no opportunity of sliding a helping of truth between the fish and capon.

  He was introducing his half-brother and heir, Sir Jaufré, a handsome young man who greeted her with great charm, inquiring after her sore feet, and then he stepped aside, saying, ‘And this is my uncle, Seguinus, Bishop of Mirascon.’

  The churchman from the crossroads! Haughty, silver-haired, of impressive altitude and as friendly as a disturbed viper. From her time in the queen’s household, Adela could recognise a bishop who relished temporal power. He held out his glove in a supercilious downward gesture. So the future comtesse was expected to be obedient! Concealing her distaste, she curtsied and kissed his ring.

  ‘Let us dine.’ The vicomte offered her his wrist and as he led her towar
ds the steps of the dais, the woman in her revelled at the strength she felt beneath her fingertips. Were a bride and groom of noble rank ever given a chance to be private before the wedding? That was what she must achieve somehow. But looking at his strong face, she doubted tears and grovelling would appease him; downright honesty might beget mercy. Except it was too late. Far too late. She had played Alys too long already.

  If only she could have lain with this man in Corfe. She still felt attracted to him even though he was now so formidable. Was it wrong to permit herself a brief, heady delight as he courteously saw her seated beside his chair of estate?

  Cushioned so close to him now, she could smell the freshness of his garments, the clean fragrance of citrus deepened by another subtler scent upon his skin that had her senses stirring. The incense of authority that emanated from the man’s proud bearing, the stern princely set of nose and jaw, the green scrutiny that missed nothing; these too quickened her breathing, beguiling her, drawing her, a hapless moth into the flames. Deadly. Too dangerous. So wrong. The folly of sharing a platter above the salt as his betrothed would bury her in an early grave. She should have stayed in the bedchamber, pleaded that she was indisposed, requested his presence and told him the truth.

  ‘The blessing, if you please, my lord bishop.’

  The uncle-bishop rose to his feet at Lord Richart’s command. The hall hushed. Adela observed the steward’s relief once the lengthy benediction was over and sensed with a servant’s knowledge that the kitchen had been anxious for her to arrive, and that if the food was cold, it would be her fault. But the vicomte further delayed the arrival of the platters. He rose to his feet and made a speech that seemed to be about the deaths of Lady Alys’s company. She heard Chaplain Arbert named and the people in the hall looked solemn and crossed themselves. Then their lord and master said something that must have been a welcome because everyone looked at her and raised their goblets and cups. Lord Richart drank from a jewelled mazer and then turned it, offering it so she might drink from the same place. Should she stand also? To her relief, he immediately sat down beside her before she drank.