Troubadour

by Isolde Martyn

  ‘Wait.’ What was that about peasants copulating like beasts?

  A knight need never accept refusal from a peasant girl—

  ‘Yes, indeed, my lady, shall we …’

  If you come upon a convenient place, do not hesitate to take what you want by force …

  Fury at the writer’s pompous tone flooded through her. ‘Do tell me what the text says, good Father,’ she cajoled in a tone as sweet as honey.

  ‘My child, it says that a knight may give his love small gifts such as are pleasing to her.’

  She wanted to empty the inkhorn over Father Martin’s tonsured head. Gifts! And what gift would a knight give a miller’s daughter as they tumbled behind the hedgerow? An unwanted babe beneath her girdle? Or perhaps a disease that would eat her from the inside out? So this was what the nobility really thought about people like her! Capellanus, Court of Love? Be hanged the lot of them!

  ‘What kind of gifts, Father Martin?’

  ‘Why, a little mirror, a comb, or a poem or flower left upon her pillow.’

  He who is not jealous cannot love.

  ‘Have you ever written any poetry, Father?’

  ‘Yes, my daughter, when I was younger, and it wasn’t all dedicated to the Blessed Christ, I might add for my sins. May we leave matters there, my lady?’

  ‘Certainly you should!’ A man’s voice startled both of them. Lord Richart had come up the stairs as silently as a night thief. Though his handsome face was flushed, his manner was not one of anger or displeasure. ‘I suggest you enjoy a walk, Father Martin. Restful for the eyes!’

  The priest had no choice and left them alone together.

  Adela’s heart began a frantic dance. The man’s green eyes slid over her speculatively as though she offered a challenge. As Alys, she felt a growing sense of power; as Adela she was racked with both pleasure and terror; female pleasure exquisitely heightened by the profound sense of danger she faced from him and the sickening terror that she was to be hurled from Heaven into Hell. It had to be now, the opportunity to tell him the truth and on her knees beg for mercy. She reached out to close the book’s heavy cover but his hand prevented her.

  ‘You read Latin, too.’ His beautiful voice held respect. It was a statement not a question. How long had he stood watching?

  ‘Ye-es.’ Spoken easily in his tongue, then she added in Norman French, ‘It is not a skill I admit to normally. My fa …’ She stopped herself. ‘My fancy is that clerics dislike learning in women.’

  ‘You would not have told me?’ His tone offered no inkling whether he spoke from curiosity or disapproval.

  ‘I’m not sure, my lord,’ she said softly. ‘I have yet to learn your character.’

  ‘And what an adventure that will be.’ He closed the book and leaned over the desk. ‘Let us straighten some matters between us, shall we, Alys? I dislike those people who judge a man guilty before they even hear his deposition.’

  ‘There wasn’t a deposition, my lord.’ Just the visible evidence that he wanted a wife to bear his children while he fornicated anywhere he pleased. She glanced meaningfully at the neck of his apparel. The clingy hair had been removed.

  ‘No,’ he admitted, ‘but there was my word or doesn’t that matter, madame?’

  She stroked her splayed hand across the book cover. ‘Perhaps that’s a case you should bring before the Court of Love, my lord.’

  ‘What?’ He straightened, his expression derisive. ‘Be damned to the Court of Love! It’s for women and troubadours. I shall be hunting.’

  ‘Then it doesn’t matter,’ she agreed, her fingers tracing the tooled leather beneath her fingertips. Any feelings he professed for her would be flung aside like a flea-ridden blanket once he learned who she really was. She lifted her gaze to his with earnestness. To tame this man would be a marvel indeed. To earn just some respect, a little true affection—before he hanged her. Swallowing, she said, ‘King Solomon had a thousand wives and concubines—’

  He was suddenly laughing. ‘God help me, I’m having enough trouble with one.’ Did he mean her? His amusement was infectious, and she felt some of the tension easing out of her. ‘Why are we quarrelling, my lady?’

  ‘It’s part of getting used to marital fetters,’ she said. ‘You try them on and see how far you can reach.’

  ‘Try them?’ The challenge in his face had turned to a wickedness that lit the wild depths of his eyes. In an instant, she was plucked to her feet. ‘In a few days we shall make our vows to one another.’ He ran his fingers thoughtfully over the bruise on her forehead. ‘Other men may not give a toss about their wives’ trust. I do. I want our coupling grounded on honesty.’

