Troubadour

by Isolde Martyn

  ‘So, is your order joining the crusade, Sir Guilhelm?’ Richart replied.

  ‘No, my lord, we do not consider that necessary since we are already a military order.’ A smooth-tongued answer.

  Foix elbowed Richart. ‘Not to mention the wealth to divert the crusade elsewhere,’ he whispered. ‘Give up on this and tuck your head down. Offering to lead the south will put you on Innocent’s list for scourging and he’ll have the crusaders outside these walls like wasps around a honeypot.’ Then he added loudly, ‘Tell us about this hunt you are planning for tomorrow! What are we going after?’

  Richart sighed as he saw excitement rekindle around the table. ‘Well …’ he began.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The heart of man is a labyrinth whose windings are very difficult to discover. The praises you give me are the more dangerous because I love the person who bestows them. The more I desire to please you, the readier I am to believe the merit you attribute to me.

  Héloïse to Peter Abelard

  Clad in a tawny kirtle, with a couvre-chef covering her blonde braids and a loose-weave cloak over her arm, Adela stole unhappily down the servants’ stairs. Running away, she felt like a traitor and so torn, so very torn between love and common sense. Earlier in the evening, there had been dancing in the great hall to pipes and tabors. She had managed two of the circle dances and then a risky baladas with Richart which involved some hazardous curtseying. As Alys for that blessed hour, she had felt the most joyful woman on earth, but as Adela, her feast day was spent and how could she tell him as he swung her down the hall in his arms that she was not his bride? With the excuse that her feet were still painful, she had sought his leave to seek her bedchamber. Alas, he had kissed her goodnight so lovingly and hopefully. If he had a later assignation with her in mind, he would find her gone. The sand was almost through her hourglass.

  Across the bailey, she could see her friend waiting in the shadow of the gatehouse and she remembered the hunting dogs at Corfe. Maud was fiercely beckoning her, but crossing the bailey without being noticed was a challenge: several Toulouse esquires stood bantering with Fabrisse; my lord of Foix’s young son was throwing a stick for his dog; a manservant was drawing water; there were sentries at the entrance to the keep, and some half-dozen soldiers on a bench outside the guardroom.

  Trying not to look furtive, Adela skirted round the logement. Foolishly distracted by a servant carrying water in her direction, she blindly collided with another fellow at the corner. The fabric beneath her fingers was rich and soft. Not a sentry nor a servant but—she recognised the gold wire edging on his slate-blue gorget—Richart!

  He took one look at her and recoiled, crossing himself. Now he was blocking her path. She had no choice except to brazen it out.

  ‘It’s me.’

  Her voice seemed to hasten his recovery. ‘What’s going on? And what in Hell are you wearing?’

  ‘I … I was on my way to find you, my lord, and I thought … well … are there not troubadours making music in the city? We might go in disguise or … or is that not proper in Mirascon?’ Inspired, she held out the cloak. ‘I could only find this, but you might have other more fitting apparel.’

  Mercifully, he did not investigate the cloak to discover it was a woman’s and he was still looking stupefied. Then his face broke into a reckless, dazzling smile. ‘I don’t see why not,’ he said, reaching out to grab her hand.

  * * *

  He was in fine humour as they reached his chambers. ‘Find me something to revel in! Holà, Gaspard, Berenger, anyone home?’

  Richart’s body-servants evidently needed time to helm their shock at seeing Lady Alys crudely gowned. Amused, even if her nerves were still askew, Adela sat down on a cushioned bench to wait for Richart. It was no use wondering if Maud had left without her.

  The chamber around her was opulent. A set of fine arras that showed the predictable masculine hunting scenes but sufficient space had been left to display the lord’s sword and some prizes from a past crusade: two Saracen scimitars and a fading gonfalcon banner. On a shelf below was an elephantus sculptured from inky black wood, an ancient drinking horn set in a silver stand and a rather dusty rock of amethyst crystal. The dominant furnishing was the vast featherbed, with carved wooden posts at each corner. Bed hangings in the colours of Mirascon were secured by cords on either side of the silken pillows, and looped upon the wooden frame were white gauze veilings that might be lowered to keep out night insects. The tester was richly embroidered, but the loss of glint in the metal threads implied it was more ancient than its owner. Wondering how many heirs had been conceived beneath it, and with a blush heating her cheeks, Adela forced her attention elsewhere, noting the pallets for body-servants and a garderobe alcove, curtained off. Then her blood warmed some more.

