by Tracey Warr
‘I, Almodis of La Marche, Countess of Toulouse, daughter of Amelie, Countess, hereby break my oath to Pons, Count of Toulouse, son of Emma, Countess.’ She breaks the straw in two and throws the pieces on the fire where they fizzle fast. She turns her back, her poor bruised back, on us and on the flames and stalks naked to the window.
‘Leave,’ she says without turning to us, and Dia takes my hand and leads me from the room.
Later, I stand quaking, hidden in the recess in the passage, listening to Pons shouting at her bedroom door. Dia has barred the door against him and he is threatening to slit Dia’s tongue and ‘silence her hysterical poetry’ if she does not open up, but she does not.
A few days later the count and countess are breaking fast and I am serving them. Her eye is an unsightly green and yellow. The air between them is frigid.
‘I’ve taken over one of your servants my dear. I hope you don’t mind it,’ Pons says casually.
‘One of mine?’
‘Yes, he seems a capable man. Not adequately challenged I thought and I needed a new vicar in Saint Gilles.’
‘You have appointed a new vicar without consulting me?’ She sets her fork down. ‘Who?’
‘Piers Fitzmarche.’
‘Piers who?’ she splutters.
‘Your half-brother he tells me. I thought you would like to see him given preference.’
She is on her feet, shouting. ‘My father never acknowledged him. He has absolutely no right to use that name. I forbid it.’ She is red in the face.
‘Calm yourself, calm yourself,’ he pulls her back down to the bench. ‘Alright I won’t allow the use of that name. We’ll find him another name, but he is Vicar of Saint Gilles.’
‘He is my servant.’
‘Not anymore,’ Pons yells, thumping the table so that a bowl bounces off, smashing on the tiles. As I bend with a brush to collect up the shards, I hear Pons tell her in a low and threatening voice, ‘Be silent woman. I will not be gainsayed in public.’
She is breathing through her nose, her chest heaving with the effort to control her temper. What shall I do if he threatens her with violence again? Will I have the bravery to intervene? I grip the handle of the broom ready to make a swipe.
‘Of course I am delighted for him,’ she says at length, ‘and for you to have been so clever to appoint yourself such a talented servant. How good of you,’ she says munificently but the graciousness in her voice drips with insincerity.
‘It is well, Almodis,’ Dia tells her later in the chamber. ‘Piers will be out of your way. Unable to spy on you more.’
‘At least we knew who the spy was. Did you know of this Bernadette?’
‘No,’ I say truthfully. ‘He never said. Vicar of Saint Gilles! All puffed up he’ll be. He’ll be after one of the daughters of the Saint Gilles’ Capitouls now, clawing his way up and he’ll not be short of noblewomen who would bed him either.’
‘Why is it that you object so to the preferment of Piers?’ Dia asks her.
I often wondered that myself. Why does she care so much to keep him down? All over some scars on her knuckles? Her reasons sound lame: ‘He laughed at me when we were children. He scoffed at my notions of a female lord. Have I not proven him wrong!’
‘Yes, of course you have,’ Dia tells her.
‘You’ll be needing a new marshal now,’ I say.
‘You must not make more of an enemy of him, Almodis, now that he is so placed,’ says Dia firmly.
‘Must! I must do what I deem politic,’ she says crossly.
Later climbing into bed she says to me, ‘When we returned from being hostages in Aquitaine, my father looked and looked on Piers and hardly looked at all on me.’
‘That’s not true, my Lady! Your father doted on you. Perhaps he was trying to find his likeness there.’
‘And not finding it,’ she says stubbornly. ‘My father was just. He would have acknowledged a bastard if Piers were one of his. He did not.’
‘Well he is out of your way now.’
‘Perhaps, but likely not. He is out of your way now too, Bernadette?’ she says stroking my hair and looking a question in my face.
‘Good riddance, his promises are as much as the wind can carry,’ I say, keeping my face unemotional. Perhaps I’ve been learning my lessons from her.
