by Tracey Warr
We arrive in the guest dormitory on the first floor where I am relieved to find my household is unharmed, although they are shocked and afraid. The dormitory is flooded with morning sunlight and there are two neat rows of beds. It seems almost normal. Bernadette is holding Adalmoda on her lap. Dia is holding Melisende’s hand and Lucia and Hughie sit close to Bernadette. I see on the other side of the room that there are two other maids who I do not know. Other more willing visitors I suppose. Perhaps they could take a message of our plight to Carcassonne or Narbonne.
‘You will be served food in here and you should rest, Countess,’ the nun says. ‘You have a long journey ahead of you.’
‘What of my family and women? Will they travel with me?’
‘Back to Toulouse, I think,’ she blurts out and bites her lip, no doubt under instruction to tell me nothing. She hands me a goblet of wine.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Leave us now.’
She looks at me in surprise, unaccustomed to being commanded perhaps, and she glances at the goblet which I have set down on the trestle.
‘Go,’ I say menacingly, taking a step towards her.
When she is gone, I empty the contents of the goblet into the unlit hearth and turn back to the dishevelled huddle of my women and children. ‘There was a sleeping draught in it,’ I say. ‘They mean to ship me to Moissac.’
‘So I will go in your stead and you will make your escape on this ship that is waiting for you in Narbonne.’ I am amazed to hear Raingarde’s voice and to see her throwing back her hood. She is one of the unknown ‘maids’ on the other side of the room. ‘Why didn’t you tell me,’ she demands, and there is real anger in her voice.
For a moment I am speechless. I see that the other woman is Carlotta. ‘How did you get here?’ Then, only just realising what I have heard her say, ‘And no, you will go nowhere in my stead.’
‘I knew there was something wrong. I had Carlotta watch you and when you all slunk off at dawn, we came with you. Two more maids. It made no difference to the men at arms at the back of the company.’ She is looking very pleased with herself. ‘You see,’ she says, ‘you are not the only clever one.’
‘Oh, Raingarde, I do not wish you here! Embroiled in my troubles.’
‘Dia has explained everything to me: that Pons plans to incarcerate you and to take the Aragon princess to wife,’ she finishes, looking unreasonably cheerful. ‘We change clothes,’ she says. ‘You go now. I will feign sleep and let them take me to the boat. I have left word with my husband that bad business is afoot and he will need to rescue me. You must send him word when you reach Narbonne to wait for me at the dock in Moissac.’ With Carlotta’s help she has already taken off half her clothes and is handing them to Bernadette, who puts down Adalmoda and approaches me with them. ‘Come on, quick. We don’t know how long we have and the boat will only wait for you until sunrise tomorrow.’
I protest and refuse but they all assist her in disrobing me and swapping our clothes. I am desperate at the thought of Raingarde walled up in that cloister.
‘My husband will find me,’ she says, certain.
‘They will mistreat you. You have no idea what could happen to you.’
‘And you should suffer it but I cannot?’
‘I will go with her,’ says Carlotta, surprising us all for she is usually so silent, and she draws a vicious hunting knife from her boot and then sheathes it again.
‘They will notice one maid is missing.’
‘If they do, we shall say that she climbed out the window but the rest of us were too afraid to follow.’
I look dubiously at the window. An old oak stands close by and it is just conceivable I suppose to leap across and climb down through its branches. If you were an acrobat.
‘Go on,’ says Raingarde, pushing me to the window.
I resist her, but she does not give up shoving me. ‘I can’t do that!’
‘For large evils, great remedies, mistress,’ Bernadette cries out.
‘I will ensure that the children and your women are sent on to you. They will not suffer. Do it, Almodis, now!’
All this time I thought she was my shadow, a pale reflection, my gentle sister in contrast to my hard grip on life and power but I see her standing there in my clothes and I see that I have been wrong. She is my brave sister. I look round quickly at each of their faces, I take a deep breath, I wriggle my feet in my boots for good purchase, I grip the window frame and haul myself up onto the sill. Unfortunately I look down and am immediately dizzy and irresolute. I should tell them I am with child and just can’t … but then without thinking about it, without deciding, I am flying, really flying. I collide with a branch and the wind is punched out of me. I slither ungainly down the tree, coming to the ground with a thud that winds me again. I look up at their faces crammed into the stone frame of the window, signal that I am fine and set off running to the trees.
