by Tracey Warr
‘He is a mere fifty and a pleasant man. His wife has borne him no heirs and is past raising his desire. He will put her aside for Lucia. It would cement my alliance with him. How are things looking in your poor library, my love?’
Our daughter Inés has been born and Ramon has lavished me with gifts including Girona, a share in the annual Taifa tribute, and many of his castellans have sworn fealty to me.
‘Isn’t Girona part of Ermessende’s domain?’ I ask him.
‘I’ve sent her charters withdrawing her rights in the city. She shows us no favour and so she shall have none of ours. She still has Vic and can retreat there and continue her plots against me, her own flesh and blood.’ He is angry because the Council of Bishops in Toulouse has reconfirmed our excommunication. It is time that I did something about Ermessende.
To the most excellent Ermessende, Dowager Countess of Barcelona, by the grace of God the most revered female lord in all of Occitania and Catalonia, may you be saved by Him who gives salvation to lords, from Almodis, Countess of Barcelona,
I begin by laying claim to kinship with you through my sister’s marriage to your nephew, Pierre of Carcassonne and through my marriage to your grandson, Count Ramon. I trustingly write to you about the things that concern me. Forgive that I must be plain. When we are assaulted by necessity we should seek the most certain help. If you do not make peace with my lord, you leave opening for rebellion, and the diminution and dishonour of our rights. Is that what you want for your house? If you come to us in peace and we agree an accord then everything you have achieved can be joined to everything we have achieved, and are. I long to meet and converse with you and learn much from your judicious wealding of power as a woman. I earnestly entreat you, won’t you come to us and meet also your great grandchildren? Farewell Countess.
We hear that Count Guillem of Besalú has married Etiennette of Provence. I try not to think of how it would have been for Lucia if the marriage had gone forward and how it must be for Etiennette. It seems that God has been kind to me in my errors.
37
All Hallows 1057
The harvest moon this year was spectacular: a huge orange disk so low in the sky that it seemed to touch the ground. Bernadette almost fell from her horse as we rounded a bend and saw it hanging there, come down to take a look at us.
Ramon and I have another daughter, named Sancha, after his mother. Jourdain has written to tell me that Geoffrey has knighted his brothers, Hugh of Lusignan, and Guillaume and Raymond of Toulouse, so that they are all men now. I imagine Geoffrey dubbing each of them, striking a hard blow on their cheeks, and giving them their armour and their spurs. Hugh has gone to live in Lusignan and Guillaume and Raymond have gone to Pons in Toulouse, and I wonder how they will find their father, now that they are men.
‘We must send them gifts,’ says Ramon. ‘Horses?’
Raymond writes to me from Toulouse to tell me about his last campaign with Geoffrey:
It was not a great success. We made foray into Normandy with the Capetian King Henri, and part of the army forded the River Dives near the tidal estuary, but then the tide came in and divided our forces on either side of the river, so that William of Normandy was able to decimate and defeat us. The King and Count Geoffrey were forced to withdraw empty-handed.
Raymond writes that I am sorely missed in Toulouse by many people, including himself.
It is the feast of All Hallows and people spend the day ‘visiting’ with their dead relatives in the cemeteries, laying mounds of bright flowers for them that will then rot for weeks afterwards.
We received news last week that Ermessende has interceded on our behalf in Rome and our excommunication has at last been lifted. We have brokered a deal with Ermessende and she has sold her rights in Barcelona, Girona, Ausona and many castles to us. She is at the city gate and, in moments, I will meet her for the first time since I saw her in Toulouse when I was seventeen.
She is carried into the hall on a litter and her servants help her to rise from it. She is greatly bent with her age, her back rounded over her stick. I see that Ramon is shocked at her looks. Her eyes are sunk in their sockets. I make her comfortable on a soft seat beside me.
After the greetings she says to me: ‘You seem to be doing a good job, Lady Almodis. I am old now and tired.’ It is a grudging concession but it is one nevertheless.
‘I have greatly admired your rule, Countess,’ I say. ‘You have been a model for myself and my sister, Countess Raingarde.’
