Troubadour

by Isolde Martyn

  ‘But you didn’t, and the real Alys would still have been slain by outlaws. God clearly meant this to be.’

  ‘I’ll not believe that.’ She stared back at him across her shoulder. ‘This is now the Devil’s work and he is at your elbow.’

  He glanced from side to side. ‘I see no one.’ Then tossing back his oversleeves, he sat down upon his chair and flicked a dismissive finger. ‘Now, you may go. Send in Derwent on your way out and, ah yes, where is your fellow conspirator, the other servant you arrived with?’

  ‘Ah yes,’ she mimicked, ‘the one who had the sense to leave? I truly do not know, my noble lord.’ Her sarcasm lent a brief pleasure. If she was to continue playing Alys, she had some little power still. ‘I expect she is struggling to find her way back to England. Why?’

  He glared at her for the insolent question. ‘Because, Lady Alys, we need to secure up all the loose ends in this tapestry of lies that you have stitched. Now send in the dwarf!’

  He collapsed onto the lord’s chair and buried his face in his hands. He had seen she hated him now. Good! It made it easier to resist her. His conscience did not like what he was doing, but there seemed no other way.

  The knock halfway down the door meant either a pageboy or Derwent. Given bidding, the dwarf hurtled in, snatched off his cap and cast himself on all fours so violently that his nose just missed the front of Richart’s shoe beaks.

  ‘Oh, get up, you wastrel.’

  ‘I’d rather not,’ squeaked the dwarf’s muffled voice.

  ‘I am not holding a conversation with a footstool.’

  ‘Oh,’ declared the little man, straightening to kneeling and fastidiously tugging his tunic straight. ‘If it’s a conversation not a tirade, perhaps I can manage a higher position.’

  ‘You’re a loose end,’ observed Richart, sitting back and steepling his fingertips. ‘No wonder “Lady Alys” swooned at seeing you.’ It was an observation not an insult. Up on the beams, only a cricket rasped a response. He waited, ratcheting up the small man’s fear, watching the stubby hands writhing in the folds of his cap. ‘Knowledge can be either a kind master or a dangerous mistress, Derwent.’

  Sweat sheened the dwarf’s forehead. The knobbly bone of his throat betrayed nervous swallowing. ‘My lord, I swear to you I had never in my life met Lady Alys until this week. At first, I thought her resemblance to Adela was just a coincidence. Like everyone at Corfe, I was told the hunting dogs had torn her to pieces.’

  The unexpected honesty surprised him. ‘Why did you not come to me when you realised?’ Because without my wealth, you might very well starve? his expression challenged.

  Derwent did not answer straightaway, but the whisper of words, when they came softly, bruised Richart’s hearing, slid through his skin and up into his mind like a sharpened, lethal spike.

  ‘Because Adela has a beautiful soul.’

  Appalled, Richart dragged his gaze from the dwarf’s seemingly innocent eyes and took a deep breath. ‘A heretic may be a “good man” but he is still a heretic. She disobeyed the rules, Derwent.’

  ‘Rules, my lord? By my very soul, I will swear she ever desired to tell you the truth.’

  ‘But she didn’t, curse it! Even she will not deny she liked the silk against her skin, the shine of gold upon her fingers and a lord in her embrace.’

  The dwarf hung his head, his mouth a tight line of sorrow.

  ‘And now tomorrow comes,’ Richart added heavily.

  ‘Oh, please do not kill her,’ the dwarf pleaded, sinking back on his ankles, his face desperate.

  ‘What? Kill Lady Alys?’ He watched the man’s lips become a drawskin of astonishment, the wretch’s fingers brush an invisible cross of thanks across the pied breast. Then abruptly Richart leaned forward and grabbed the neck of Derwent’s tunic. ‘But if you blab one word of this to any living soul, Adela will die. You have my word on it.’

  With a quiver, the mouth before him closed. Another hesitant swallow, then, ‘I would never wish her death.’

  ‘Good, we understand each other. You may go.’

  The dwarf scrambled back and clambered to his feet. Amazement was still slackening his jaw. He bowed his way backwards to the door and from the safer distance suggested, ‘It would be easier just to wind a wire about my throat and pull. Not that I wish to put the idea into your head, of course.’