In the forest I find an ass tethered outside a hut. I dare not wake the people sleeping inside and ask for help in case they betray me back to the abbey. I silently slip the animal’s rope, coax him into cover and make my way, travelling close to the river, looking for a boat that might carry me to Narbonne, thinking all the while that I should surely miss Tortosa’s captain, that he will sail without me. I think of the story my father told me of how on campaign once he tricked his pursuers by putting cloven cow-shoes onto his horses’ feet. I pass a small cave with a shrine to the Virgin strung with flowers and small offerings: a baby’s shoe, a rotting veil. ‘Protect me mother Mary,’ I whisper to her. ‘I wish to be a mother to this child.’
At last I see a small, shallow-bottomed boat bobbing near the bank. It has a long pole and a paddle. I loose the ass to find his way home; I thank him and regret the loss of his living company as I face the river to continue my journey alone. I step into the rocking boat and pole myself away from the bank and into the centre of the river where the current takes me forward swiftly. It is nearing twilight and clouds of mosquitos and midges hover above the surface of the water. Green trees and rushes rise up on both sides all around me, green reflected in the water, even the sky is tinged with green as the light fades. I feel a sense of unreality moving through this shrouded world. I fear at any moment that armed men will burst through the green curtain to the water’s edge and haul me by my hair from the river to a stone prison.
This is the river Orbieu which eventually will join with the Aude and take me all the way to the port of Narbonne. I am hungry, thirsty, weary, chilled to the bone and my ankle throbs where I landed badly on it. I need only fend off the bank or fallen trees on occasion or pole myself through choked and shallow parts of the river. Cicadas begin their frictions. At dusk the Devil is abroad is one of Bernadette’s sayings. I wish I hadn’t remembered it. I must go on through the darkness in order to get past the towns of Fabrezan and Ferrals unseen. At Ferrals a watchman calls out, ‘Who’s there?’, but I pole myself into the centre of the river where the current is strong and pass by silently in the gloom.
Before the Orbieu joins the Aude, I haul my boat onto the bank, meaning to rest a moment before I attempt to pass Narbonne and anyone watching for me. I am bone tired. ‘Lady!’ A hiss in the trees terrifies me but I see that it is Captain Alfaric.
‘How did you know I was here?’ I say amazed.
‘A letter from your sister, told me you were in trouble and to look out for you,’ he says, giving me more cause for surprise at Raingarde’s effectiveness. She must have sent this letter as we were leaving Carcassonne. He helps me haul my boat further into the trees where it will not be seen and then tells me to follow him a little upriver where his own boat is waiting. As we walk I explain what has happened: how my sister Raingarde has taken my place with my kidnappers and how I must get word to her husband. Alfaric frowns and grimaces all the way through my story. ‘Such deceit and betrayal. Such violence to a beautiful lady,’ he says tasting the words as if they are curdled milk in his mouth.
‘You cannot go to Berenger
,’ Alfaric says. ‘Pons is in Narbonne and the city is swarming with Toulousain men-at-arms. They must be watching to make sure you do not break from your captors and attempt a sea escape. We must carry on along the river straight to the port and my ship, and elude them.’ He points out another small boat, waiting for us, but this one has four oarsmen for speed. Alfaric hands me to a cushioned seat in the boat and takes his own seat behind me at the helm. The four oarsmen smile at me. At Alfaric’s soft commands they quickly pick up a pace, moonlight glinting on the sweat of their faces, biceps and thighs as they move back and forwards together, and the boat thrusts and jerks ahead. Now that I am become a passenger, I begin to shake with cold and stress. My teeth chatter and my stomach is churning on its own hunger. Alfaric drapes a thick blanket around my shoulders and hands a wine skin to me. I take a long draught of the strong wine and feel warmed.
As night falls we draw near the walls of Narbonne. On one bank is the city and on the other its new town, the Bourg. We travel under the seven-arched Roman bridge that carries the old Roman Road, the Via Domita, that splits in four directions, to Spain, Toulouse, Aquitaine and the Atlantic. In the gloom I can just make out the butchers, at the end of their day’s work, discharging blood and offal into the river.