  She should speak, admit all. Now! But, drawing her face towards him, he was kissing her hungrily, his knee making a chasm in her skirt. To load trebuchets of ugly truth against this onslaught would make his anger greater; confession lay unspoken beneath his kisses.

  Sitting down upon the bench, he pulled her onto his lap. Words that must have been a caress in Occitan were murmured against her lips as he pushed down the neck of her gown and chemise, imprisoning her arms. For an instance, reverence delayed him. He offered her bared breast a possessive, feasting stare before his lips touched her skin as though she was a precious relic to be worshipped.

  Adela felt all reason fleeing. The delicious sensation of his tongue upon the peak of her breast was making her his submissive bondwoman. His right hand was easing up her skirt, his fingers discovering the moisture between her thighs and he gave a deep growl of satisfaction that she wanted him.

  She should prevent him. She knew that, but the Adela inside Alys wanted this, wanted him, had wanted him since he had first smiled at her in Corfe.

  ‘My beautiful Alys.’ The distracted murmur of a man undoing his belt, lifting his tunic and freeing himself from his chausses. ‘Feel what you do to me, my lady,’ he murmured against her throat as he fastened her hand around his prick. His skin was silken beneath her touch and as firm as finely smoothed marble. Her fingers stroked, enjoying the power of him.

  ‘I want you,’ his voice was rich, husky with desire. ‘Once we are wed, this,’ his hand cupped the mound between her legs, ‘will belong to me alone, mine to enjoy, to savour.’

  ‘My lord.’ Time to break the compelling touch of skin against skin, to pull away, end this forever. He must have discerned a moral doubt in the whispered plea, a woman’s reluctance to appease; his reason resurfaced from drowning and his hands rose to firm about her shoulders, setting her away at arm’s length. ‘Today you can still say no, keep me waiting like a green bridegroom.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘I can and that is generous of you.’

  Beneath her hands, the muscles of his arms suddenly tightened as though her answer scorched him with self-doubt, the possibility that she did not want him.

  ‘Then speak, lady, for I am at your mercy. Say swiftly.’

  Was it only his body making the promises and his masculine arrogance translating her whispered plea as acquiescence? Adela, arching back in pleasure, no longer cared whether he knew the difference between love and desire. Her appetite matched his.

  ‘Love me!’ A breathy, humble plea.

  He chose not to answer. His fingers slid up between her thighs and renewed the seduction. She witnessed the intense desire straining his face and felt the questioning touch of fingertips ripening into desperate masterful demand.

  ‘My lord! Lord Richart!’ Deference and urgency underscored the outside voice. There were feet on the stairs. ‘Is my lord up there? There’s a messenger from my lord of Toulouse.’

  ‘WAIT DOWN THERE!’

  The footsteps turned.

  ‘Merde, merde, merde!’ Painfully hurtled from lover to lord, the words were ripped from the man holding her. Behind his tanned face, the blood had fled.

  About her, the world sobered, the books and shelves swam back into her vision. She understood herself urged to standing, her skirts pulled down, her chemise and bodice re
stored to decorous altitude. Then he was grappling with his own clothing—securing his chausses, smoothing his finery as best he might.

  ‘Next time,’ Richart mouthed, giving her a swift inspection, fingers jabbing the air at her tipsy chaplet. Adela complied. Capellanus’s book lay open once more upon the writing desk between them.

  A nod was expected from her before he strode to the door. For an instant, his hand hesitated at the latch as though he was expecting ill tidings, then he was gone down into the daylight, wearing duty as a surcote.

  Adela followed him. From the shadowy interior, she remembered the colours of Toulouse, saw them dusty now upon the courier’s breast as he knelt before the vicomte. ‘I have ridden from Saint-Gilles, my lord.’ Cracked lips framed the dry words.

  ‘Summon my councillors and fetch this man ale.’ A snap of fingers and Richart’s servants hastened to assist the messenger to his feet. Derwent was there, leaning against the stone parapet. Sour-lipped, watching, listening.