  Richart swivelled to pour himself some cider from the flagon at his elbow. ‘Yes, a sharp blade would do as well or a shove on the stairs.’ He kept his eyes cold as he once more looked towards the dwarf; fear was a great enforcer. ‘However, I need you at the feast tomorrow, Derwent, or my lady of Foix will be so disappointed.’

  The dwarf wet his lips nervously. ‘Oh, well, we can’t have that.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Richart, bestowing a tight smile. ‘Consider our conversation over, would you?’

  ‘Certainly, thank you, my lord.’ The small man bowed again and left.

  Alone, Richart flung the mazer at the arms of Mirascon. It missed.

  Chapter Eighteen

  And, though very guilty, I am, as you know, very innocent. For it is not the deed itself but the intention that makes the crime … And in what frame of mind I have always been to you, only you, who know this, can judge.

  Héloïse to Abelard

  ‘Ma domna.’ The window shutters were flung open. Her wedding day and all her young attendants were cheeping excitedly.

  ‘Let me be a while yet, I had so little sleep last night,’ Adela pleaded. Her wrist was making a poor task of keeping the light from her eyes.

  ‘We do not think you will get much sleep tonight either, ma domna,’ giggled the eldest.

  ‘Madame, please.’ That was Lady Marie’s voice. ‘Arraying you in your finery and dressing your hair will take a great deal of time.’

  Adela had no heart in the women’s delight as they began to adorn her. She felt tricked up in her finery like some brainless doll, waiting for her limbs to be moved this way and that by her indifferent owner. The chaplet of golden flowers meant nothing, nor did the jewels stitched into the stiff neckline of her blue bliaut or the costly ermine edging her pelisse. And though she was surrounded by attendants, she had never felt so alone. She had dared to challenge the hierarchy ordained by God, and now the Almighty was wreaking justice by turning her dream into a perpetual torment.

  ‘My dear!’ Lady Blanche drew her aside as the demoiselles hastily put on their own finery. ‘I trust this will not anger you, Alys, but Esclarmonde, Marie and a few of the young ones will not be coming with you to the cathedral and we hope you will forgive us.’

  Another blow. She felt like weeping. The pope wanted to burn people like these.

  ‘I understand. “Good Women”, aren’t you?’ Kinder than saying ‘heretic’.

  For an instant, Lady Blanche hesitated. ‘Yes, yes we are. Maybe one day you will join us, dearest. My lady of Foix will attend your nuptial vows, but she will not partake of the mass. I hope you will forgive her that. She is one of us, too. Perhaps someday soon we can explain to you what we feel is wrong with the practices of the traditional faith.’

  All these great ladies ‘Perfects’? And their menfolk did not forbid them?

  ‘Madame.’ Lady Marie came across and curtsied. ‘Lady Blanche and I will leave you with your maidens now but you will be in our thoughts.’ Sincerity lit her face. ‘We wish you all happiness.’

  ‘Yes, go forth to my grandson and may God bless you and keep you, dearest.’ Lady Blanche kissed her on each cheek in Gallic fashion and then wondered why Alys burst into tears and wept her heart out in her arms.

  ‘You look very pale, madame.’ The snide observation came from Lady Yolande as she followed Adela down the stairs to the chapel, where Father Arbert was waiting to hear confession, but only God himself could give her absolution for the falsehood she was about to commit. Richart had given her no choice. This would be a marriage in purgatory. She would be taken to his bed for the seeding of sons; ther
e would be no kindness, no loving words, no heat of passion, and if her body failed to bear fruit, she would be walled up in a religious house.

  She reached the bottom step.

  Why didn’t Yolande push me? But there’s no need, is there? He is all hers now.

  His expensive horse was enjoying the ride to the cathedral more than he was. Astride the scarlet leather saddle and the sumptuous saddlecloth that had been a gift from the King of Aragon, the Lord of Mirascon would have described himself as irritable, hot and overdressed. Both horse and bridegroom were caparisoned to awe the watching populace. Medallions jingled on the haughty stallion’s breast collar, sheened brass flashed on the girth buckles, and the ebony mane and tail had been brushed a hundred times beneath the head groom’s daunting glare. But its rider felt choked by the narrow gorget of scarlet cendal that embraced his shoulders. And far too glittery. Gems gleamed in the fretwork band that edged his neck and wrists, embroidered gloves were tucked beneath his gold-leafed belt, a ruby ring adorned his right hand and a princely circlet sat upon his freshly trimmed hair, burning against his forehead. Within his mind was anarchy; and betrayal had turned his heart to lead. His ears heard the fanfares, the pealing bells and the cheers of his people; his sight beheld the hundreds of faces on roofs, balconies and tree limbs, at window casements, or perching on upturned barrows and crates; and the hand that rose to acknowledge them might have been worked by wire.

