by Tracey Warr
I explain their task to my scribes: that they will call in all the assessors who are holding the count’s inventory of rights in their heads and they will write them down. Bernadette’s assessment of Osmundus seems fair. He is anxious and clumsy. As soon as he came into my presence he swept a glass off a table with his habit and smashed it on the floor. He is non-plussed by my instructions and I see that Rostagnus will cover for Osmundus’ hopelessness and that he will do all the work.
‘So I see in Osmundus that the bishop has sent me one of his best men,’ I say sarcastically to Rostagnus. Osmundus himself is far too simple to understand my meaning and merely simpers at this. ‘But tell me Rostagnus, why has he sent you? What is wrong with you?’
He looks me in the eye. ‘You are very direct, my Lady. I believe that the bishop thinks I ask too many questions.’
‘Good,’ I say. ‘Are you from the city?’
‘Yes. I am the fourth son of Aimeric d’Escalquencs.’
‘Ah, yes, I met your father yesterday at the justice hearings. Welcome to my household, Rostagnus d’Escalquencs.’
‘It is not simply a task of one day, then, Na?’ (Na is what the people here call great ladies. It is short for domina. I am getting used to it but Bernadette refuses to use it. Sounds like a baby’s name she says.)
‘No, Rostagnus. It is not simply a task of one day. Before we begin work on the inventory I would like you to show me around the city.’
He looks alarmed.
‘We can wear hoods and simple clothes, and Dia can come with us,’ I add, in case he is afraid to be alone with me. ‘I know that if I ask a member of the court, they will only tell me what they want me to know. What you tell me will be the truth.’
He blushes but smiles with his eyes downcast.
‘I am curious to know about the people of the city. Will you show me around?’
‘On foot, Na Almodis?’
‘Yes, on foot, where I might see and talk to the citizens, and don’t worry about my safety either. I can look after myself,’ I say, lifting the fulsome hem of my sleeve to show him a dagger sheath strapped to my lower arm.
‘The cathedral, abbeys and priory, we don’t need to go there. I will visit them in my official capacity. This is a tour of what I might not otherwise see,’ I tell him.
‘Yes Na.’
From Chateau Narbonnais Rostagnus leads Dia and I left down towards the river and the mills near the Comminges Gate. Past Tournis Island in the middle of the river, we walk along the street of Joutx-Aigues, past the Jewish synagogue, and then up to the bridge that goes across to the area known as Saint Cyprien. ‘The leper-house lies in that direction,’ says Rostagnus. All along the water-front there is a mix of boatmen, stalls, fishermen and whores. A fat, naked woman darts past us, her flesh wobbling, her hands gripped to breast and private parts, her face in a shape of perfect distress, and a small crowd comes chasing after her.
‘What on earth is this Rostagnus?’
‘The woman is an adulterer, Na. It is the custom here, but a barbaric one I believe.’
‘Yes, although I have seen worse,’ I say, thinking of Geoffrey’s mother.
Outside a tavern a group of Genoese sailors are gathered. Rostagnus goes inside to get a jug of beer since we are parched with our explorations and Dia and I sit on a bench with our hoods pulled up.
‘And what about her former husband then? A sodomite I hear,’ one of the Genoese is saying. ‘Why else would any man let a woman like that countess slip through his fingers?’
I catch my breath, frowning at the lewd guffawing he has earnt himself, and feeling Dia’s eyes on me.
‘Her former husband could’ve just been paid off,’ another voice suggests. ‘The count needs an heir doesn’t he?’
‘No, no, I tell you. I’ve heard it from a reliable source. A friend of Ganymede’s!’
Rostagnus comes out of the tavern with a jug and I stand up quickly and move away, so that they have to run to catch up with me. I don’t want to hear any more of these spiteful rumours.