  Striding back to Adela, Richart was all control again. He carried her fingers to his lips. ‘As well we didn’t go riding,’ he said, formal, courteous. ‘The comte’s message may require an urgent answer, but I am sure my fool will keep you entertained. Until our repast, ma domna!’ A curt bow and he was gone.

  And still she had not told him the truth.

  Left dazed and rearranged, Adela leaned back against the chapel door. Her body felt buffeted, glorious and wanting more. Should she have stopped him? She doubted Alys would have. Alys would have viewed his desire as a means to enslave him like she had poor Sir William.

  ‘My lady?’ Fabrisse came across to her. ‘Are you well?’

  No! All she could do was nod, smoothing her skirts. In London, she had seen a traitor hurdled to the gallows. How could she free herself from her journey of lies?

  ‘You want amusement, sweet Alys?’ Derwent asked with a mocking flourish of gooseturd sleeve and egg-yellow leg. Behind him, bearing a kerchief-covered basket, Arsendis dropped into a curtsey. Although the eyes of both girls were modestly downcast, Adela had no doubt their minds were leaping to lascivious conclusions.

  The dwarf was staring pointedly at her well-kissed lips. ‘So you haven’t told him,’ he sneered in English. ‘And there was I so dutifully playing watch dog.’

  She did not need the small man’s jibes, not when she was still reeling from being deliciously manhandled, but with a shake of her shoulders, she drew herself together. ‘No, every time I set the arrow to the bow, he forestalls me.’

  ‘Then it will get harder,’ he taunted, waggling his fingers lecherously as he skipped backwards before her. ‘This way, then, to the hidden sights of Mirascon.’

  There was little reason not to follow and the demoiselles immediately fell into step behind her with their mysterious basket. It seemed that Lady Alys was about to embark on a charitable visit to Mirascon’s poor or else some deserving egg-layers.

  ‘Where’s Saint-Gilles?’ she asked Derwent in Norman French, hoping to forestall any more unwelcome comments.

  The ploy to distract him worked.

  ‘Tha-a-t way, I think.’ He spun like a weathervane and halted, pointing, his shadow long across the flagstones in the morning sun. ‘It’s one of the Comte de Toulouse’s fortresses near the River Rhone. I’m told it’s where he held talks with the papal legate who was killed at the ferry afterwards.’

  Adela frowned. She had heard Sir William and Lady Alys talking about the murder. ‘Being a great lord, I suppose he is now forgiven.’

  Derwent swung his arm to point at her. ‘Ah, what it is to be a woman, so blissfully ignorant. Or a great lord, so detested.’

  Adela stopped, so did her entourage. ‘Derwent, I shall ask the vicomte to jam you into a bucket and drop you down the well for the rest of the day if you don’t stop talking nonsense.’

  He clamped his hands to his throat and pretended to be choking. ‘If you put me at the end of a rope,’ he spluttered in English, ‘I’ll do the same for you.’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ she growled, ‘because you’ve some scheme to fleece me and I’m worth more to you alive. So walk beside me like a sane man and tell me what on earth you’re blathering about.’

  He drew his hand down over his grinning features, transforming his mouth and eyes into a sober expression and placed his hands together in such an imitation of Bishop Seguinus that Adela almost giggled. However, what he added next was far from amusing.

  ‘The Holy Papa desires that Raymon of Toulouse be punished for the legate’s death, see, but the illustrious lord insists it was all a mistake and, oohh, he did not intend any such crime. The fact is one of his hot-headed esquires decided that riding at Brother Pierre with a lance just as the legate was about to accompany his donkeys into the ferryboat would be an excellent notion.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Pope Innocent was not amused. In fact …’ Derwent grabbed a trowel from the gardener’s barrow, ‘there’s talk of a crusading army coming south to unearth any heretics in Comte Raymon’s lands and you can guess what that might mean.’ The violent jerk of his wrist on the trowel sent a sharp shiver of disgust down Adela’s spine.

  ‘Raymon is the vicomte’s overlord. Does that mean an army could come here?’

  ‘Ah, the catapult stone has hit the city wall. Well done, my mistress. You’ve more between the ears than is evident on first acquaintance.’

  ‘Don’t you patronise me!’ Adela hissed, grabbing him by the hood. ‘Tell me what this means for Mirascon.’

