The Song of the Troubadour

by Stephanie Cook

  The girl nodded and Constance allowed her to take over holding the injured arm. She watched for another minute, but no more blood seeped through. Constance grabbed a blanket from a shelf behind the bed and wrapped the soldier tightly. She touched his forehead. He was sweaty and cold, but not too cold.

  “Call for me if anything changes,” Constance said.

  Constance stood up and looked around the room. Azalais and the other women who knew how to heal were working feverishly to deal with the wounded. They had run out of cots and now dying soldiers were being placed on the floor. Constance saw Guillaume supporting a badly limping sergeant. There was nowhere to place him, so Guillaume led him to the foot of the stairs.

  Constance saw Azalais look up at her and grimace. They were not prepared for this. The women had set up the hospital for civilian injuries and from the fevers that would inevitably come with a long siege. Constance walked over to Azalais and pulled her to one side.

  “We are not army surgeons, Azalais,” said Constance. “I have never removed a crossbow bolt from a man's chest or remedied a dislocated shoulder. I do not even have the strength for it. Why are they coming here?”

  “The castle doctors are turning men away. The wounded are piling up two or three thick on the floor. They have no choice but to come here. You are going to have to do the best you can,” said Azalais. “Stop wasting my time and get to work.”

  Azalais walked away to look at a man whose skull was bloody and crushed on one side. He softly moaned. Constance stopped and did not know who to turn to next. There were so many wounded, screaming and moaning on every side, their hands pawing the air and asking for mercy. She looked to one side and then the next. Suddenly, Guillaume stood in front of her.

  “There are Jews at the door,” Guillaume said. “They want to come in.”

  “Not more wounded!” said Constance.

  “No, they say they are surgeons.”

  Constance looked up and saw ten black-coated men with long beards in the door. She ran over, cleaning her blood-soaked hands on her skirt.

  “You are surgeons?” said Constance.

  The men nodded.

  “Please, please, come in,” said Constance.

  The oldest man turned and spoke to the others. The surgeons began moving to the patients lying on the cots and on the floor. The oldest surgeon joined Azalais at the side of the sergeant with the bashed head.

  Constance turned back to survey the room and breathed. There was hope. She turned to a pale, blond soldier lying on the floor near her feet. He garbled in a guttural tongue. Probably a mercenary from somewhere north. Many still fought for the Viscount Trencavel. His hands were clasped around a crossbow bolt that had pierced his chest. His breathing was labored, but there was no bloody foam on his lips. He might still live. Constance looked around for a doctor and found one right behind her. He was young and strong, with a long black beard and a full head of hair under his circular hat.

  “Can you get some tincture of poppies?” he asked. “And a piece of wood, as thick as two fingers, made into a wedge.”

  Constance ran to the drying room, which was in total disarray. The neat rows of glass bottles were a mess. Several lay broken on the floor. The cutting table was littered with herbs. She found the opium and poured a large swallow into a glass. She ran back and eased it down the throat of the soldier.

  Where would she get the wood? Constance looked around and then saw a wedge used to keep the door of the drying room open. She picked it up and brought it back to the surgeon. He took it from her.

  “Hold this man steady,” he said.

  Constance braced the man's head between her legs and held his arms down with her hands. The wounded man's head had begun to loll a bit with the effects of the opium. Constance called for Guillaume and he came over and sat on the soldier's legs.

  The surgeon used his knife to cut away the soldier's tunic. The crossbow bolt was embedded in his ribs, sticking out almost straight. The surgeon began to cut away from where the bolt had entered the skin, making a slit above and below the entry point. The man moaned in Constance's hands.

  Then the surgeon used his fingers to hold open the flaps of skin. He tried to remove the bolt, but it would not budge. It was trapped between two ribs. Constance could see the white of the bone between the spurts of blood. The surgeon took the wedge of wood and began to insert it between the two ribs, just below the entry point of the bolt. He used a hammer on the wedge to force the ribs open. The soldier began to buck violently, but Guillaume held him down and Constance squeezed his arms.