  Despite the staves clasped horizontal at the soldiers’ waists, the crowd bulged forwards as Richart dismounted and the town worthies, with their barbered beards and Sunday tunics, formed a living passageway that closed behind him as he strode towards the cathedral steps, making retreat impossible. The two separated doors of the cathedral stood open as though free will was still within his grasp. Should he reconsider? The tiered sculpture of Judgement Day above that vast portal with its damned souls and complacent apostles was sending a stony warning to his soul. Per Crist! Was he not doing this for Mirascon? Although he urged his gaze up to the throned Saviour and sent a prayer beseeching Christ’s compassion, the carving of Hell drew his mind again.

  Below that ugly scene of torture waited his uncle like some admonitory prophet, flanked by his officers and grasping the crozier with a St-John-the-Baptist fervour. The absence of welcome in Seguinus’s eyes rekindled Richart back to full rebellion as he stepped up to kneel and kiss the episcopal ring.

  Gold was omnipresent on his uncle’s person: in the wide band that depressed the centre of his mitre, in the fringed, cascading lappets and the orphreys that decorated the cuffs of his alb. It shone within the cross that dominated his stola and even his snowy gloves and shoes were ornamented with gleaming threads, wreathed with the precious metal. Only the blue cassock was of humble cloth, but little of it showed beneath the jewel-encrusted cope.

  As Richart arrogantly rose to his feet, rivalry seethed between them. He turned, greeting the noblest of his wedding guests who were gathered on the steps. Now it was a matter of waiting for his false bride. The public oath-taking would not take long and then mass inside the cathedral.

  He had already considered playing with the Latin of the vow. If he said ‘I will take you’, it would be far less binding than ‘I do take you’ and any church lawyer might argue that it did not show acceptance on his part, but with my lord of Foix and the comtesses present as witnesses, let alone the clergy and consuls standing close, it would be remarked upon.

  Once the vows were made, every bell in Mirascon would give tongue. They would ride back together through a tempest of blossoms. Yesterday he had imagined the flower petals in Alys’s hair, her thighs touching his as she rode within his arms; today he had given orders that she would ride at his stirrup. The white mare, one of his many errors of judgement, stood ready, tossing her head impatiently.

  Listening for the rattle of the women’s chariot wheels, he felt like a morsel in the Devil’s cauldron after the demons had tossed on another log. The waiting horses fidgeted on their leading reins, the wedding guests and attendants looked round for nearby shade and the sweating altar boys grew weary of swinging the incense burners. Behind the crossed spears, the hubbub of the crowd hushed to whispers that hissed and bubbled past the gabled houses flanking the square and down the streets and alleys of the town until it seemed the entire city was lulled into an uneasy silence. A baby wailed and was comforted.

  ‘Where be the bride, then?’ shouted some churl, secure in the depths of the crowd. One of the soldiers staggered as a jag of crowd surged against him.

  At Richart’s nod, Henri made a patrol along the edgy pikemen and Jaufré left off exchanging spicy glances with a wench in an upper window, and sauntered through the clump of town consuls and their wives to issue rations of reassurance that no one would have their finery pelted.

  Time limped by pitifully like a one-legged beggar. The bells slowed, then the ropes in the cathedral tower were swung no more and the clappers stilled. The thumbprint of jackdaws high above the cathedral swooped down upon the silent pinnacles as though God himself had jabbed an ending to this excess of human show—and to the alliance!

  She was not coming.

  Richart’s entourage, with tightening of lips and lift of eyebrows, exchanged silent questions. Tibaut, hands behind his back, cleared his throat. ‘I heard of a circumstance like this in Italia where fifty people were trampled in one of the old Roman hippodromes because there was only one way out. Now if they had deployed—’

  Richart’s growl was swift. ‘Not now, Tib!’