After the bridge, we pass the Daurade Abbey and then come to the Saracen Wall that used to enclose the city but now marks the entrance to the new expanding city area that is called the Bourg where weavers, finishers, candlemakers and wax merchants ply their trades. ‘Up along the river, in that direction,’ Rostagnus says, pointing, ‘above the Bourg is the Chateau du Bazacle and more mills.’ We pass through the Saracen Wall at the Portaria, the massive old Roman gate. We walk right, along the walls of the Abbey of Saint Sernin and down towards the Matabiau Gate, the Villeneuve Gate and then back through the Saracen Wall. Rostagnus points out the tower-houses and the fortified homes of the Toulouse nobility, including his father’s house near the Montgaillard Gate, and finally he brings us back round to the Mint that stands neighbour to Chateau Narbonnais. I am pleased to find Rostagnus an intelligent and lively guide. Another ally.
20
Bernadette: Thwarted Men
I’m hurrying as best I can across the slippery cobbles of the bailey, carrying a jug of water on my shoulder from the well, trying to get out of the chill morning air. I’ve barely closed the door behind me and started to feel the blood surge back painfully into my ears and fingertips when my mistress comes banging through the doors letting the cold in behind her.
‘There is much to do here Bernadette,’ she says with satisfaction. I hold out my hands quickly to the fire, hoping it isn’t me again who will have to do the much there is to do. ‘It seems to me there are three types of people: those who do things, those who try to stop the first doing things, and those who accept far too easily that nothing can be done.’
‘You’ll have the household running well in no time, my Lady,’ I begin.
‘I wasn’t speaking of a mere household,’ she declares, raising her brows at me as if I am a nincompoop. ‘I’m speaking of the county and the city. Pons is the most indolent in a long line of indolent lords.’
I gasp at her, frowning and glancing quickly around me.
‘There’s nobody here, Bernadette. You can stop your gasping.’
I think I see the tapestry at the far end of the hall move. It could have been a draught. I turn back to her. ‘What needs doing?’ I ask and instantly regret it. I’m exhausted long before she is partway through her list, counting up and down the joints of her fingers.
‘Pons has allowed the churches to fall into disrepair and his relations with the clergy are not good. The county, that should all be under my command (hers I notice, not his) has been parcelled out to countless minor families who now think they can act independently and need to know otherwise. The capitouls of the city have no regard for him and he takes no interest in their concerns. The young men of the court are bored because he is too lazy to hunt and too stupid to debate and compose.’
I hear a creak behind me. ‘My Lady,’ I yell trying to cover her words, ‘there is a great draught blowing at the back of the hall and I must see to it.’
‘Fine. There’s no need to shout.’ She looks at me confused.
Hurrying towards the end of the hall I hear the distinct thud of a door closing, concealed by the tapestry. Piers, most like.
My Lady has summoned the butler, the chamberlain and the vicar to her that she might hear the details of their management and make what changes she deems necessary. The vicar, Ranulf de Roiax, sends word that he is out of Toulouse, meeting with the Count of Rouergue and that he will attend Countess Almodis the following week. She returns his messenger telling him that he will conclude his current business and attend her the following day at the latest. It seems that the count’s household has had a very soft rein, or perhaps none at all, from Pons’ first wife, Majora. Everyone seems surprised at any rate at my Lady’s style though she is just doing what she did in Lusignan, on a bigger scale mind you. The butler, Gausbert, introduces her to all the servants, explaining their functions. We visit the kitchens where she charms the cooks and their assistants, demonstrating her knowledge o
f dariole and spiced wine.
We visit the women’s workshop where five young girls are under the instruction of an older woman, Elois, working vertical looms and five more girls are spinning and three are preparing dyes. They make wool, linen and silk, Elois, tells us and Lady Almodis is pleased with the quality of their work.
‘I will need cloaks, belts and robes to distribute at the Autumn Assembly,’ she says. ‘What do you have already made up?’
Elois shows her two chests with completed items neatly folded.
‘Good,’ says Almodis, ‘but we will need twenty chests not two in six months time.’
The girls didn’t stop their work when we entered although they stopped their chatter. The looms clacked and the thread twanged and the spindles jumped rhythmically. They are all listening intently to my Lady’s words and one or two gasp aloud when she says ‘twenty’. Elois opens her mouth. ‘Of course,’ Almodis preempts her, ‘you cannot achieve that with so few weavers and spinners. You must have more workers and we will expand the work area threefold. I will send the chamberlain to plan this with you. The count and I are also in need of some items as quick as you can.’
