by Tracey Warr
‘The second letter, Almodis?’ asks Dia.
I slice it open. ‘From Pons, Count of Toulouse to Durand de Bredon, Abbot at Moissac. My dear friend, I am in your debt for this service you do me. My wife is greatly in need of God’s enlightenment. She has grown unwomanly and unchristian in her overweaning pride.’
I stop at that, wanting to rip the letter in two, to have Pons’ ugly head between my hands that I might bounce it against the stones of the wall.
‘Dia will you take Alienor to get a bite to eat before we ride out. She looks in need of it.’
Alienor starts to shake her head, but Dia coaxes her out. I swing my feet to the cold floor, the letter gripped in my hands and Bernadette is back now.
‘They’re all up and getting dressed in haste. I’ll get your clothes. What’s it say?’
I don’t reply but read the rest of the letter to myself. Bernadette fusses around me pulling on my hose and boots, laying out gowns and my riding cloak. Some time with you, Pons continues to his dear friend, in the anchorite’s cell … I feel nauseous at that but read on … will be the salvation of the Countess’ soul.
‘They mean to wall me up in a living grave!’
Bernadette clamps her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh Lord, oh Lord!’ she says, wringing her hands. ‘We’ve got to get out of here.’
‘Be calm. Alienor has given us two or three hours. I am forewarned now, but we will need protection. I’ll finish dressing. Dress yourself and find the Sergeant at Arms. Send him to me.’
‘What should we take with us? Your jewels? Your clothes?
‘We’ll worry about that later. For now we need to think of our hides.’
She dashes off and I finish the letter. Pons writes to the abbot that he should keep me in the cell with whatever spiritual instruction he deems necessary for as long as it seems needy. I remember Durand’s long, stern face and my hands are shaking. If she should show true repentance, writes my dear husband, perhaps one day you might release her to a suitable closed community of nuns, but have a care and full judgement for she may never show true humility and she will attempt to trick and manipulate you. I fold the letter up, and then again, and again; I fold it until it is a tiny square, and I secure it in the purse at my girdle. I have to make an effort to calm my fury and finish dressing. I smooth the folds of my skirt over my growing belly. Oh and what would happen to you little Ramon in such a scenario? I could not hide you for long from my monk inquisitors. They would see my swelling and my sin would be confirmed in their eyes. They would rip you from me as soon as you were born and expose you or discard you, and I would suffer the fate of a wife proven to be faithless in every sense. I shudder, feeling Geoffrey’s hand crushing mine, smelling the stench of his mother’s burning flesh. I swallow hard and stride to the door.
In the courtyard my household is assembling. Despite the summer season, the weather is still wet and gloomy with low cloud grazing the rooftops. Splendid cream and brown snails have come out to slip across the rain-slicked pavement and long pale bloated worms have been washed into cracks between the cobbles and appear like the marks of an unknown language.
Raingarde is running out, frightened to see me here in Carcassonne, unannounced, with all my household, and I am in her embrace.
‘I knew there was something wrong,’ she says looking enquiringly into my face. ‘What has happened?’
‘Let’s go in.’
This is just a temporary respite. I can’t stay here. He means to repudiate me, to incarcerate me and if he cannot do it in the night by subterfuge and violence, then he will seek to do it with the law and with bribes, and all the while, my belly will begin to betray me.
There is a pheasant in the orchard this morning, strutting inquisitively amidst Raingarde’s herbs and fruit trees. Yesterday an eagle soared and circled above me as I stood looking out across the valley from the castle parapet. These birds are some portents but I don’t know what they mean. I don’t know what anything means anymore. There is nothing and no one on the road to the north, where Pons is, and nothing and no one on the road to the south, to Ramon. I picture Ramon hand in hand with his new wife, Blanca. Garsenda came last night to stay for a few days and Berenger with her, though he did not stay. He escorted her here and is gone now.
‘A word with you in private, Countess,’ he murmured in my ear, as my sister and Garsenda were greeting each other loudly by the hearth.