  The surgeon then gently pulled the bolt from the soldier's chest. Two inches, then three. It was finally free.

  “He is fortunate. It did not pierce his lungs,” said the doctor to Constance. “Dress and suture this wound. You know how, I am sure?”

  Constance nodded and went to get more herbs to staunch the bleeding. She added rosemary and St. Johns' Wort this time as well, for the wound was very deep. Constance took her needle and catgut from her pocket and roughly sewed the wound closed.

  “Not much of a seamstress,” said Guillaume. “Are you?”

  Constance smiled at him.

  “Good enough for him, I'm sure,” she said.

  Constance packed the wound with the herbs and then dressed it with fresh bandages. She gave the soldier more tincture of poppies and he began to sleep fretfully.

  The wounded had stopped arriving, but still many waited for help. It would be a long day.

  Gauda

  Sunday, August 2, 1209, evening

  “Viscountess, do you really think it is wise to linger?” I asked.

  Agnes turned in her bath and looked at me through the steam. I could feel sweat trickling down the sides of my face and down my back.

  “Do you really think it wise to ask me that?” Agnes said.

  I picked up the brush and began massaging her shoulders. The door of the chamber opened and two sweating maids pushed through, carrying empty buckets. One maid came up to the tub, her face lowered.

  “Well, what is it girl? Have you been rendered mute as well as ignorant?” said Agnes.

  The maid slowly looked up.

  “I am sorry, my lady, but we can get no more water. It is absolutely forbidden.”

  Agnes turned toward the maids.

  “You silly little fools. Imagine the insolence of the servants - to forbid me water!” Agnes said. “Get out here.”

  The maids quickly left the room. Agnes turned to me.

  “I should have sent you, Gauda,” Agnes said, her voice getting louder. “They would not dare to do this to my face and not to yours either. I cannot be expected to live under these conditions. The Viscount would never allow me to be treated like this.”

  Agnes suddenly stopped speaking. I turned to stare at the door, which had crashed open. Trencavel stood there, his hair sweaty and disheveled, blood stains on his face and arms. His tunic was torn.

  “What are you doing, woman?” Trencavel bellowed.

  He crossed the room in a few steps and grabbed Agnes by the shoulders. She screamed as he lifted her out of the tub, her legs banging against the wooden rim.

  “Are you mad? Do you know what happened today?” Trencavel said as he shook Agnes by her shoulders, her long hair whipping against her naked back and her feet skimming the floor. “The river is gone! There is no more water from the river!”

  Agnes kept crying and trying to push him away. Trencavel only shook her more.

  “No more water! No more baths! If I have to tell you again woman, you will pay for it,” said Trencavel.

  Trencavel stepped away and Agnes collapsed on the floor, whimpering. I quickly ran to get her towel and tried to cover her. Trencavel walked to the door and slammed it shut. He sat down on a chair and put his face in his hands. He sighed and looked up at Agnes.

  “What I don't understand, good woman,” said Trencavel, “is why you care. You have received the consolamentum. You are free of this material
world of pain and suffering. Yet you concern yourself with your bath and your toilet as if you were some jogleresa or whore. Should you not be beyond these things?”

  “I am not a man of spiritual things, but I have tried to protect the good men and women in my lands,” said Trencavel. “Even now, there is an army of 50,000 besieging this city because of you and your kind. There is not going to be enough water soon for the sick and dying. Can you at least pretend to live as if you cared more for things of the spirit than the flesh until this siege ends?”

  Agnes looked at him, but did not say a word. Trencavel swore and left the room. I picked up a towel and slowly began drying Agnes' long hair, as tears streamed silently down her cheeks.