Alfaric changes the sail on the mast to a plain red one and the soldiers cover the coat of arms of Barcelona on their surcoats with their large woollen cloaks. I cover my head and part of my face with a hood. The soldiers look uneasy. If we are caught now we will be in a world of trouble. Everyone keeps as silent as possible and the lamps are doused. I listen to the lap of the water against the boat and against the walls.
I recognize the shape and position of the guest chamber where I stayed the night that Ramon was there. ‘That’s likely Pons’ chamber, up there,’ I whisper. This is the most dangerous part, if someone should happen to look out at the river and see me. I try to keep my eyes on the deck and hold my breath, catching a glimpse of that window slowly opening. A woman’s head appears and then a bucket and a stream of urine is thrown into the river, close to where our boat is hugging the wall.
‘If it comes to a fight there’s nothing to worry about,’ one of the soldiers whispers. ‘We’ve got Morning Star and Good-day and Holy Water Sprinkler here to safeguard you.’
‘What’s that?’ I ask puzzled. ‘Is it magic?’
‘No Lady, this here is Morning Star,’ says one soldier holding up his huge mace, a club with blades sticking out of the top.
‘And this is Good-day,’ says another in a low voice, holding up an equally evil looking weapon, ‘and Captain Alfaric’s,’ he says pointing at another mace leaning against the boat’s side, ‘is the one called Holy Water Sprinkler. Do you get it?’
‘Quiet,’ hisses Alfaric. ‘We don’t want to be using our weapons on the townsmen if we can help it, whatever their damned names are.’
They fall silent. When the boat has passed the city we heave a collective sigh of relief.
At its mouth the Aude opens up into the great bay of Narbonne where ships lay at anchor protected by the hills from winds from the north, and by islands and a line of sand bars from the Mediterranean sea storms. I hear the sound of a treacly, lazy sea washing back and forth across rolling pebbles.
The rowers pull us into a dark pier and one man takes a note that I have written to Raingarde’s husband and a purse from Alfaric and disappears towards the harbour front in search of a safe messenger. We wait in silence. Two of the rowers grip the edge of the pier, holding the boat in place; the third is crouched on the pier with the rope in his hands ready to cast us off in seconds if we are threatened with discovery. I can hear drunken singing from a nearby tavern, a wild shriek of a woman’s laughter, the boat bumping gently against the pier. Thick clouds have covered the moon and it is pitch-dark. I begin to wonder if the man with my note has been taken. Then he jumps softly into his place, nods briefly to me and Alfaric, and we are moving again, making for the black expanse of the harbour.
We are running dark, relying on the sweep of the lamp from the lighthouse to help us navigate our way between the other boats. Alfaric must remember the position of anchored ships and our route through them, with each brief flash of illumination. We pass through narrow gaps between vast warships that could crush us to kindling in seconds, their curved wooden sides disappearing far above our heads like mountain slopes, the eagle’s nest lookouts at the top of their high masts dipping and swaying. Occasionally we bump and scrape against another boat. I keep my hands clenched in my lap, away from the edge of the boat.
The rowers bring us alongside a cog: a round, tub-like merchant’s ship with a single bank of thirty-two oars and a square sail. ‘Attracts less attention than a warship,’ Alfaric grins at me, handing me carefully to the knotted rope ladder that dangles against the side of the swaying ship. I swallow, feeling gray with exhaustion, desperately trying to muster the mental energy for the climb. My arms and legs feel powerless as I climb but I hang on. I feel stabbing pains in my womb and fear that I will miscarry my child. Nearing the top, grinning faces crowd the edge of the ship, and strong arms and hands reach down to haul me up. I lean, gasping on the ship’s rail, nodding at the sailors, unable to speak.
Alfaric comes up beside me. ‘We are only days, perhaps hours, ahead of the bad weather when all ships take to the harbours for the winter, but never fear, Lady, we shall get you to your destination.’ The sailors are swarming around us, tying ropes, unfurling sails, setting the oars. There is barely any wind and they row us towards the narrow mouth of the harbour. It seems to take forever as the ship creaks and lumbers but steadily picks up speed. I look back towards the harbour front and the towers of the city, straining to see any signs of pursuit.