28
Midsummer 1052
Garsenda and Berenger have invited me to visit with them in Narbonne. The guestroom I have been conveyed to is bright with sunlight. From my window the glittering sea in the distance fills my eye, and just below the window, trees with purple-and lime-coloured leaves provide a brilliant contrast. Garsenda comes to accompany me to dinner. She links her arm in mine and, as we approach the hall, she says, ‘We have a surprise for you’. I raise my eyebrows and guess at some troubadour I have not heard before, or an extravagant dinner dish. We are half-way up the hall before I look up to smile greeting at Berenger, sitting on the dais, and see that Ramon is sitting there, next to him. I stay as calm as I can, taking my seat, smiling.
‘I believe you know Count Ramon,’ says Berenger.
‘I did not know you were in the county, Lord Ramon.’
‘Ah well,’ he says lightly, ‘Narbonne is of course, part of my county, and not yours. I am on my way to Rome.’
‘A pilgrimage?’
‘Of sorts, yes, but more politics than penance, I fear.’
Archbishop Guifred is also here. Berenger has often complained to me of him, telling me that he has scribes forging documents day and night to gradually reduce the viscount’s holdings and increase his own. The archbishop is the third son of the Count of Cerdanya, and Ramon was warring with his brother until recently. Berenger complains that he stripped the cathedral of all its valuables to buy the bishopric of Urgell for one of his brothers and that he takes tolls that rightly belong to the viscount. ‘I begged the pope to take him to Rome in chains and punish him, without success,’ Berenger told me. I am intrigued to meet this epitome of wickedness. The archbishop is a handsome man in his fifties, richly dressed and bejewelled. His hair is a thick mixture of grey and brown. He has a haughty military bearing that reminds me of Geoffrey. His powerful kin are counts and bishops in four or five counties and his father brought the archbishopric for him when he was ten years old for the fabled sum of 100,000 solidi. He carries a crozier of the utmost ostentation: the head is mounted on a polished wooden rod and is lavishly embellished with gold, silver, enamels and rock crystals, fashioned in the shapes of vine leaves and lizards. ‘Mosan metalwork from the Meuse Valley,’ he tells me, when he sees me looking at it. Between us all then, I prepare myself for an evening of hypocrisy.
The dinner passes off with small talk and music. I resist the urge to drink copiously. Inevitably there comes a moment when Berenger says, ‘And so, Blanca of Castile, Ramon? Will you take your new countess with you on your return?’
I feel the bench shudder as Ramon’s shifts uneasily at that and he tries, unsuccessfully, to catch my eye. ‘I do not believe so,’ he says eventually.
‘No?’ says Garsenda in mild surprise.
‘The … the wedding,’ he fumbles, and is usually so smooth, ‘will not take place this year.’
‘But Ramon,’ Garsenda is in full surprise now, ‘you have been a widower for two years. You must be in urgent need of a wife,’ she pauses archly, ‘to take care of your son, to manage the affairs of your court. You could send her here to us, and then meet her on your way back from Rome.’
‘No,’ he says forcefully. ‘I have other arrangements in hand. But thank you,’ he adds, realising he has offended Garsenda.
I decide, at length, to rescue him from his discomfort. ‘Is your grandmother well, my Lord?’ I say and he turns to me. I hold his gaze steadily.
‘Unfortunately, she is,’ he says, smiling wryly.
‘Ramon!’ exclaims Garsenda, but we are all laughing.
‘Barcelona not big enough for the both of you, eh?’ says Berenger. ‘An exc
ess of rule, between you?’
‘Hmm,’ says Ramon, good-humoured, but glancing occasionally at me, not forgetting the conversation about Blanca, that I have just diverted. ‘Countess Ermessende has Girona and Vic and I hope that will be enough for her powers, now she is nearing seventy-five. She is rebuilding the cathedral in Girona.’
‘Oh,’ groans Berenger, ‘let us not speak of cathedral building. It seems that ours will never be finished and we must live with stone dust until we die of it. My food tastes of it and my wine.’
‘Lady Almodis,’ says the archbishop, licking his fingers, ‘Now that we have finished supping on the delights of Lady Garsenda’s table, the dew of heaven and the fat of the earth, won’t you allow me to give you a tour of this dusty cathedral that is so interfering with the viscount’s digestion?’