I rose quietly and took him to my chamber, gesturing to a stool. ‘Please.’ Yes Ramon would send word to me through him. He knows he can trust him. But his information was not from Barcelona.
‘I am perplexed by some news I have heard, Countess, and I know not whether this will be of value to you, in which case I would wish to impart it, for I am your servant, Almodis,’ he says with great sincerity (and I believe him), ‘or perhaps this news is idle gossip and will only irritate you and have no grounds.’
My thoughts tumble through the possibilities.
‘It is a sound source,’ says Berenger, watching the expressions on my face, so I struggle to control them, to present a bland mask.
‘Please tell me your news, Count. I will not hang the messenger,’ I smile and he laughs lightly.
‘My correspondent is in the Court of Aragon,’ he says, ‘in attendance on King Ramiro.’
Now I am bewildered and shake my head, raising my eyebrows, asking him to continue.
‘Your lord, Count Pons, is in a delicate negotiation with Ramiro it seems.’ Berenger stops.
‘I know nothing of this,’ I say. ‘Pray continue. What is the nature of this negotiation?’
‘It is concerning Ramiro’s youngest daughter, Dona Infanta Sancha, concerning a marriage.’ Berenger halts again, looking to me with anxiety on his face. ‘A negotiation of marriage,’ he repeats, to ensure that I have understood him. ‘Perhaps it is on behalf of your son, Guillaume?’ he ventures. ‘Sancha is young. Thirteen or so.’
I clear my throat, trying to gain control of my voice before I speak. ‘Yes, perhaps,’ I say. ‘Thank you, Viscount. This news is of value to me.’ We look at each other. We both know that Pons is not negotiating marriage with the thirteen-year-old princess of Aragon on behalf of my son. Even if Pons does put me aside and get more heirs on this child, he will not disinherit my sons. They are near men now and he will not be able to displace them or wish to expose his house to the vulnerability of a child heir; and Audebert and Geoffrey would give Guillaume and Raymond their military support to enforce their rights if it were necessary. I rise and convey Lord Berenger back to the company where he takes his leave. I know Pons’ plan in full now but what is mine? For once, I am a blank, an empty vessel. I must resolve on some course of action. I cannot remain in this state of limbo. My head aches and is full of fug. My side aches. I have not slept for three nights.
Three days comforted with Raingarde, safe for now. I have told no one, not even my sister, of my condition. She knows I am holding something back.
‘Can I help you Almodis? Please tell me what you are not telling me.’
But I cannot. It will not help to let go of my secret. It will just make me mope and feel sorry for myself and I can’t afford that.
‘A messenger is here,’ Dia comes in quickly, ‘from Lord Ramon.’
‘Show him in,’ I say feigning calm. The man she brings in has the look of a sailor and is a musulman, his skin dark brown like stained wood. He introduces himself as a captain in the service of the Emir of Tortosa.
‘Please sit,’ I say. ‘Bring us sweetmeats and wine, Bernadette.’
She circles him at a distance as if he is a wild cat that will pounce on her suddenly if she comes within his reach. She places his wineglass so far from him that even stretching he could not reach it. I know, in her xenophobic little mind, she is thinking ‘long ways, long lies’. I frown at her and move the glass to his hand.
‘You are very welcome, Captain Alfaric.’
‘Thank you gracious Queen,’ he says. ‘My master
is an ally of Ramon of Barcelona. They are also great friends.’ He sips his wine. ‘It is not often that one comes across a man so open, so intelligent, full of such a grip on life, as the Count of Barcelona.’
I nod and keep my face neutral.
‘I have a ship at Narbonne, Lady, a fine ship named Wave Walker, and it is my wish, my very great wish, to place this ship, at your command.’
I cannot believe what he is saying for a moment. Escape? Ramon is offering me escape? But to what? I wait but he says no more. ‘Do you have orders for the destination of this ship,’ I ask eventually.
‘I have only your orders, Queen Almodis,’ he bows. ‘I and the ship know the way well to Barcelona of course. The tide is good to sail at daybreak but we near the edge of the sailing season and soon it will be dangerous to put to sea. I will wait for you for three days, three daybreaks starting tomorrow,’ he says.