She nods, acknowledging my reference to our kinship and my sister’s rule of her homeland. ‘Let us be at peace, grandson,’ she says. She reaches out a gnarled hand to me. I take it carefully, fearful that I might hurt her for she looks so frail but her grip is hard like a soldier’s. She holds my hand for some time looking into my face. ‘Well,’ she says eventually, ‘perhaps I made a mistake all that time ago in Toulouse. Three sons and two daughters in a mere four years of marriage is a goodly brood, and a third marriage at that. Too bad about your sister Lucia and Besalú but he will always be trouble that man until somebody kills him.’
She is a grim old lady. The skin of her hands and face are blotched with brown patches. She is held together by sheer will. She has ruled for sixty-four years and much has changed in the world around her since the early years of her life.
‘Do you have marriage negotiations in hand for the children?’ she asks me.
‘Yes. Pere will marry Mathilde of Urgell next year.’
She nods her approbation of that in Pere’s direction, where he is sitting with us on the raised dais, next to Melisende and Hugh.
Melisende is seventeen now; Pere, fifteen; and Hugh the Bishop, at ten, has recently been promoted to the high table from the ranks of the nursery. He looks pleased with himself and swings his legs under the trestle, since they do not quite reach the floor.
‘My daughter Melisende, here, is betrothed to Simon of Parthenay and they will marry next year. My son, Hugh of Toulouse, will enter Cluny soon. The other children are yet too young for betrothal.’
‘I was betrothed at seven.’
‘And I at five,’ I respond. ‘I will look to their marriages in good time.’ I will not be forced to gibber by her. I am a match for her toughness.
‘Well, you have plenty on your hands.’
‘Yes. Of my other children in France, I have already betrothed my son Hugh of Lusignan to Hildegarde of Thouars, a neighbouring lord. My son, Guillaume of Toulouse is betrothed to Mathilde of Auvergne.’ I beckon Marta over with the younger children. ‘This is my daughter Adalmoda of Toulouse and these are your great-grandchildren: Ramon Berenger, Berenger Ramon, Arnau, Inés and Sancha of Barcelona.’ I say each of their names with great pride, smiling at them. They all stand in a line, in order of their ages from Adalmoda who is nine, to Inés who is nearly two, looking wide-eyed at the old lady. Marta holds my new-born, Sancha, in her arms.
‘Extraordinary,’ she says in a tone that is not all approbation, and shows them no affection. ‘An army of children,’ she says, addressing Ramon over their blond heads.
They are getting bored by their neglect so I signal to Marta and they troop out throwing longing glances at me and Ramon. ‘Playtime later,’ he calls and they brighten at that.
‘Will you give us your oath, Countess?’ I say, deciding that the niceties are over.
‘That’s what I’m here for,’ she says, as little inclined to niceties as me.
‘I cannot kneel,’ she says to me, and I see in her face a bitter pride disgusted with her own feebleness.
‘There is no need, Grandmother,’ I say kindly, offering my hands that she might place hers between mine.
‘I, Ermessende, daughter of Countess Adelais, swear to you Countess Almodis, daughter of Countess Amelie, that henceforth I will not disappoint either you or your life, nor the limbs of your body nor your descendents.’
Ramon smiles but doubtless he is thinking, as am I, that she only concedes now because she will die
soon.
In October we receive another letter from the pope, this time annulling Lucia’s betrothal to the Count of Besalú. I decide that time is passing on and I must broach the topic of another marriage with her. ‘Lucia you are twenty-three and must be wed soon or you will have to take the veil.’
‘I don’t want that,’ she says quickly. ‘I want children and I suppose I must have a husband to get them. Can’t you send me home to Raingarde or Audebert to find me a husband?’
‘They would struggle because of Besalú,’ I say and she looks at me coldly.
‘Yes, now I am a scandal, near as much as you are.’
I do not respond to her hard words. After all, I deserve them. ‘Ramon and I will take no action unless you wish it, but we suggest to you Artaldo, Count of Pallars Sobirà. You would have your own household, your own family.’
‘He is an old man, but if I am to be your glue, well at least he is a kindly old man and he has a nose.’ She goes out, banging the door behind her.