  Jaufré was once more at his elbow. ‘I will ride back, brother. Perhaps the chariot axle has broken beneath all that jewellery, or Yolande has hacked through one of the wheels.’

  ‘No, I’ll go,’ argued Tibaut. With a stalwart salute, he hastened down the steps, waving for his horse to be brought to him.

  The Comte de Foix, complaining of his painful hip, excused himself to seek the base of a colonnade within the cathedral; his wife and her attendants followed. Montélimar, muttering something about pissing, disappeared to relieve himself around the corner between the buttresses, and Seguinus handed his mitre to one of his clerics while he searched for a cloth to mop his tonsure.

  Leonor left off fanning her glistening cheeks, and came across to take Richart’s arm. ‘Into the cathedral,’ she urged, drawing him with her. ‘She’s not coming, is she?’

  ‘Wait!’ He could hear the shouts.

  * * *

  ‘I thought you would not come.’

  If the silvery gauze veil had not been halfway down her cheeks to hide eyes, red-rimmed from weeping, Adela might have discerned whether the splendidly clad man leading her up the steps was truly concerned.

  ‘I can hear the disappointment,’ she muttered.

  ‘No, you cannot,’ he answered. ‘What delayed you?’

  ‘Your mistress spewed up over the chariot cushions and we had to go back.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Frumenty, I think,’ she answered pedantically. ‘Unwise to sup it when you’re jealous.’

  He drew her round on the penultimate step to wave to the crowd and leaned close. ‘You look beautiful … for a hairbraider.’ The insult belittled the blue silk that clung to her body, the loosened tresses, the chaplet threaded with strings of pearls that crowned her veil and the jewels that shone against her throat, yet she had felt him look at her and knew she still had some weaponry left. It revived the tiny flame of hope that, given time, they might once more trust each other.

  ‘Enough,’ he muttered, tugging her away from the cheers. Perhaps he had felt the quiver of nerves through her fingers. ‘Let’s be done with this. Kiss my uncle’s ring, then it’s vows, ring, blessing and we go inside, prostrate ourselves before the altar and they hold some white cloth over us.’

  ‘Why?’ She hid her gratitude for the concise instructions.

  ‘How in Hell do I know? A cover for liars?’

  Two days ago she might have exacted a compassionate, loving smile or
earned a teasing wait-until-later look. At least Richart was speaking to her, she thanked St Wita with gratitude, as she briefly knelt before Seguinus.

  A stone Satan was watching her gleefully from above the portal and somewhere, invisible and omnipresent, the real Devil was laughing, with a palliasse in Hell reserved for her—and for Richart, who hated her now. All this was so wrong, contrary to Divine order. Oh, she had played Eve to this highborn Adam, but he did not have to wed her. What cruel mischief had she done to this great lord to turn him into a liar as false as she?

  With dread, she watched him place the wedding ring on the open prayer book in his uncle’s hands.

  ‘Ego te—’

  ‘STOP!’ shrieked a voice and a familiar, scrawny reed of a woman broke through the crescent of consuls. ‘She is an imposter! She killed Alys FitzPoyntz!’

  Herliva!

  Richart took one look at Jaufré’s jubilant face.

  ‘Swoon!’ he growled at his false bride. ‘Now!’

  She felt delicious in his arms. Her lips were parted and the peaks of her breasts were taut, irresistible, beneath the tightness of the silken kirtle. He dismissed the lust. And the burning desire to break his brother’s teeth. ‘Open the doors!’

  Two of the priests rushed to the ring handles.

  ‘Into the cathedral!’ Leonor was saying needlessly, her gloved hand urgent at his elbow.

  The cool shadows should have been a blessing, a chance to reorder his thoughts, decide what must be done, but the wedding guests were surging in. Up within the chancel, a scurry of monks began a plainsong for the nuptial mass.

  ‘There must be a robing room somewhere,’ exclaimed Leonor, hurrying to keep pace with him as he strode up the nave.

  ‘This way!’ Seguinus overtook them, behaving like an ally for once. Somewhere below the rose window of the west transept a door was opened, and it was like Judgement Day for the sheep and goats; his uncle let in the golden-fleeced and shut the door against the rest—except the she-goat who had accused Adela.