Troubadour

by Isolde Martyn

  ‘She says she has little recall.’

  ‘How many brigands attacked the camp?’ As Adela translated, Jaufré held up ten fingers in front of Maud. ‘Or?’ he flashed his palms twice with a jingle of sleeves.

  Her friend pulled a confused face. ‘Nice rings. Worth more than a groat. Likes bells, too.’

  ‘She says it was too dark to see the attackers,’ Adela told him in Norman, then added in English, ‘We must tell the same story. I have already said our camp was near a stream and not far off the track.’ The rise of her voice made it sound like a question.

  ‘It felt like a ruddy mile. I was that tired.’

  ‘Her reply is that she was too weary from walking to take much notice of where we made camp.’

  Jaufré took Maud by the elbow and urged her to the map. ‘Love his soft hands,’ she murmured, but when he pointed to the parchment, her open-mouthed lack of understanding was authentic. She swiftly looked across at Adela for guidance.

  ‘It is what is called a map, Maud. It shows the distance between towns and cities.’

  Her friend peered again at it as though inspecting a poisonous toadstool. ‘I thought milestones did that.’

  As Sir Jaufré struggled to point out Toulouse and Mirascon to Maud, Adela began to view the parchment with more understanding. The ribbon of blue ink beside Toulouse, she guessed, might be the Gironde river and she noted there were meandering, thinner lines elsewhere that snaked and forked, just like the veins on an old man’s hands. Those must be lesser rivers and streams.

  ‘Where them lines cross, are they roads?’ Maud asked, keeping her tone humble.

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Then I reckon yonder’s the crossroads where the priests rode past us and there weren’t many of them, crossroads, that is, not priests. But maybe we should just say naught.’

  ‘Is English full of more words than Norman?’ Jaufré asked, his glance flicking from her face to Maud’s.

  Any suspicion needed to be stamped upon. Perhaps it was wise to hand him this morsel.

  ‘My servant has reminded me that as we reached a crossroads, an important churchman with his escort passed us riding hard towards Mirascon. I think it was Bishop Seguinus, and it could be here.’ She slid from the stool and touched the map.

  ‘Hmm,’ he stared at the crossed lines and then towards Toulouse. ‘Ask the woman if she believes anyone else was saved?’

  ‘He wants to know if you saw anyone else fleeing?’ She made the error of speaking in Norman and fortunately Maud had the wit to gape at her. Thank Heaven one of them was staying alert! She repeated the question in English.

  Maud crossed herself with a sorrowful shake of jowls. ‘I had me head down, didn’t I, under a ruddy thicket.’

  ‘She says not. I think we have told you everything we can, Sir Jaufré, and should delay you no further.’ Her distressed tone was no ploy. With grave formality, she rose and offered her hand in farewell. ‘The saints keep you safe in your endeavour, sir.’

  He carried her wrist to his lips and gave a curt nod of dismissal to Maud before he gathered up his map. ‘My lady, it is possible our conversation may have stirred other remembrances, details that might be important. If any occur to you or your serving woman presently, pray send for me straightway.’ Then, as Adela walked with him to the door, he delivered a quieter message meant for her alone.

  ‘I daresay my brother would be happy for me to be captured by brigands and absent from his nuptials, madame; however, I shall do my best to be back, and with good news, too, I trust.’ Was he jesting? Clearly he was not because he dared to add, ‘You will find him of a cold nature and, be warned, his loyalty lies elsewhere. If ever you should need counsel or assistance, do not hesitate to come to me.’

  Seeing her concerned look, he murmured, ‘I do not seek to distress you, Lady Alys, but you must understand that there are many matters on which my half-brother and I disagree, especially when he is wedding one of the loveliest women in Christendom and I admit to envy.’ He contrived a look of appreciation that was far from tepid. ‘I imagine King John was loath to lose you from his court.’ The sucking in of his cheeks and mischievous glint in his eyes left her no doubt that he was hoping Richart’s bride might prove wanton.

  Lady Alys’s response was a lowered and modest countenance—Adela had enough enemies already—but the young man’s smile was still speculative.