  Richart had already stripped off his costly apparel. Barechested, he was looking around for a disguise. Discarding modesty, she looked her fill, astonished that his body carried so many scars. The largest ripped across the dark hair of his chest. A story there, she mused, and the thought of tangling her fingers …

  ‘Alys?’ He could see she approved. The quirk of male eyebrow sent a clear message, suggested they might forego their excursion, find pleasure here instead, but the servants were already bringing plainer garments for his perusal—and hers. At each shake of her head, he playfully sent unwanted caps skimming across the room, like a boy flicking smooth stones to bounce across the water, until she declared her satisfaction—Gaspard’s straw travelling hat. The broad brim would hide his face. Finally mollified with a madder-dyed tunic of dusty red, drawn in with a simple belt, he turned laughing, legs astride. Bare legs astride. Instead of tapered shoes and hose fastened to the ties of his chausses, he had put on short boots and dark leggings that finished just south of his knees.

  Would Alys show open appreciation? Adela discreetly and slowly shifted her interest from the skin above his knees until she reached his face. The prospect of adventure had stripped away the aura of authority and the young man who stood with his knuckles upon his belt awaiting her approval was observing her with a speculative, mischievous gaze curling his lips.

  ‘Well, ma mie?’

  ‘You still look too prosperous for a serving wench like me.’

  He laughed. ‘Ah, but you have ambition for such a husband.’ He unfurled his fingers towards her. ‘Come!’

  Adela took his hand. His touch once more sent an energy through her. Like being lit by sunshine after rain, the world felt more alive, richer in hue and—wild! Her excitement matched his as they ran across the courtyard. Some cautious servant had forewarned Sir Henri that his lord was afflicted with midsummer madness and the castellan had creaked down to the gatehouse out of duty.

  ‘No fisticuffs, my lord,’ he cautioned with a grin.

  ‘I’m not fifteen anymore,’ retorted Richart, buffeting the old man’s shoulder. ‘And I can do more damage with a dagger than most of my citizens.’

  Sir Henri nodded. ‘Aye, you’re not and you can, my lord, but I’d like to see you reach thirty without more scarring, and you’ve a wife to take care of. I wish you a good evening, my lady.’

  ‘I’ll wager he’ll send a pair of watchdogs,’ muttered Richart as they carefully crossed the marketplace where the horse fair had been held. They zigzagged round the trestles, avoided the ravens and rats that were tidying up the spills from the stalls, and sidestepped the plentiful dung that would be carted away next morning.

  Mirascon, celebrating its lord’s wedding, the troubadour contest and the horse fair, was in a mood to frolic. Townsfolk and the outsiders, who were packing the inns, were all in rainbow mood. From singing drunkards, propping each other up as they lurched between the taverns, to families feasting beneath the vines, music, banter and laughter hung upon the evening air. So did the smells of roasting meat and the less pleasing stink of tallow tapers and fresh piss trickling down the walls.

  ‘I’ve decreed that curfew will be an hour later al
l this week,’ Richart was saying as they traversed the common square where the busiest streets embraced. ‘I want my people to enjoy themselves. Hey, are you with me?’ She was lingering to gaze up at the marvellous carving on one of the three-storeyed houses and unaware that a pair of wicked apprentices were creeping up on her with a stick to lift her skirts. ‘Oy!’ Richart yelled. He booted the stooping youth in his backside and cuffed the other lad. ‘Come on, you innocent!’ he exclaimed to Alys, taking her hand. ‘And we’ll forego that pleasure, too, I think.’ He pointed down a lane-way, where half a dozen children were peering through the cracks of what looked to be the back wall of an alehouse stable.

  Adela looked puzzled until she caught the sudden burst of shouting. ‘A cockfight, my lord?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said with a scowl, ‘and I thought I had banned it.’

