Troubadour

by Isolde Martyn

  Making sure all her attendants were gone from the outer chamber, she turned longingly towards the bed. A child might scream and beat the featherbed with her fists, even enjoy a good kick. Alas, for ‘Lady Alys’ there was no nursemaid or kindly mother to sort out the world for her. Adela wanted a good hearty bawl. But could she sob in silence, especially when …?

  Especially when someone was hiding under the bed!

  ‘Unless you are making a study of the bed ropes, please come out!’ she ordered in English. It was a safe wager that it was not the vicomte.

  ‘Clever of you!’ The small man wriggled out on his belly like a disgruntled, stubby salamander.

  ‘Good day, Master Derwent,’ she said and knelt down to face him.

  Maybe her gesture mollified him. His fierce eyes softened as he leaned upon his elbows and peered up at her. ‘Alys, is it? Lady Alys?’

  ‘Is it? You tell me.’

  ‘I’ve never met Lady Alys,’ he said carefully, examining her face.

  For a moment, he had Adela wondering if she had just made a mistake in assuming he knew her—Maud had said she and Alys were as alike as sisters—and then she saw the wicked glint in his eyes. He was playing with her. This needed caution. Trying to harness his loyalty would be like trying to snare a ball of mercury. Derwent expected no kindness and gave none.

  There had been an incident at Oxford castle when King John had given the dwarf a vicious kick that had sent him tumbling down the steps of the dais. The courtiers had laughed, glad to see the whip-tongued trickster hurt, yet Adela had glimpsed something in the small man’s face as he had staggered past her out of the hall—unguarded pain. Foolishly, she’d gone to the castle apothecary and taken the dwarf a posset of valerian that would help him sleep away the pain, but the small man had not been pleased. He had snarled at her, pretending to be a wild animal, so she’d set the cup on the flagstones like she might a bowl for a leopard and left him alone. He’d teased her from then on, singling her out when the other servants were about. Often his words had been provocative and scourging, as if he was trying to keep her from liking him.

  Now kneeling on the floor facing him, she asked no questions. You did not approach a wild creature; you let it come to you—if it had a mind to. Sitting back on her heels, she waited.

  Scrambling to his feet, he brushed down his sage-green tunic and straightened his scallop-edged gorget, richer apparel than he had ever worn in England.

  ‘So I’m not insane, after all,’ he said, folding his arms. ‘It’s Lady Adela. Weren’t you supposed to be torn to bits by King John’s dogs?’

  She crossed herself. ‘Almost. I stowed aboard a ship bound for Bordeaux, and some months later I met Lady Alys and she employed me to braid her hair and—’

  ‘Here you are almost married to a great lord. Very enterprising. Next we’ll have an enclave of cardinals electing a woman as the Holy Mama. What happened to Lady Alys? Did you strangle her with your threadbare garter?’

  Adela forced herself to answer his crassness. ‘It was dark when the outlaws attacked. My lady was with her lover—the knight in charge of our company—and they were both slain.’

  ‘And there was I thinking you dispatched the entire escort with a bodkin.’ He strutted away and turned. ‘Your pardon for my leap of faith, but how is it Adela became Alys?’

  Adela rose, and careful not to stare down at Derwent, she crossed to the window seat and sat down so they were once more equal in height. ‘You think it was deliberate? I swear it was not.’

  Alongside her, he hoisted his legs onto the cushions and leaned his back against the side wall. ‘Then tell me what happened!’

  As she drew breath to begin her story, one of the demoiselles knocked upon the outer door, came in and curtsied. ‘Your pardon, ma domna, we heard voices.’ The girl frowned at Derwent and said brusquely, ‘You are an impertinent fellow! What are you doing here? My lady, do you desire us to remove him?’

  ‘Let them try,’ Derwent muttered in English, contriving to look both entertaining and innocent.

  Adela rose and said in limping langue d’oc, ‘I thank you for your concern, Fabrisse. No, he should not be here, but he may amuse me a while.’ With a gracious wave of her hand, she gave the girl leave to depart.

  ‘Oh, so sweetly done,’ applauded the dwarf. ‘Isabella d’Angoulême to the life. Now where were we, ma domna, in the wild woods with the moon above us?’