  ‘Adieu, sir!’ And I hope you find nothing!

  ‘Adieu!’ Another kiss charmingly placed upon her wrist and he jingled off.

  She turned to face her watching attendants and thanked Lady Marie for her kindness. ‘I hope that went well,’ she muttered in English, nodding to Maud as Lady Alys might have done.

  ‘Well, to judge by the fair licking he gave your hands, he was thinking of more than hanging murderers.’

  ‘And is he trustworthy? I feel like a spider’s web, tugged in all directions.’ It was dangerous to converse more. She wanted to collapse on the bed with a loud whoosh of relief, but her women were on their feet, as attentive as rabbits with ears up, waiting for a hint that she required their service, and Lady Marie was standing before her with a doggedness that meant some decision was required. At least the older woman spoke Norman French without a strong southern dialect.

  ‘Madame, we have taken the liberty of preparing some new kirtles for you. It requires just a few moments with the tailors before the final stitching; however, if you would prefer they return tomorrow?’

  It was needful to behave as Lady Alys might until she had spoken privily with the vicomte, and Lady Alys, God rest her soul, would have been eager for fine new robes.

  An hour later, when the door closed behind the tailors, embroiderers, cordwainer and girdler, an exhausted ‘Alys’ was led to a cushioned settle and a footstool was placed beneath her stockinged, callused heels. Behind her serene thanks, she was frightened. The beauteous silks and costly embroideries were almost as fine as Queen Isabella’s and the soft leather shoes to be cut for the wedding day would have paid for a whole hamlet’s labour for a month.

  ‘You have to end this,’ Maud’s expression told her.

  Yes, but—

  If only Lord Richart would change his mind and send for her, she could make confession and get this pretence over with. Fear was keeping her company like a sinister handmaiden and knowledge of the dwarf’s power over her was like a knotted cord about her temples. The saints give her courage! She ought to request Lord Richart to attend her or even seek him out.

  ‘Ma domna,’ Lady Marie began sweetly. ‘Your pardon in asking, but there is a good woman in the city who takes in orphaned children. Is it possible—’

  ‘Of course!’ cut in Adela recklessly, rising to her feet, even though she was so very weary. ‘Let it be now.’

  Why were the demoiselles glancing between her and Lady Marie with concern?

  ‘Now, madame?’ Unease edged Fabrisse’s astonished tone. Behind her, Arsendis muttered Seguinus’s name, which only butted Adela’s determination further.

  ‘Now.’ It was better than wallowing in worry. ‘You come, too,’ she added in English to Maud. ‘Maybe you can get away.’

  ‘My gracious lady,’ replied Maud, curtseying. ‘Pig’s arse to that.’

  A frowning triangle of men strode across the bailey to encounter Lady Alys on her return. The lord himself was at its apex of his attendants, looking as displeased as King Herod hearing that the Magi had gone a different way home.

  ‘Madame,’ he demanded of Adela, ‘where have you been?’ Was this bristling only for appearances?

  ‘I have been making straw dolls, my lord.’ The children’s joyfulness had revived her.

  Had the vicomte been a trebuchet, a missile would have been launched by his fury. ‘Dolls, madame?’

  ‘Yes, with the orphaned children,’ she replied gravely, looking puzzled. ‘Are corn dollikins not known here?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘We played boules, too. I
t was a most pleasurable excursion.’

  ‘Have you any notion what—’

  Lady Marie flung herself between them, curtseying low. ‘I take the blame, my lord.’

  Lord Richart directed a daggered look at the castellan who grabbed his lady’s elbow and led her away with a splutter of angry Occitan, leaving Adela being superbly glowered at. She managed to look sheepish and could swear he was now trying not to laugh.

  ‘Domna, I request you in future not to leave the castle without my permission.’

  Knowing that he must be seen to have domination, she curtsied. ‘As you wish, my gracious lord,’ and then she added, hoping that she could make her confession to him without delay, ‘Perhaps you could instruct me privily, my lord. Clearly there are procedures here that I need to follow.’

  O the saints enlighten her! She had said the wrong thing. His handsome features hardened again as if she was flicking her skirts up like a corner harlot.