‘Is there someone younger?’ I ask Ramon. ‘Someone she would like?’ but he shakes his head.
When I raise the subject of Pallars Sobirà with her again a few days later, she says, ‘Alright then, marry me to the old codger!’ and breaks into a smile. The first I have seen on her face for months.
‘That’s the last time you say that!’ I say laughing.
‘I can say what I like in my head,’ she says, ‘and perhaps I will take a young lover!’
‘Have a care!’ I say surprised. Is she jesting?
I gather my children about me for my meeting with Artaldo, Count of Pallars Sobirà. The children are evidence of my fertility and suggestive of Lucia’s. Pere’s dark head stands out amongst my blond children, the cuckoo in my nest. I begin by speaking to Artaldo of my absent sons. ‘I have five other sons,’ I say proudly. I tell him of my Lusignan twins: Hugh who is a knight now and Jourdain, who is the most skilled in his scriptorium. I tell him of my three Toulouse sons: Guillaume and Raymond who also trained with Count Geoffrey of Anjou, ‘and Hughie here who is going to the Abbey of Cluny and is destined for high office in the church,’ I say.
After more small talk and refreshments, I nod to Bernadette and she turns and leads in my sister who is wearing a short veil over her face and a dress of fine scarlet cloth with black embroidery at the neck and waist. After curtseying to the count she slowly lifts up and puts back her veil. Not surprisingly Artaldo is delighted at the prospect of bedding my young sister and getting himself an heir. Because of Lucia’s broken betrothal he haggles down the dowry outrageously but Ramon more than compensates for that with his promise of a marriage gift to her.
I have been engaged in a delightful correspondence with Ali ben Mochehid, the ruler of Dénia, ever since I thanked him for the gift of the water clock for my marriage. We have never met but I feel as if I know him. My letters bear fruit this year as he agrees to allow the Christian churches in his domains to be subject to our bishop here in Barcelona.
The winter is passed when we were all trapped for long periods of time indoors by the shorter days and bad weather and with the roads and sea routes impassable. Just before the Easter Assembly we receive news that Ermessende has died at her castle of Besora on the first day of March. She has sent her testament to us: I beg the master Ramon, Count, my grandson, together with the mistress Almodis, Countess, your wife, for God and Saint Maria, his mother, to take care with my soul for God knows that I have loved you more than anybody of your people, and you may know this through what I have done for you.
I resist the obvious response to this that she must have been deluded in her last days, and instead I simply exchange looks with my husband.
The Easter Assembly this year is a splendid one. We are out from the shadow of Ermessende, our excommunication lifted and Ramon making a new alliance with Ermengoll, Count of Urgell. Count Artaldo has repudiated his wife, Constanca, and attends court to finalise the betrothal contract with my sister. Rostagnus ensures that the documents insist he cannot abandon Lucia for any reason. Lucia herself does not seem adverse to him and I am glad of that. We have more betrothals to celebrate: Pere is betrothed to Mathilde and I hope that it will be the making of him to wed; Simon of Parthenay has come to Barcelona to claim my Melisende as his bride. He is the heir to Parthenay since his oldest brother died two years ago and the second son of the family, Joscelin, has become Archbishop of Bordeaux. Simon is a young and pleasant man, not much older than Melisende, and I am glad to see that she likes him, but it is a terrible wrench for all of us – for her to leave; for me and for Dia, Bernadette and Adalmoda to lose her. ‘Every cloud has a silver lining,’ sobs Bernadette, unconvinced by her own wisdom as we wave goodbye at the port.
Raymond writes me that Agnes’ son Pierre (Guillaume VII of Aquitaine) has died from dysentery whilst besieging Count Geoffrey at his mother’s urging, so now his twin Guy has become Guillaume, the eighth Duke of Aquitaine and is determined not to suffer the interference of his mother. He has repudiated my cousin, Aina of Périgord, and sent her to a nunnery. Perhaps he will do the same with his mother. My son, Guillaume, has wed Mathilde of Auvergne and Raymond, never to be outdone by his older brother, has wed his cousin, Bertranda, Pons’ niece. There will be trouble from the church over this marriage to a first cousin I am sure, but Raymond will do what he wishes, not what anyone tells him to do.