  Bernard

  Sunday, August 2, 1209, night

  I wondered if these heathens fornicate more at night. Of course, they had no shame, so why would they bother to use the night to hide their lascivious groping? Paul said that if you must sin, marry. But these foul dogs held that marriage was no worse nor better than fornication. Adultery was no sin to them. They rutted like animals, at any time, with any mate. I heard them all night long in the boarding house. I prayed fervently, trying to block out the evidence of their sin. Oh, how I longed for the quiet and purity of the monastery. My father Abbot surely knew how I suffered to do this work for him. That thought kept me strong.

  But, oh, how jubilant I was today, watching as the righteous triumphed and the wicked perished. I saw the might of our warriors as they slew the heretics. I watched the river turn to red, as St. John, in his most Divine Revelations, saw the third part of the sea become blood. I rejoiced to know that our victory would come soon and sure, as the heretics were now cut off from the river. But, Satan's power was still strong in this cursed city and all was not yet decided. I still had my role to play to further the most holy and blessed causes of my Father Abbot and the most Holy Catholic Church.

  The night was dark, and though there was a moon, it was covered by clouds. The Lord smiled upon my enterprise and hid me from the evil prying eyes of the heretics. Still, I was cautious. I did not want to think what would happen if I were to be found about by one of the guards. Up to this point, there had always been someone to meet me in the busy marketplace. Sometimes a burly knife grinder, sometimes an old woman who sold lavender. I would pass my message to the woman or man and they would slip me a note explaining when and where I was to meet my next messenger.

  But this time was different. I crept quietly along the streets, hoping not to encounter a night watchman. The city was under curfew, but various of these fornicators and heretics were scattered about the streets. I believed I could convince a stupid watchman of my need to be about at this hour, if I were stopped. Still, I was uneasy. I made my way through the city towards the eastern wall. This section of the wall was relatively quiet, almost deserted. Most of the Crusader Army was arrayed west of the city, by the river Aude. Most of the soldiers and guards were posted along the western wall or defending the suburbs. The deserted eastern wall seemed the perfect location to pass the message, but I was not sure. I kept to the narrow back streets and finally saw the section of the wall where I was to meet my messenger. It was a quiet section between the tower of Saint-Laurent and the tower of Davejean. Here the city wall was covered by the houses of the poor, wretched dwellings leaning against the thick wall.

  I waited in shadow, trying to locate the tavern I was supposed to enter. The houses all seemed identical, shabby and crumbling. There was no sign to indicate which was the tavern. Finally, I saw a drunk stumble out of a low door in a building that seemed to be cobbled together from several. The first floor was sunken under a protruding second floor. Part of the second floor seemed to be spliced by a third floor that seemed to belong to an adjoining building. I imagined that some of the rooms on the second floor would be fit only for a dwarf. As I watched, a woman opened one of these windows and threw the contents of a chamber pot into the street below, nearly hitting the drunk who had not stumbled very far before collapsing on the street in front of the tavern. She was dressed vulgarly and I did not have to work to guess her profession. She spat into the street and then closed the window. I thought not of her, for she that liveth in pleasure is dead while she liveth.

  I prayed to ask the Lord for strength before entering such a den of iniquity. I did not fear for my heavenly soul, for I knew I was strong in the faith and the temptations of the flesh did not lure me. But, I feared for my earthly body in such rough company as this. After my prayer, assured that the Lord would protect his righteous servant, I checked for a night watchman and, finding none, darted across the street and into the low door.

  I stumbled and almost fell down some stairs leading into the tavern. I grabbed the low ceiling with my hand in time to steady myself and looked around. The room was lit by torches placed in the walls, which filled the room with a smoky haze. There were no windows on any side and I realized that we must be under ground and right against the city walls. The patrons were a motley collection of thieves, beggars, whores, and base laborers - dung carriers and grave diggers for the most part, to judge by the sight and stench of their clothes. They had mostly stopped speaking and had turned to stare at me and I decided that I should do something before they decided to practice their trades on me.