  ‘No moon.’ Adela put a weary hand to her forehead. ‘It was several nights after we had left Toulouse,’ she began again, careful to speak in English and softly. ‘The brigands—outlaws, routiers—I know not who they were, attacked after nightfall when we were all asleep.’

  ‘Were there no sentries?’

  ‘Of course, Derwent, but some of the brigands were on horseback and they spurred in with flaming torches, setting fire to the tents. Oh, by my faith, it was like how I imagined Hell. Our people screaming, some of them with their clothes in flames. It was so swift and terrifying. I was sleeping alone in Lady Alys’s tent when the ropes were slashed and it collapsed around me. One of our soldiers dragged me out from the tangle, saved me from being burned alive, and bade me flee. So I ran as fast and as far as I could and hid until morning, then I crept back.’

  ‘Foolhardy,’ commented Derwent, ‘but I suppose the prospect of spoils allayed your fear.’

  She ignored the spiteful comment. ‘Spoils? No, those curs knew their business. The ponies and carts had all been taken and there were … there were bodies everywhere. Some badly burned, others with flies and carrion on their wounds. The soldier who helped me lay there among them.’ If behind the cynical, watching eyes, she sensed at last some stir of pity, she was wrong.

  He jabbed the air. ‘Yet how is it you have your lady’s jewels?’

  ‘Chance, truly. I found the coffer as I was struggling out of the tent. I would have returned it to my lady, had she lived.’

  He patted his lips in pretence of a yawn. ‘Ah yes, and the moon is made of cheese.’

  ‘By my father’s soul, Derwent!’ she retaliated in a fierce whisper, pointing to the chest against the opposite wall. ‘The jewels lie there safely locked in a coffer.’

  The dwarf shrugged, seemingly unimpressed. ‘Well, if you want absolution, finish your story.’

  It was an effort to stay calm, knowing he was playing her like a fish. ‘The only other being who survived was Maud, Lady Alys’s launder woman, and so we left together. Maud had been given one of my lady’s robes for cleansing and since my own kirtle was torn and bloodstained, I later put it on.’ She made no mention of the wild boar; the jester would not believe that either.

  ‘Ah, and when our intelligent noblemen of Mirascon encountered you, they assumed you were Lady Alys?’

  ‘I tried to explain. Sir Tibaut would not listen.’

  ‘Sir Tibaut rarely listens.’

  She looked round at him. ‘I have not done this out of ambition, Derwent.’

  ‘Indeed? You amaze me.’ He gestured to the sound of soft laughter beyond the door. ‘What, there was no time on the way here to bleat the truth to the other pretty sheep?’

  ‘That’s unjust, sirrah. Sir Tibaut rode beside the chariot lecturing me the entire time.’

  He pulled a disbelieving face. ‘I think you’ve been enjoying playing la grande dame, and from what I’m hearing, you are being very clever at it.’

  ‘I can read and write, Derwent. I served in the queen’s household.’

  ‘Dressing her hair,’ he sneered, ‘and yet a servant like you has learning? Oh, come now, how can I believe that?’

  ‘My father was a priest and my mother, though his hearth wife, was a gentlewoman. It’s true. Send for parchment and ink. I can prove it to you.’

  The small man studied her in silence, his head cocked, before he scoffed, ‘Write equals right? I don’t think so. You’re quite a cunning wench, aren’t you?’ Then he hoiked himself up and stood upon the window seat, fists on his waist, grin
ning at her. ‘Lord Richart will be as merry as a pen of sheep with a wolf in their midst when he hears the truth.’

  Staring levelly at him, she asked, ‘I do not understand why you have not told him.’

  ‘Me, my lady?’ His toned oozed with sarcasm. ‘Do you not know that the princes of this world kick the ribs of the grovelling messenger who bears them ill news?’

  A faint hope stirred within her at his words. Perhaps he would not betray her. Although reading his face, she knew she must be wrong. He disdained pity.

  Wearily, she pointed to the door. ‘Go, then, get it over with!’

  ‘Oh, so I can watch your lovely neck broken by a hangman’s noose?’ Then he sprang back to the floor and snarled, ‘Do your own dirty work, servant girl! This mischief is of your making. You tell him!’

  ‘What!’ She sank down on the cushions in disbelief. In her weariness, it was an effort to think clearly, to out-guess him. The little demon was smiling, knowing full well her torment.