It would be difficult to refuse such an invitation so I rise and go with Guifred into the half-built edifice. The workmen are packing up their tools and leaving as we go in. A man goes past us with a squeaking wheelbarrow and touches his cap to the archbishop. The central nave is completed and magnificent. I stand in front of the altar admiring it.
‘Do you need to give confession?’ asks Guifred, taking my hand and stroking it in a decidedly unclerical manner.
‘No …’ I begin, surprised.
He raises my hand to his lips, saying, ‘No, a lady such as yourself, so very beautiful, must not describe her sins in too much detail for fear of tempting a priest, even an archbishop.’
I pull my hand from his grasp, look at him, at the crucifix above the altar, and back to him in contempt. What is written of how high clerics throw what is holy to the dogs; fatten on the sweat of others; devour the fruits of the earth without charge; is true then. I turn away.
‘One moment, Lady Almodis,’ he says, ‘before you leave me standing at the altar, I have some information that you need to know. Let’s sit,’ he says, leading me to a pew. ‘It concerns your husband, Count Pons.’
‘What of him?’
‘He is planning to repudiate you, my dear.’ When I do not respond, he goes on, ‘Ah, and you already thought so, eh? Such an act would have to have religious sanction of course. Sanction from the highest cleric in the domain.’ He nods, raising his eyebrows at me. ‘I don’t ask for much, Almodis. In return for my refusal to your husband, won’t you give me your consent, for one night only?’
I rise in disgust. I cannot even voice an answer to such sacrilege and blackmail. I stride down the aisle and hear him laughing softly behind me.
Archbishop Guifred does not return to the viscount’s palace and the next day’s hunting and dining passes pleasantly enough. At dinner I am wearing my new blue gown and the earrings and necklace that Hugh gave me for my dowry, so long ago.
‘Oh, beautiful!’ exclaims Garsenda. ‘Where did you get them?’
‘From an admirer!’ I say laughing, but this is the first time I have worn them since I left Lusignan, the first time I could bear to raise the lid on them. After dinner, I excuse myself and make my way up the staircase to my chamber. I cannot blame Berenger and Garsenda for this encounter with Ramon. They were not to know how it would embarrass us both. I suppose that Ramon only found out that I was here or coming when he could do nothing about it. It is the obvious place for him to stop on the way to Rome. I pass into a narrow passageway leading to my room. There is only a stub of a candle on the wall and it falters and goes out with the breeze of my passing. I should have carried a light with me. I put my hand to the cold stone to steady myself in the darkness and continue forward.
‘Almodis!’ Ramon comes up behind me so fast, taking my arm, that I am just turning with surprise at the sound of his running footsteps when he is already arrived. I open my mouth to speak but he crushes me to him and his mouth is on mine, my back against the wall. I am so surprised that it takes me too long to react. I am already losing myself in this kiss. The sweet scent of him. His hands are in my hair, pulling at the shoulder of my gown, on my breast. I place my palms flat against the wall at my sides, allowing his body to push against mine, feeling the jutting stones of the wall against my shoulders.
I raise my hands to push at his shoulders and twist my mouth away from him. ‘Stop!’ He steps away from me and I feel the loss of his heat. I can just see his eyes, his breath in the cold air.
‘My love!’ he says.
I am shaking my head, smoothing my dress, calculating the distance to the end of the passage. He steps towards me cupping his hands to my breast and hip again. ‘No,’ I say and turn away swiftly, moving forwards. He holds me back by the arm. ‘Let go of me!’
‘I must speak with you, Almodis. Explain myself.’
I shake him off and keep going. ‘There is nothing to explain.’ He runs around in front of me so that I must halt again. We are at the end of the passage and over his shoulder I can see Bernadette peeking from the door of my chamber.
‘Yes, there is much to explain. Please I must speak with you.’
I place my hand flat on his chest, on the brown brocade of his tunic, and push him hard, out of my way.
‘I will wait for you, in the passage later,’ he says, low, under his breath, gesturing back to where we stood panting against the wall.
‘My room is off that passage.’