  I pulled my cloak tight against my chest and walked over to the bar. The barkeep was a woman who had most likely sold her body for whatever low price she could command for many years, until even the lowliest beggar would no longer squander his pittance for her favors. She was a hag, her teeth gone and her skin pocked and wrinkled, her body bony and sharp through the tattered dress she wore, one cut for a whore that mocked her wretched state of undesirability.

  “We don't want any trouble with the guards,” she said, as she poured a jug of cheap wine from a keg. The smell of vinegar and piss permeated the air.

  “There won't be any trouble with me,” I said. “I seek a man who deals with the importing of goods.”

  She looked up at me with an odd glance and turned her head in the direction of a burly man seated at the end of the bar.

  “It's him you will be wanting then,” she said. “Go on, he's been waiting for someone all night.”

  I made my way down the bar, stepping gingerly in the filthy reeds put down probably centuries ago. I heard a rustling and hoped I did not step on any of the vermin crawling through the filth at my feet. As I approached, the burly man watched me, as I watched him. He was of middle age, very strong through the arms and shoulders, with some strings of greasy hair hanging from a balding head. A scar almost neatly bisected his face in two.

  “So, it's you I've been waiting for,” he said. “Don't keep me waiting next time.”

  I could not believe this peon, this brigand, would have the audacity to speak to someone of my standing in this way. Truly, these heretics had dismantled the whole right order of society. For if one dared to blasphemy God and his most Holy representatives here on Earth, there would be no fear left anywhere and all righteous behavior would cease. Those dreadful heretics of Béziers knew this well, for they broke the teeth of their bishop and feared no reprisal. Though now they must all be fearing the righteous power of the Lord almighty and regretting their ways as they burned in hellfire for all eternity.

  “I thought it wiser to err on the side of caution, rather than haste,” I said.

  The burly man grunted.

  “Come with me. We can discuss your needs more easily in one of the back rooms,” he said.

  I loathed the thought of following this man into this house where Satan was given free rein to work his evil, but I knew that my mission was of vital importance and that God would allow no one to injure me or impair its success. He got up from his stool and I followed him to the back of the room. He grabbed a torch off the wall and we entered a narrow passageway that curved to the right, yet went steadily down. I was sure that we must be in the bowels of the city wall itself. Still we descended. The air was hot and clammy,
and I began to find it difficult to breathe. Finally, we stopped in a small room that projected off the narrow corridor. It was a storeroom, filled with kegs and bolts of cloth, probably contraband brought into the city by a smugglers' route to avoid the viscount's taxes. The burly man turned to me.

  “Give the message to me,” he said. He held out a gruff, thick hand.

  All of a sudden I felt chill and knew that I should not trust this man, but what could I do? I had to deliver my message - I knew all the places in the walls of the Castellar suburb where the mason worked furiously to try to repair them before the advance of the Crusaders. This knowledge would be invaluable to the Crusaders and would make my Father Abbot even more respected and powerful. I had to trust that the Lord Jesus Christ would use even this inferior vessel, untrustworthy and blasphemous, to further our cause. I handed over my message, sealed hastily in the narrow room I shared with three other men in the boarding house. The burly man felt the seal and, for a moment, I feared he would break it, but he did not. He placed the letter in his pocket and turned to me.

  “Do you know what the viscount does to spies and traitors?” he asked, his ugly mouth curling into a smile severed in two by his deep scar. “He puts the screws on them until they confess all and denounce those who aided them. Then they are drawn and quartered while still alive. Finally, their bodies are tossed to the dogs in the dump.”

  “I am aware of the risks I run,” I said. “I do not need a lecture from the likes of you.”

  Before I could blink, my body was raised against the wall, the burly man's hand against my throat. My feet dangling beneath me, but my feeble kicks did not even seem to be noticed by the beast.

  “Yes, but what about the risks I run?” he said. “You don't seem the type to withstand much in the way of torture. I could care less what happens to your pathetic, conniving soul, but I have myself to watch out for. I run a dangerous business and I need to be compensated. Do you understand?”