  ‘Uncomfortable, isn’t it?’

  ‘I shall tell him!’ She could read the scoffing disbelief in his face. ‘How long before this wedding takes place?’ she asked.

  His expression turned to mock pity. ‘What, has no one told the bride?’

  She glared, and he waggled his head, considering. ‘A week perhaps.’ A flicker of hand showed his uncertainty. ‘Once the comtesses de Foix and de Béziers have arrived. I do know there will be a Court of Love the day before and a troubadour contest. Fah-di-fah-di-uggh! The town is already plagued with warbly jongleurs. As usual, there will be a tournament and broken bones.’

  ‘A Court of Love?’ Adela frowned, recalling a discussion in the queen’s chamber. ‘You jest, surely?’

  ‘Poor Adela. How hateful of me to enlighten you. What do you think they did when it rained in Aquitaine? It’s a splendid game. Have you ever seen knights squirm?’

  She answered bitterly, ‘Yes, plenty of times at King John’s court.’

  ‘Oh this is much worse, fair Adela. You’d better find out tomorrow, hadn’t you? Ask the vicomte about the rule book De Arte Honeste Amandi. That is, if he hasn’t strung you up by then. Andreas Capellanus is the author. The treatise was lapped up all over Christendom and poor Capellanus was compelled to write a tract on “Divine” Love just to make sure he was not excommunicated. Hardly surprising it did not sell as well.’

  A rule book on love? Was he feeding her lies? A rule book on love!

  Outside the door, she heard a man’s voice and the laughter of her attendants.

  ‘Oh, Derwent,’ she muttered. ‘I wish our conversations were not like wading knee-deep through mud.’

  In answer, he astonished her by running across and flinging his arms about her skirts like an unhappy child. ‘I should hate to see you die, bona domna,’ he sobbed and the next minute he was looking up and laughing like a malevolent gnome. Letting go of her, he pranced to the door. ‘Your move in this game of chess,’ he hissed, providing a mocking bow, ‘but don’t think you know all the answers. There are plenty of other pieces on the board.’

  Chapter Ten

  Keep watch, young sentry of the castle, For the one who is the most beautiful and noble, Is mine until first light.

  Gaita be, gaiteta del chastel by Raimbaut de Vaqueiras

  One of the chess pieces was ushered across the threshold of the outer chamber by her ladies as Derwent capered past—the Lord of Mirascon’s handsome younger brother, Sir Jaufré, the knight of the pearly teeth and honed charm.

  ‘My lady.’ His arrival was melodious; the rattle of dagger sheath at odds with the tiny bells that adorned his scarlet sleeves. ‘Forgive me for disturbing your rest,’ he apologised in Norman French, drawing out the parchment roll he carried beneath his arm. ‘I leave at dawn tomorrow to seek out the brigands who attacked your company. Any help you can provide, Lady Alys, would make my task much easier.’

  Adela received him courteously, but she would have preferred to swim a filthy moat rather than describe the massacre again. Tense yet curious, she watched him unroll the parchment onto the floor. He bade her ladies fetch candlesticks and shoes to anchor its corners, and invited her to sit on a stool before it while he half knelt beside her.

  Her woman’s heart could have been quickened by the proximity of so comely a man, yet the only instinct that Sir Jaufré aroused in her was wariness and not just because of the imminent interrogation. She was too much a stranger to discern whether Lord Richart and Sir Jaufré actually liked each other, but she had already noticed that the relationship between the brothers was not a playful, shoulder-slapping camaraderie. Not for the first time she wished her understanding of their language was better so she that she could have fathomed the undercurrents that had swirled about her during the banquet.

  Maybe her several attendants were also interested in undercurrents—or more likely in attracting Sir Jaufré’s admiration—for they lingered as though fascinated by the parchment until Adela gestured to them to step back. While they retired with obedient curtsies to the window seat to converse in soft whispers, she knew very well that they would be listening over their needlework even if most had no understanding of the Norman tongue.

  ‘My lady, I regret to weary you further, but may we begin?’ Jaufré was asking.

  She nodded, concealing her reluctance, and tried to stay on her guard as she tailored her account. Oh, he had so many questions when she had finished, especially as to where they had been attacked.