Elois nods and picks up a tablet and stylus.
‘You write, Elois?’
‘Oh no Lady,’ she chuckles, ‘but I have my own way of making a tally.’ I watch curious as she makes simple drawings of the items my Lady orders: two cloaks for herself, one blue silk for summer, and one scarlet wool for winter; one new dress, yellow; then a new wool cloak, green for Pons; a new tunic, red brocade; and two new hose. Elois draws the basic shape of the items on her tablet and makes a mark to indicate the number of each and an X to show it is for a woman and a + if it is for a man and then some symbols that I suppose represent the colours and the materials. She sees me looking over her shoulder and leads us to the dyeing area where the mordants and other materials are laid out in small containers with the symbols chalked on their sides.
‘See I take the symbols of the colours and so on from here.’
‘This is excellent, Elois. When will the workshop move out into the open?’ Almodis asks.
‘Well we don’t usually do that, my Lady,’ Elois says looking worried. ‘Count Pons didn’t want it.’
‘Then how can you use the long light of summer? You will either do much less work than you could, or the girls will ruin their eyes working by candlelight, and candles are expensive. The girls need fresh air and they need the inspiration of the blue sky, the yellow flower and the buzzard soaring overhead, when they can get it. I will speak with the chamberlain to arrange this too. Next month will be warm and the days lengthening. He will organise an enclosed courtyard with a canopy for all of you and the new workers to move to when the weather is fine,’ says Almodis with complete decision. Elois looks surprised but pleased and the workers are grinning too. They spend twelve hours, six days a week, labouring in here all year long, and it must feel like a dungeon in the summer months. They are cooped up with the odours and heat of the dyeing process. One of the dyers is so delighted with the prospect that she claps her hands and begins singing a cheerful working song that makes my mistress smile. I see that the dyer’s fingernails are coloured a kind of motley purple-pink-blue that will never wash out.
‘When do you shear the sheep and pick the flax?’ Almodis asks. So she went on all day long, finding out the details of the household, and had to send word to the chamberlain that she was delayed and would see him the following day.
On the following day there is still no sign of the vicar and, with a great frown on her face, Almodis sends Piers to find out his whereabouts. She has another full day’s work with the chamberlain, Arnaldus Maurandis. Arnaldus is a big muscly man, more than six foot with a bushy blond beard. He wears a sleeveless surcoat with the red and gold badge of Toulouse, the Occitan Cross, on top of his white undershirt and brown wool trousers. Lady Almodis seems happy with his arrangements, making small adjustments here and there. I can see that she likes him. He introduces us to his son, Gilbert, who is training with his father.
‘Let me see the count’s treasury now,’ says Almodis.
I notice some unease creep into Arnaldus’ expression. ‘The count,’ he says, hesitantly, ‘is fond of his treasury room.’
‘Room?’ echoes Almodis. ‘I was expecting a strongbox.’ She turns to me raising her expressive light brown eyebrows. ‘Well, take me to it.’
So we traipse off to a room with two armed guards outside who usher us in and I gasp out loud. It’s like a treasure trove from a story: gold and jewels glittering in piles, on shelves, in chests set everywhere about the room. Arnaldus is looking uneasily at me.
‘Don’t worry, Arnaldus,’ smiles Almodis. ‘Bernadette is no thief. She wouldn’t know what to do with such a hoard.’ I giggle but actually I do have some ideas.
Almodis paces round the room, picking up a golden goblet, a silver reliquary, studying them and putting them back. ‘Some excellent craftsmanship, that should see the light of day,’ she says. Arnaldus bows in acquiescence. ‘And so much of it.’
‘The count has accumulated a goodly pile, yes, from taxes and gifts.’
‘Then he must spend nothing and give nothing.’
Arnaldus remains silent with his eyes on the ground. Almodis nods to herself twice and slowly. ‘Take an inventory, Arnaldus. I will spend the count’s treasure but it will return four-fold and the inventory will show that. Very well,’ she says eventually, ‘I thank you Arnaldus,’ and we leave the room, which is a relief in truth. The glare of all those riches was hurting my eyes and being in its presence made my mouth go dry. When we shut the door it was like closing up the sun in a dungeon. I thought I could see a yellow shine coming through the gaps around the door.