I glower at him and pass by, slamming my door behind me so that Bernadette looks up startled. Who does he think I am? A chambermaid that he can tryst with in the dark? Why should I speak with him? I don’t want his explanations and excuses. Why should I grace him with my forgiveness? Anyway, I suddenly remember, what is it to me, the wife of Pons of Toulouse, who Ramon is betrothed to?
‘Oh Bernadette!’ I say flinging myself down in the chair and staring at the flames flicking the back of the chimney, the new logs cracking and hissing like snakes.
‘What is it, my Lady?’ She’s unlacing my boots and unfastening my garters. I suddenly feel shy to have my body stripped of its concealments, my treacherous body with its groanings and its openings that should be closed tight shut. I close my mouth inadvertently and grip the arms of the chair. Am I like Bernadette to be taken up against a wall by Piers? I try to shake the images and sensations from me.
‘It’s nothing,’ I tell her, as she stands looking at me wide-eyed, a comb in her hand.
‘Has something upset you, Lady? Lord Ramon?’
‘No, no. Nothing.’ I am glad Dia is not here for she would worm it out of me, questioning me until I yielded it all up. Bernadette slips the nightshift over my head, combs out my hair, places a glass of wine beside me on a stool. ‘Do you need aught else, mistress?’
‘No. Thank you.’
‘They’ve given me a pallet in the servants’ dormitory, but I can stay here with you, if you’d like it,’ she says, looking with desire at the feather bed, loaded with quilts and furs. ‘You seem upset and in need of company tonight?’ she says eagerly.
‘No, I’m fine,’ I say firmly. ‘Go to your bed, Bernadette. You need your rest now.’
Her face falls but she curtseys and turns to the door but then stops again.
‘What is it?’
‘I … you are looking a little flushed, Lady Almodis.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’
‘No, I don’t suppose there is. I just wanted to tell you that you are looking so very lovely tonight, my Lady. Oh my!’ she claps her hand to her mouth. ‘And I’ve forgotten to take off your jewels.’ She starts back towards me.
I place one hand on the necklace at my throat and hold the other out stopping her approach. ‘It’s alright, Bernadette. Leave me. I want to keep them on for a moment and I will take them off myself, before I get into bed.’
She laughs. ‘Aye, I’d sleep in them if it was me,’ she says, and I stand and kiss her which surprises her so much that she goes out without saying another word to me.
I walk over to the mirror that hangs above the fire. It is not as good a mirror as some of the ones I have at home. My face is blurry in
places and the light from the fire dances in the room, reflecting back, quivering my image. The pink and blue gems of the earrings and necklace shimmer gloriously and my loose hair looks aflame in this light, almost red. I remember when Hugh gave me these jewels. I remember my hope and pride at that moment before we were led to the bedchamber, before I stopped being a girl and became a woman, but not in the way that everybody thought. How proud I was to think that I would be wife to that beautiful man holding out his marriage gifts to me. I see tears pooling in my eyes in the mirror, competing with the gleam of the jewels. How I had thought that Hugh would love me, in my girlish ideas; how he would kiss my neck where his necklace nestled against my bare collarbone, enslaved by my beauty, my charm, my wit. ‘Oh what a fool,’ I say aloud to my image in the mirror. ‘You poor fool.’
Lurking in the back of my mind now is Pons and I do not want to let him into my thoughts. Even though my memories of Hugh, my disappointment then was so bitter, I would rather stay there with him, thinking of that past, than let myself remember my present. I close my eyes on the unwelcome memory of my wedding night with Pons. No. I pick up the wineglass and gulp down its contents.
I am walking out the door, wiping my eyes. I want no wet tears spilling down my face. I take the trailing sleeve of my nightshift and blow my nose on it, laughing at myself, remembering Agnes chiding me as a child for this nasty habit. I smile, cherishing my seven-year-old self. I walk back into the darkness of the passage. No one has replaced the candle. The castle is silent. The dark grows darker. I walk swiftly, feeling with pleasure the swish of my silk shift against my thighs, round my ankles, seeing its vague whiteness in the gloom, hearing the tiny chinkings of my jewels. A door cracks and then Ramon opens it wide for me to enter his room which is dimly lit by two candles.