  ‘I do remember our camp was near the confluence of two streams and not far off the track. The guide we brought from Toulouse led us there.’

  ‘Was he slain with the rest?’

  ‘I did not see his body. I could not bear to search further.’ She unwittingly clasped her fingers to her mouth. The stench of burning seemed real again. ‘You must understand how dangerous it was to linger.’

  ‘Yet I think you told me just now that you ventured down the hillside to look, yes? A steep hillside?’

  Had it been? ‘No, not steep but not gentle either.’

  Naturally, that did not content him. He leaned forward and jabbed the parchment. ‘Here is Toulouse, madame, and here, Mirascon. Can you estimate where your retinue was attacked?’

  ‘I have no skill at this, Sir Jaufré,’ she murmured, frowning at the blank spaces. The parchment’s content was like nothing she had seen before: small drawings of gatehouses or spires alongside names, and none of these in lines or columns but irrationally scattered here and there. So this must be what men called a ‘map’.

  ‘Please, think hard, madame. Was your camp that night closer to here or here, do you suppose?’ He jabbed the two city names again and frowned at her lack of response. ‘No, my lady? Then can you remember how many days you and your servant were journeying through the woods before and after the attack?’

  ‘Oh, several days.’ She fingered the bruise.

  Male irritation showed. ‘Before or after?’

  She frowned. ‘After.’

  Would this quiver of questions never cease! And she must be vague without misleading him.

  Her female inexactness challenged his masculine sense of direction. Comments like, ‘Well, so by then you were heading south-east, were you not?’ had her blinking at him in confusion and by no means pretence. If she had been made of eggshell, this interrogation would have shattered her, especially when she was so fraudulent in her finery and plagued with guilt that she was alive when others had been so brutally slaughtered.

  ‘Sir Jaufré, that is enough! Dear me, after all Lady Alys has been through.’ The older woman Adela now knew as Lady Marie intervened.

  Sir Jaufré’s fair moustache twitched stubbornly. ‘Then would your serving woman be able to give a deposition, my lady?’

  Lady Marie was at Adela’s elbow now like a hen defending her fledgling. ‘The servant is still not fully recovered, Sir Jaufré, and her wits are not sharp.’

  ‘Nevertheless, my lord brother desires I question her b
efore I leave.’ His tone was insistent.

  ‘Yes, of course, you must.’ Adela set a reassuring hand on Lady Marie’s arm. God willing Maud was out of the city gates by now.

  Bells a-tinkling as he turned, Sir Jaufré rapped out an order in Occitan to her women. There was some swift discussion, a shake of head towards the inner chamber and then the youngest curtsied and left, obviously bidden to search for Maud.

  ‘This servant of yours only speaks English, madame?’

  ‘Yes.’

  While they waited, one of the demoiselles served them some perry.

  ‘A pity you cannot ride with us as a guide tomorrow, Lady Alys,’ Sir Jaufré murmured, stroking the belly of his goblet. And we might manage some dalliance, the fair-lashed eyes promised. ‘But we could take your woman. Ah, maybe not, I think.’ As he stared in disappointment at Maud’s plain exterior, Adela managed to conceal her shock.

  Oh, my friend, you blessed idiot, didn’t we agree that—

  ‘What is your woman’s name, madame?’ Sir Jaufré was asking.

  ‘Maud. It means “stupid one” in English.’

  Shooed in, the laundress was curtseying, her complexion flushed from the exertion of the spiral stairs, and she was manifesting ignorance; a turnip with a face carved upon it would have looked less gormless.

  Resurrecting swearwords from her village days, Adela counted to ten while she plastered on a noble-lady smile and said sweetly in English, ‘You were supposed to go. Why in God’s name are you still here?’

  ‘I never said nothin’ ’bout leavin’ an’ I was hungry. Why’s the frog starin’?’

  Count to five this time.

  ‘The fr—His name is Sir Jaufré. He leaves tomorrow to discover where our camp was ambushed and to hunt for the brigands. He wants to question you, so careful, don’t overdo the stupidity.’

  ‘Handsome cockerel, ain’t he?’ Maud curtsied again, her expression skilfully adapting to a blend of confusion and awe. ‘Tell him I’d enjoy a roll in the hay with him when he gets back.’