  ‘We will have eternity once we are wed,’ he answered coldly. ‘Until then I pray you seek my leave!’ A curt nod. ‘Madame!’ And he strode arrogantly away.

  In his bedchamber, Richart angrily held the pope’s latest missive in the flame of the dying candle and watched the parchment blacken and shrivel like a martyr’s flesh before he carried it to the hearth. Pope Innocent wrote that all those who owed allegiance to Raymon of Toulouse as their overlord would be pardoned by Holy Church if they broke their oath of fealty and joined the crusade: Take the cross and expel the heretics from your lands before it is too late for God’s forgiveness!

  Heretics? Pah, such little fleas on the body of Holy Church, the Mirascon Cathars were hardworking, honest men who went about minding their own business. No, this was not just orthodoxy but plunder. Richart knew from his agents in Paris that the King of France had already given his knights forty days of leave. Forty days! Thousands could die within that time. Thousands! The greedy whoresons would have plentiful time to ravage the east coast and then …? In his mind, he already could hear the tramp of the crusading army, the rattle of the trebuchets and siege towers rumbling south.

  They needed leadership from their overlord. So why was Raymon still sitting on his hands like a lily-livered coward? Was the old reprobate still denying his guilt in the legate’s murder? Still believing he could negotiate? Pah, that would be like asking a foul tempest to turn back upon itself! Damn him for a fool! Richart felt like punching the wall in fury. By Heaven, so little sand was left in the hourglass of time. This wedding would be a mustering of the southern lords; if Raymon did not arrive to lead them, then Richart would.

  Adela drank the night-time honey brew her attendants brought her, permitted them to clothe her in a simple cotton shift, and suffered them to lead her to the bed. Duty done, they extinguished all the candles save one and scurried away into the shadows. Maud was already fast asleep on a palliasse by the wall. Beyond the door, she heard her servants making themselves comfortable on their pallets. Soon the girls’ whispers surrendered to the steady breath of slumber.

  Now she had solitude to consider her dilemma, she tried not to heed the evil whisper inside her mind urging her to buy Derwent’s silence and deceive Lord Richart. Or was it sinful lust that was tempting her to wickedness?

  Yes and yes. Her body was yearning for Lord Richart’s hands and lips upon her. Ah, the thought of being naked in his bed on the wedding night and how he would come to her with his friends about him making merry. He would dismiss them, bar the door against their ribald jests, and shrug off the rich robe that clothed him. Then he would gather her naked body into his arms and kiss every inch of her. Oh, she would melt beneath his touch, surrender to his pleasure, please him any way she could, and gain his love through the gift of her body.

  Ha! Adela flung the sheet off again. More likely she would starve to death in his dungeon with manacles as bracelets. Spreading her arms, she tried to find a cold surface to cool her perspiring skin. She must sleep, otherwise she would make some monstrous error tomorrow, but the air about her was languid with heat. Past the middle of the night, she fell into a fitful slumber only to wake in sweat and confusion, with the savagery of the ambush real and cruel in her mind as it had been every night since the ambush. She sat up in panic and then her breath calmed as she realised where she was.

  The single candle had burned low. Stars lit the two patches of sky that she could see from her pillow. Desperate, reckless, she slid from the bed. Unable to find the embroidered wrap, she freed the upper sheet from the bedding and draped it over her shoulders, then she tiptoed to the door and softly turned the latch. The two demoiselles outside were deep asleep.

  Holding the candle away from her eyes so she was not dazzled, she crept past them and down the servants’ twisting stairs, seeking any door that might let her into the bailey. Outside, even the gritty ground was warm beneath her bare feet. The cool grass of a tiny garden mede might serve, but she had no notion if such a blessing existed within the fortress so she climbed the steps onto the open part of the ramparts. At last, she took a deep breath of relief, feeling an eastern breeze cool her skin.

  There was no moon. An immense canopy of night, embroidered with stars like tiny seed pearls, hung above her and beyond the city walls the dark land seemed to stretch forever. How could there be evil with so much beauty surrounding her? Her musicians were crickets and the troubadour was a hunting owl. But then men’s voices reached her. The door of the nearest tower was opening. She heard the sound of heavy feet arriving to challenge her, and, gathering the sheet across her breasts, turned as a spluttering torch was thrust in her face. ‘What in h—Oh, your pardon, ma domna!’ The shocked officer rattled a bow.