‘I am pleased with your work, Arnaldus,’ she tells him, giving him a gift of a ring from her own chest as a token of their new partnership, ‘and you too, Gilbert,’ she says, holding out a golden saucer brooch of Norse design to him, that is finely wrought in the sinuous shape of a dragon. Gilbert stands with his mouth open, not responding to her outstretched arm for some time, before coming to his senses and taking the brooch with both hands.
‘Oh Lady, thank you,’ he stutters. Gift-giving is obviously not a common occurrence in this household.
When Arnaldus and Gilbert have returned to their duties, Piers comes in to tell Almodis that the vicar has at last been heard of at the chateau of Ambialet near Albi. ‘He is making his way back to attend you, I suppose,’ says Piers.
‘It is a day’s ride from the castle of Rouergue, if he had come directly when I ordered,’ she says. Piers says nothing but I have no doubt that she is right. ‘As soon as he arrives, Piers, I want him sent to await me in the Great Hall. Straight from his horse, you understand?’
‘Yes, Lady.’
‘He is to have no fire. If the hearth is lit when he arrives, douse it.’ Piers and I both look at her in surprise. ‘Give him no wine and no bread. Do not invite him to sit. Draw no hot bath for him to wash away the dust of the road.’
‘Yes Lady.’ Piers voice and face are neutral, but I can imagine what he is thinking of her orders.
‘Send word to me of his presence and keep him waiting there, in that condition, until it pleases me to give him audience.’ Piers bows, glances at me and leaves. Well I hope that vicar might hurry now because he is already going to be standing, waiting for her for one whole day and the hall will get mighty chilly for all of us.
The vicar arrived this morning and Piers has carried out his instructions. The man has stood, fasting and parched, in his riding clothes, soaked with sweat for nigh on ten hours now. Almodis went out hunting for the day and dined out at a bower in the forest, so that she arrives back late and stalks into the hall with me running at her heels. She doesn’t glance at the man, who mutters ‘my Lady’ as we pass and sinks to one knee. She climbs onto the dais and sits in the great carved chair and regards him in silence. After a while he looks up at her and shifts his weigh
t, uncomfortably on his knee. She has given him no command to rise. Piers stands in the corner looking chilled to the bone himself.
Eventually, ‘Get up’, she says curtly, and the vicar rises with a look of great anxiety on his face. He is a stocky man with a big belly pushing at his leather tunic and threads of grey in his hair. ‘Well?’ she says.
‘My Lady, I am Ranulf de Roaix, the count’s vicar. Forgive my delay in arriving, Lady. I had business to conduct on the road here.’ Despite the cold, he is sweating and I can smell him from here.
‘I cannot forgive de Roaix,’ she says, her voice loud in the frigid hall. ‘You should have been here last morning. You are a day late. Whatever business you had, was it more important than the duty you owe to me?’
‘No, Lady,’ Ranulf stutters, surprise, anxiety and suppressed anger, all crossing his face plainly in quick waves. ‘I offer my heartfelt apologies,’ he says tentatively. Good, good, I think, but sound and look much more apologetic than that. Recognition is dawning on him that it might be his post, and not just his bath and wine that he will be deprived of here.
‘I am sorry,’ he says, sinking to his knees again. She lets him wallow there a while longer. My teeth are chattering and I hug my arms around myself. She must be cold too. She has flung off her floor length fur cloak and is sitting there in a dress of gold silk but she does not show that she is cold.
‘Get off the floor, de Roaix. Bernadette, fetch wine and bread.’ She looks at the hearth. ‘It’s too late for a fire tonight. Sit here for a moment Ranulf and tell me of the business that kept you on the road, then my maid will order a bath for you. Tomorrow you will attend me promptly in my chamber at daybreak to give me a full accounting of your work as my vicar. Bring your record books with you.’
Ranulf sits across from her and wolfs down the wine and bread I place before him. I admire her ability not to wrinkle her nose at his stink and the sound of his chewing. His mouth is occupied with that great work but his eyes are fixed wide on my Lady over the rim of his goblet. ‘The Countess Majora did not …’ he begins.