38
Thaw 1060
It has been a hard winter and the Court has been quiet with few visitors and little news. When the snow begins to clear from the mountain roads the news flows down through the Pyrenees with the thaw.
From Raingarde Countess of Carcassonne to Almodis Countess of Barcelona
Alas my dear sister, my beloved husband Pierre has died and left me and his children bereft. He should have lived many more years. I wish that I could retreat and weep for him but instead I must rule as regent for my son, Roger, who is not yet of age. I have arranged the marriages of my two older daughters. Garsendis will wed Raymond, the son of your good friend Berenger of Narbonne, and Ermengard will wed Raymond-Bernard Trencavel, Viscount of Albi and Nîmes. The Count of Cerdanya has offered for my youngest daughter, Adelais, which will be a fine marriage for her but I have said that at thirteen she is yet too young and he must wait a while. You will be interested to hear that Archbishop Guifred of Narbonne has been excommunicated …
From Raymond of Toulouse to Almodis Countess of Barcelona:
I am sorry to say that I have two deaths to tell you of Mother, one that will mean much more to you than the other. The northern king, Henri, has died and been succeeded by his little son Philippe, so that Bishop Gervais of Le Mans and Baldwin Count of Flanders act as his regents. And I am grieved to tell you that Count Geoffrey of Anjou has died. He took ill and knew his time had come and asked me to go to him. I took him to the monastery of Saint Nicholas d’Angers where he was shriven and received into the brotherhood. In his testament he left you the vineyard of Najac saying that you were the woman he had loved most in his life and you were the wife that he let slip away and never be one.
I am grieved to think of Geoffrey, the Hammer, dying a monk and with no heirs, despite taking three more wives after Agnes. I imagine how furious she will be when she hears of his legacy and statement concerning me. Ramon is not too pleased with it either. ‘What were your relations?’ he demands.
I answer angrily: ‘At the court of Aquitaine, he was a foster child, like me. He was like my older brother. When I took my sons to train with him he asked me to leave Pons and marry him but I refused. Those were our relations.’
‘Forgive me. I am jealous.’ He turns to leave, but then turns back. ‘Indeed Almodis I am jealous of your heart that you do not give to me. It makes me think that you have given it to someone else.’ He looks at me with challenge and I stare back. ‘Did you love him?’
‘As a brother,’ I say truthfully, ‘no more.’
‘The truth is Almodis your heart belongs to you and yo
u do not give it to me.’
I lower my eyes at that. He’s right. He waits for me to respond. I look up. ‘I have given you five children and good counsel.’
‘Yes.’ The word is bitter in his mouth. He wants more. He relents and takes my hand. ‘I don’t want to argue, Almodis. You are the most wonderful woman and partner on God’s earth. I adore the ground you walk on, the cup that touches your lip, the bedsheets that caress your limbs and belly. You know that.’
I smile gently at him but do not speak.
‘You don’t let me in Almodis. You keep me at arm’s length. Outside. I risked all for you. Will you ever give me your heart, wife?’ he asks in quiet despair.
‘My heart has been injured,’ I say eventually to break the silence, ‘through my two previous marriages. And it was already well guarded after growing up in Agnes’ hostile household. You must give me time.’
He looks me in the eye, kisses my hand: ‘All the time we have is yours, my love.’
We have been wed eight years now and I can see the disappointment plain and painful in his face.
‘Can you make me love my husband?’ I ask Dia, later that day.
Bernadette looks up from her sewing with her mouth open and her eyes wide. ‘Never look a gift horse in the mouth,’ she says earnestly.
‘Don’t you love him already?’ asks Dia.
‘Yes, a little perhaps, but he wants more. I would like to give him what he wants but I don’t know how.’
‘He is a fine and loving husband,’ says Bernadette in a tone of great disapproval.
‘There are spells and potions,’ says Dia, ‘that can cause a temporary madness of love but that is not what your lord wants. He does not want the empty, evaporating passion of a drug.’