  He reverted to English. ‘It means you have to marry Lord Richart, sweetheart.’

  She shook him and her attendants laughed. ‘I may,’ she said with a desperate smile, ‘if he doesn’t hang me for murdering you this very instant. Simple terms, Derwent! Explain!’ Another shake for emphasis then she released her hold.

  He looked ruffled and sulky and began walking backwards again in front of her. ‘If the vicomte does not wed Lady Alys, King Jean-Sans-Terre will neither become his overlord nor send an army to the aid of Mirascon if it’s attacked.’

  Adela halted, stunned. The demoiselles grumbled at Derwent.

  ‘But …’ She had assumed the marriage contract was solely about lands not a military alliance. ‘God have mercy,’ she muttered. ‘Now I understand why you haven’t given me away.’

  ‘No,’ he argued, ‘you are still an ignoramus and understand nothing.’ And with an evil grin, he careered into appalling cartwheels ahead of her.

  Adela shook her head. ‘Deluded!’ she murmured in Norman French, pointing to her temples and her maidens nodded.

  By the saints, her dilemma was even worse now. If Mirascon’s survival depended on Richart’s marriage with Alys …

  Scampering ahead of Adela across the courtyard of the castle, Derwent offered her a brief moment to make sense of what he’d just told her—except there were two men-at-arms now marching towards her looking very predatory.

  They halted before her, their deferential smiles at odds with their daggers and chainmail. ‘Ma domna, this way.’

  It wasn’t to the castle gate they were escorting her but a mean door at the base of the keep.

  ‘Where are they taking me, Derwent?’

  He bowed her into the doorway.

  ‘Haven’t you guessed, sweet deceiver? The dungeons!’

  In his council chamber, Richart re-read the letter that requested him to give credence to the messenger and once more examined the wax seal. It certainly came from Raymon of Toulouse. Grimly, he passed it to Tibaut and paced to the open window light. How could the sky look so serene when the world he loved was starting to shake like a man with fever?

  ‘Lord Raymon has gone to Lyons,’ he explained over his shoulder to his hastily assembled councillors, and turning his head, he saw Bishop Seguinus’s eyebrows rise smugly with an ‘I-warned-you’ expression. Lyons was where the crusading army was gathering. Knowing Raymon, Richart guessed, he must be going there out of desperation, only why? W
hat had changed?

  He gestured to his servant to refill the beaker for the dusty messenger, and bracing himself to hear more, turned to face him. ‘Tell us the rest, good friend,’ he ordered. ‘But first, drink your fill.’

  The knight obeyed gratefully, then wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he said, ‘My lord commanded me to tell you that he has been required to make atonement for the death of Brother Pierre, the papal legate.’

  ‘Atonement?’ Raymon might have wished Pierre to be plagued with boils, yet he would never have had him murdered.

  The messenger nodded unhappily.

  ‘What atonement? How?’

  ‘It is thus, my lord Vicomte. Lord Raymon sent a letter to Pope Innocent assuring him that he desired to make his peace with Holy Church. His holiness took him at his word and sent another emissary to Saint-Gilles.’

  ‘Which emissary?’

  ‘Another papal legate, Brother Milo. I see from your face that you have heard of him, my lord.’

  ‘Yes, I have.’ Ill news! The fellow was one of the pope’s former notaries and a fervent hater of heretics. ‘So your master has promised to obey the edicts of Holy Church in future?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. Brother Milo told my master that the only way to settle the matter was for him to confess before all the people that he was responsible for Saint-Pierre’s martyrdom.’

  ‘A new saint in Heaven,’ murmured Seguinus with a tight, approving smirk. ‘Excellent.’ Several of the councillors nodded in agreement.

  The patron saint of river ferries, perhaps? No, it was too serious even for silent mirth.

  ‘And Lord Raymon agreed to this atonement, I take it?’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ replied the knight. ‘Brother Milo ordered that an altar be set up in the square and after my lord Comte had made his promise of obedience in the abbey, he was led out bare of foot and naked from his waist up and there, in front of all the prelates and the people, a halt …’

  ‘Which prelates?’ cut in Seguinus.

  ‘Three archbishops and some score of bishops, my lord.’

  ‘Score! I should have been there,’ muttered Seguinus with a fierce look at Richart.