I need to be alone, to think. What does Ramon mean by this? He does not come himself. ‘Thank you, Captain,’ I say, rising. ‘You may leave now and I will consider your kind offer. If I should decide on a voyage I will be with you in Narbonne before daybreak, before the tide, on one of the next three days.’
He rises with me, bows low, kisses my hand, and is gone.
What would Ramon do with me if I reached Barcelona? Perhaps he means to ‘retire’ me too. I would be an inconvenience. He would offer me a kinder retirement than Pons’ anchorite cell to be sure: abbess of a luxurious convent near Barcelona or offered as wife to one of his allies. My stomach churns at the thought of yet another man, not of my choosing, with rights over my body. Or, I will not be Ramon’s unwed paramour bearing him bastard children, hidden away, whilst Blanca is his countess. If he thinks that he is mistaken.
My children need me to be out in the world, negotiating their marriages and legal matters, giving them advice, standing as regent for them if – and here I indulge myself in a prolonged fantasy: if Pons should die in agony from a disease that attacks first his genitals and then his bowels – then Guillaume who is yet twelve would need me to stand regent for him. I would have to act as Regent of Toulouse.
I return to my own situation. If Ramon’s intentions are not to my liking then what options do I have? None of my children are old enough to offer me a home. Would Hugh take me back? Again I linger in a fantasy of that, but no, he could not. He could not shelter scandal, raise the enmity of Pons and the Court of Aquitaine against himself. I could write to Audebert and he would have to take me but what then? I would be a shamed and repudiated wife in his household, a single woman with no role, no point, with less status even than my youngest sister. Audebert, would I fear, be inclined to send me to a nunnery himself, to avoid embarrassment. Perhaps my mother and I could set up house together in one of my properties, but whilst I was in Occitania, with no military, no male, protection, I would be vulnerable to any violence Pons cared to make against me. So I am facing Ramon’s offer, whatever that is, or a nunnery. I could buy the post of abbess somewhere agreeable I suppose, but again I would have to leave my children to fend for themselves in worldly matters if I did so and I have no inclination to it.
At dawn, two days after Alfaric’s visit I know I must go to the ship at Narbonne. I have no choices. I must leave behind everything I have built here in my county of Toulouse over the last twelve years. I rouse my household and Dominic, my Sergeant at Arms, with his cohort of five soldiers, and I tell them to prepare to ride with me. I creep to Raingarde’s door and rest my head against the wood. I cannot go in. Her husband would wake and then the whole house. I have left her a farewell note telling her not to worry.
We have left the city far behind. The road is still dark and not far ahead I can just see that it enters thick woods. We have been riding for an hour. We all have our hoods raised against the heavy rain but even so I feel like I have been dunked in a puddle. Everything is dripping: the trees we are riding through, the edge of my hood, my nose. My hands are cold and underneath my cloak, my thighs are wet. We bedraggled women and children ride in the centre of the group on five horses, with the soldiers around the edges, protecting us. Bernadette has four-year-old Adalmoda clutched in front of her. Five-year-old Hugh is perched in front of his aunt Lucia. Dia is riding her beautiful Spanish horse and Melisende, who is twelve now, manages her own horse well. As the trees around us become thicker and thicker the soldiers crowd closer to us and I sense they are on the watch for trouble.
‘Are you watching out for bandits?’ I ask Sir Dominic.
‘Them and the pixies, trolls and hobgoblins also,’ Dominic responds with a completely serious look on his face.’
‘Th-th-uu-tt!’
An arrow wings past my ear and strikes deep into a tree behind him.
‘Defense position!’ shouts Sir Dominic.
‘Th-th-uu-tt! Th-th-uu-tt!’