  ‘You do not want to make an appearance to these misguided souls like the Angel Gabriel to the shepherds, then?’

  ‘Ah, if it was Yuletide …’

  ‘And I suppose you will tell me your wings have gone to be laundered.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said gravely. ‘And my halo is at the forge having the dents knocked out of it.’

  How could happiness be this simple? Adela felt she could burst with the delight of being with him as though they were two ordinary commoners. In the village of her childhood, there had been the natural curfew of nightfall; and she had never been out this late in London or Oxford because it would have earned her a beating from the watch, but tonight she could find delight instead of danger in the deepening shadows and savour the rare, wondrous feeling of being safe, protected like a treasure.

  The warm evening air was a silk pelisse about her shoulders and the light from the lanterns above each door was glinting on the cobbles and transforming the ugly gutters and ditches of the day into dark ribbons embroidered with dashes of golden thread. Above the gables and turrets, the sky was hesitating betwixt green and saffron as the sun slid away from the earth.

  ‘This is what I needed,’ Richart laughed, turning his face towards her with a deep breath of delight, his fingers teasing her palm. ‘A chance to be merry in the company of a beautiful woman.’ But he was delving deeper as he glanced down at her. ‘Is this a habit, Alys? Going among the common people?’

  ‘I have done it before,’ she answered guardedly.

  They continued walking. ‘When was that?’

  ‘When? Oh, Queen Isabella was lodging at the Tower, that’s the fortress that protects London. I went with friends up the river and into the city streets.’ She glanced shyly up at him. ‘This surely is nothing new for you, my lord?’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ he answered. ‘But I have been too busy of late.’

  ‘Then, please,’ she swung his arm like a happy child. ‘Please forget you are the vicomte for tonight. Imagine—imagine I am a servant wench from the castle, your sweetheart, and you are … My lord, what is it?’

  Richart slid a hand across his brow. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’ she echoed, her gaze searching his face with sincere concern. ‘That’s not true, Richart. Sometimes when you look at me, you seem …’

  He curled his arm about her waist and, drawing her in, kissed her. ‘Besotted, bewitched,’ he murmured against her throat and then, recollecting himself, he loosed her, keeping only her hand within his.

  She felt besotted herself. He might be flattering her, taming her for more adventurous caresses, as was his lawful right, but it was the small kindnesses, too, that mattered. Nor did he violently kick away the stray dogs that bounded up to challenge them like some men did.

  ‘Ah, by the way, I have some fresh news for you.’

  ‘For me, my lord?’

  ‘By carrier pigeon from my agent in Toulouse. A woman claiming to be your tiring woman has been found by a party of merchants. She says her name is Her—’

  ‘Herliva!’

  Adela’s heart sank. She should tell him the truth, but it would smash this evening of utter joy into shards. One night, was it too much to ask of Heaven?

  Richart watched her. Her lips had managed to smile even if the rest of her face was still considering. So like Alys. Sometimes he could almost hear the mill sails in her head clanking round. He had thought she would be overjoyed.

  ‘I’ll instruct my man to arrange an escort for your servant. She will miss our wedding, Alys, but—’

  ‘No! No, my lord.’ He stopped, saw her biting her lip like a small girl about to ask a favour. ‘To be frank, I … I did not enjoy her service, my lord. She was foisted upon me by a noble lady to whom I owed much favour. Herliva was … is … very bitter of tongue. I should prefer her to be sent back to England.’

  ‘Then it shall be so.’ He had no further interest in the matter. He hummed as they turned another corner, swinging her hand.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Hear that music?’

  She obediently cocked her head. Only a keen ear might discern pipes and tabors between the gusty whoops and whistles from a tavern further down the laneway. Upon its painted board, below whorls of fancy ironwork, glimmered a white lion.

  ‘There!’ he said cheerfully. ‘And will the noble lady deign to rub shoulders with horse thieves?’

  ‘Horse thieves, my lord?’

  ‘Of course, all horse dealers are thieves. Mirascon’s full of ’em tonight.’

  ‘Singing ones?’ She laughed. ‘Yes, so long as you protect me.’