  ‘The nightmare of the journey is still with me, captain. I could not sleep.’

  He looked flattered by that confidence. ‘I am right glad you are no spirit, my lady. At first, I thought—’

  She smiled. ‘No, I am not here to haunt you. What is your name, good soldier?’

  ‘Mathieu, bona domna.’

  ‘Then, Mathieu, I wish you good morning. Pray you, now, give me privacy.’

  A touch to his helmet in deference, and he strode away, gesturing to the sentries in the towers on either side that all was well.

  Adela sighed. After the years of servitude, it was utter delight to be respected, but that same officer might be marching her to the scaffold. Was there purpose in this? she asked the vast sky above her. It seemed a millennium since she had sprung from the wall at Corfe and now what irony to find herself here at Mirascon. Could she possibly be an instrument of Almighty God or was the ending of this dream to be brutal and vicious? The stones of the wall felt substantial, important beneath her fingertips, reassuring her she was alive, yet the stars, whatever alchemy caused them to shine, made her feel like a tiny mote in the dust of time.

  ‘I could do much good here,’ she whispered aloud to the slumbering city. ‘I know what it is to be lowly, starving and despised.’

  Trust, answered a voice from deep inside her heart.

  How long she stood there, she did not know, but eventually as the air chilled, she recognised the change of light in the sky towards the east and reality goosefleshed along her skin. Perhaps she should wake Maud and they might run away before daybreak, flee out through the city gates the moment they were unbarred; yet her flight would bring shame to the Lord of Mirascon and he would hunt her down.

  Richart prowled to the window and flung open the shutters to draw in great breaths of air. It would be hours before he could alleviate his frustration in combat practice or call for his horse to be saddled so he might ride until he was exhausted, but small chance of either! There would be wedding guests arriving and a bride to entertain.

  He halted below the crucifix on the wall.

  O Blessed Jesu, I pray you make John of England keep his word and stand by the alliance.

  ‘My lord, is aught wrong?’ His body-servant had crawled out of bed, grey hair spiky like a half-blown dandelion; a mouth s
truggling not to yawn. ‘My lord, what may please you? Shall I send a page for Lady Yolande?’

  ‘No!’ It was his mind that craved peace, not his body. ‘No, Gaspard, go back to sleep, man.’

  He investigated the flagon on the trestle beside the ledgers, emptied yesterday’s cider into a beaker. It tasted flat, but he downed it nonetheless, then cast himself upon his bed with a glare at the Mirascon arms painted on the wall. It was as though his pugnacious ancestors were judging him.

  The turgid air was a traitor stifling his breath, and counting hairy goats and multitudes of bleating sheep into some cursed fold proved futile. At last, unable to placate his snarling inner judge, he hastened down the logement stairs.

  Still yielding yesterday’s heat, the combat yard was as warm as ageing embers beneath his soles. Halting at the courtyard well, he stripped off his tunic and upended a pail of water over his head. For a few heartbeats, he sat upon the stone rim letting the runnels pour down his skin like opened veins and listened idly, discerning the chirring of a cricket and the voices of the guards in the two watchtowers that overlooked the eastern bailey. The itch of restlessness, the lack of answers, soon had him heading for the stairs of the nearest tower. He greeted his soldiers, allayed their suspicion that one of the captains had reported them for slack attention to their duty and then strode along the brattices of the southern wall to the sentries in the next tower.

  It was curious the men here showed no surprise at his presence, doused or otherwise. ‘A quiet night?’ he asked.

  ‘No more than usual, my lord.’

  ‘There were a bit of woman’s screamin’ comin’ from the backyard of Rue Saint-Denis an hour back. That tallow-maker, I reckon, beatin’ his wife.’

  ‘Aye,’ muttered the other soldier, ‘she be one of the Perfects an’ he won’t have it so.’

  Another Cathar. Why was it always the women?