There are more arrows in the air twisting at high speed and clanging against armour. One of the men falls from his horse, an arrow protruding from his neck. My soldiers raise their shields over the heads of their charges and maneuvre the whinnying horses towards the cover of the trees. They draw their swords, so I follow suit, dragging my knife out of its scabbard. Reaching the edge of the trees, I see that one of my soldiers has Dia on the ground, sheltered under his shield. Bernadette, Lucia and Melisende have dismounted and run a little way into the trees with my two young children. I glimpse Hugh’s wide eyes and Adalmoda with her face buried in Bernadette’s skirts. I stay on my horse and wonder if flight is an option.
A large group of well-armed men ride out of the trees on the other side of the path and they far out-number us. ‘Stay back, Lady,’ Dominic shouts to me and he and the five soldiers advance to engage in combat. Swords ring loudly in the cold air, spears are flung and thrust, maces and axes whirl and slice horribly above men’s soft heads. Soldiers fall from horses, squelching in mud, gasping in pain, rolling to try to avoid the bucking hooves of bloodied horses. Shouting and the clashing of arms echo loud in the quiet wood but it is all over quickly. The ground is strewn with my dead men and their horses are running aimlessly. Sir Dominic lies with his eyes open to the sky, a lance sticking from his ribs. The attackers circle behind us and herd us close together. They hold us at swordpoint, catching their breath. The leader rides up to me and wrenches the knife from my hand, lifts his visor, and I see that it is Piers.
‘Vicar Piers, what is the meaning of this? Is this paratge?’ I say, meaning what is right and honourable.
‘Off the horse,’ he says brusquely, as if he has never met me before. Afraid for my children, looking at the terror in Melisende’s face, I comply. ‘Tie their hands. Put the hoods and gags on them,’ he says, emphasizing the word ‘gags’ as he looks at me.
The men have placed brown wool hoods over Dia and Lucia’s heads and I can see Lucia desperately sucking her breath in and out through the fabric. Forcing a confidence into my face and my voice that I do not truly have, I call out to my children before they lose sight of me. ‘Do not fear little ones. You are the royal children of the House of Toulouse.’ I turn to hiss quietly to Piers, ‘And only a craven fool would touch you.’
‘They’ll not be harmed,’ he says to me, avoiding my eyes.
Piers pauses with a hood in his hands in front of Bernadette who is shaking and weeping. ‘Piers!’ she implores piteously. He gently caresses her hair out of her eyes, tucks a few strands behind one of her ears and then places the hood over her face and her muffled cries. His expression shows that he finds he does not have as good a stomach for terrorising women and children as his master, Pons.
I step towards Piers, and the soldiers bruise my arms in their struggle to restrain me and keep me from him. I spit my words at him: ‘You swore an oath of fealty to me, Piers, you proven traitor, you low-born bastard! You will not see February. I will cut off your arms and legs …’
I lay jolted in a carriage with the itchy hood over my head and face. My hands are tied tightly in front of me, a gag is forcing wide my l
ips and tastes foul. There are other bodies and muffled noises around me in the carriage. I long to reassure my children. I breathe hemp and will myself to stay calm. I want to vomit but then I would die.
31
Flight from a Window
The cart stops. We have arrived somewhere. Hands pull me roughly from the cart and drag me on unsteady legs across wet grass. The hood is pulled off and the gag removed. I can’t see for minutes and double over coughing, heaving. My hands are still tied in front of me. Eventually my eyes adjust and I see a grass square surrounded on all sides by red and cream brick cloisters. Piers, looking ashamed of himself, and a stern-featured nun, are standing before me. I cannot be in Moissac. It is much further than we have travelled.
‘Where am I?’ I demand.
‘You are a guest of the Abbess of Lagrasse, Countess,’ the nun says, ‘on the orders of the Count of Toulouse. Please come with me.’
‘It is impossible for me to walk like this,’ I say. ‘Untie my hands.’
Piers looks at the nun hesitant, but she nods and he cuts the rope around my wrists. The pain in my wrists becomes worse now that my arms are freed. Piers no doubt has not fared well for his failure to take me straight from Toulouse to Moissac last week and looks determined to brook no dereliction of his orders now. I go meekly enough with the nun but I determine that no sleeping draught will pass my lips and I will be making no onward leg of this journey to Moissac. I size up the nun.