  ‘Haven’t had a good brawl for a while.’ His face sobered. Perhaps he was a foolish dog to have agreed to this; any rogue could follow them into a packed tavern and stick a knife into his guts. ‘Just stay close!’

  A party of merchants was leaving the inn as they entered and he almost collided with Miró Barthé. His friend fortunately made no exclamation at either his disguise or the accompanying maidservant as they shook hands. ‘We have further business to arrange when the wedding is over,’ Richart said lightly, aware that Barthé’s companions were waiting for him.

  ‘I have not forgotten, my l—friend. Enjoy the entertainment!’

  ‘A discreet horse thief?’ teased Alys.

  He laughed. ‘More trustworthy than any brother.’

  Inside, the tavern’s main room was packed tighter than a barrel of herring and plenty of the customers smelled worse. Staying close to the door, and satisfied that no swinging lantern lit his face, he cuddled Alys back against him. She felt good, divine, the right height for his chin to rest against her cap (although he had rather it had been her hair) and her neat breasts nestled nicely upon his wrists. He could feel himself hardening against the folds of her skirt, but he resisted. Later, definitely later.

  His responsible mind set out immediately on a swift sortie around the faces, some familiar, some not. There could be spies from the north, here to estimate the city’s supplies, defences, garrison. Mind, any visiting chapman or cleric could have done that easily over the last months. He did note a fellow, standing next to the troubadour Ponç de Limoges, scanning the room as they conversed. A soberly clad man with a soldier’s scar and no instrument in his hand. For an instant, their stares coincided and then the stranger’s gaze slid past him. No matter! He was close enough to the street to get Alys out if there was a fistfight.

  Around them, the quaffing throng was swaying happily to the singing, exuberant in the choruses, but Richart tugged his hat brim lower before he shouted to one of the tapsters to bring ale for himself and a beaker of mead for Alys. Half a tankard later he felt the tension seeping out of his limbs as the rhythm of the music worked its charm. For a little space, he was no longer the lord of this city, just one of the people.

  Quite a number of troubadours and jongleurs were here. Likely, the more famous were protecting their voices for the morrow (Peire Cardinal would never be seen as a corpse in such a place let alone perform here), but there were those sufficient of talent, and clearly Alys was enjoying the music. It was amusing to see her gasp as Lisette de Minerve
moved into the candlelight. A troubaritz! He doubted his pretty northerner had witnessed such a marvel.

  He whistled loudly and although Lisette’s latest protector glared in his direction, he risked a whoop as well. He liked the woman both for her feisty spirit and her music. It was a year since she had visited his hall at Mirascon and she still wore her thick raven hair cascading freely over her shoulders; however, he could see the silver beginning to take over at her temples. A narrow scarlet cloth was tied about her head and her green kirtle was cut low over her bosom. That was holding up pretty well, too, considering her age. He whistled again.

  A rattle of timbrel hushed the audience and with a bright smile, the troubaritz hummed a few cadences to quieten them further, and knowing she had their full attention at last, she sang:

  Handsome lord, charming friend,

  Why do you not linger in my arms

  As the sky lightens beyond the rooftops?

  Need you arm? Oh stay, my lord, I pray,

  For just one dawn, the little time that Heaven lends,

  Tarry in my embrace and let us lie together

  Beyond sunrise.

  He had heard the song before; it was one of Lisette’s best, sung in the dusky, smoky voice that distinguished her so completely, yet now the words seemed to be enriched with deeper meaning. Holding Alys in his arms as he listened, he knew a yearning for a wife to be waiting for him when he strode into the great chamber, a lady who would laugh as she poured him a goblet of wine or smile with bliss as she rocked a cradle. He wanted it to be the woman whose scent he breathed now, whose skin he yearned to kiss. Yet tonight looking down at her homespun, the likeness to the dead servant was even more obvious and superstitious fear rasped its nail across his soul. No, this was Alys! Not the Alys of gossip, he yelled at his inner demons. The Alys in his arms tonight was perfect. By Heaven, he could list her attributes easily enough so why did uneasiness plague him like a splinter beneath his skin? Had she lain with King John?