‘Lay down, Lady, quickly,’ Alfaric says urgently. I do so and a blanket falls over me. The ponderous rhythm of the boat slows and stalls again. I hear voices: Alfaric calling out his business to an interrogator, giving plausible replies to someone on a boat guarding the harbour mouth. I lie still and silent, breathing damp wool and wood and the faintly acrid scent of a man who has lain recently in this blanket. I think we are moving again but I am disorientated and uncertain. We may be going backwards or forwards or it may only be the rock of the sea that I detect.
Alfaric lifts the blanket from my head and I blink like a woodlouse found under a log. ‘We’re safe,’ he says, pointing to the harbour mouth, dimly discernible and now behind us. He takes my hands and lifts me to my feet, conveys me to a narrow cabin with a bed piled high with blankets and pillows, a flagon of wine and a basket of bread and meat on the table.
‘This looks like heaven,’ I say. ‘I am greatly in your debt Captain Alfaric.’
‘No, Lady. I am honoured to serve you. You look very tired and I will leave you to rest.’
He’s right. I fall back on the soft pillows, too exhausted to reach out my hand and eat, too exhausted to close my eyes and sleep.
I wake, my back aching, to a dull, overcast morning and an expanse of open sea all around us. This grey sky, this grey sea, look beautiful to me; they look like freedom. I taste the salt in the air and it is freedom. I watch curious as the sailors try to use a board with the shadow of the sun to find the way. They navigate without sight of land. ‘And in fog and heavy cloud?’ I ask Alfaric, when he approaches me.
‘We have a sun-stone,’ he says, mysteriously. ‘It shows us north. Or failing that, we have these ravens,’ he says pointing to three birds staring at me fiercely from a cage. I shake my head, not comprehending. ‘We release them and follow them till they find land. That works,’ he says cheerfully. He hands me a packet. ‘For you, Lady, from the Count of Barcelona.’ He bows and leaves me.
Inside there is a short letter: Dearest Almodis, I trust you are safe with the sea-captain of my ally Tortosa. He will bring you to me. I am a cargo again, I think. Me and my unborn child. Know Almodis that I would give every river in Catalonia and risk all if you will have me. I sit up straight. Not a paramour th
en? I ask you for your hand in marriage. I do not sue for you to your brother or your mother, for you are your own captain and will answer for yourself. I am smiling now. Ramon! He knows me. If you will have me, radiant Almodis, (again I smile, he was ever full of flattery and hyperbole) I will endeavour to make each of your days, henceforth, happy ones. I await you and your reply. Ramon Berenger, Conde de Barcelona. Almodis, Condessa de Barcelona, I think, rolling it aloud on my tongue. It sounds good.
There is more: a scroll on fine vellum with the seal of Barcelona depicting a walled city by the sea. I break the seal and begin to unroll it. It is a contract of betrothal. A memory of my marriage contract with Hugh flashes in my mind: me, a girl laughing in the kitchen, reading it to the cooks, scolded by my mother. This contract begins with the arms of La Marche and Barcelona entwined. Ramon has signed it at the bottom and there is a place for me to sign.
Not yet. I will savour a few more days when I belong to no man. I watch the sailors swinging the sail to find the wind. I roll the contract up carefully and stow it back in its packing. I, and the child in my belly, are lulled by the rhythm and roll of the sea.
Yet still I doubt him. Is he not also betrothed to Blanca and does he not treat that betrothal lightly?
Part Three
BARCELONA
1052–1071
32
Michaelmas 1052
I sit on the pink marble window-seat in my new chambers in the Comital Palace, bathing in the early morning sun that streams into the room. ‘Good morning world,’ I say aloud. I close my eyes, breathe in the citrus smells of Barcelona, knowing that to the north, in Toulouse, winter is closing in. The caws of seagulls mingle with the bells of the city’s towers, the honking of geese, and the hammers and shouts of workmen at the cathedral building site next door. I open my eyes again and look about me. Ramon has prepared these rooms for me with great care. Cheerful ceramic tiles cover the floor, decorated with pictures of salamanders. Twenty or more pitchers stand about the room filled with white and red roses. ‘The flower of submission,’ he said. A large platter on the seat beside me is heaped with green apples, purple plums and oranges. I pick up an apple, savour its scent and bite into it. The view from the window is glorious: immediately below is a walled garden lined with lemon and fig trees with paths made from tiny shells, and then I can look out across the maze of city streets to the blue of the sea beyond and the shimmer of heat rising.