I returned to the trunk and searched for her finest tunic. It was blue and made of brocaded silk from Alexandria. I placed it over Agnes' head and she guided her hands through the sleeves. The tunic hung freely around Agnes's slender frame and I went to search for a belt from the trunk. I found a beautiful one made from brocaded gold and tied it loosely about her waist. I sat down to sew Agnes' sleeves shut, to make the narrowest fit for her slender arms.
I remembered my mother dressing for feasts at my father's castle. My mother had worn a tunic that fell to the ground in gentle pleats from a tightly cinched waist. She had appeared svelte and shapely, the curves of her womanly body fully visible. But like all things sensual, this fashion had passed. We wore the same clothes as men now, only longer and trailing on the floor. Our curves were hidden by loose folds of cloth. My mother's tunics had voluminous sleeves. As a child, I could hide behind them when I wanted to play shy. But now the stylish women bound their arms in sleeves fastened with buttons or even sewn together until the garment was removed. I did not follow this fashion at least, for I could not play my harp with my arms bound so.
A fine sweat started to appear on Agnes' brow. The room was stifling in the hot afternoon and Agnes' rich clothes were heavy. At least she did not need to wear the hose that men did, since the skirt of her tunic was so long it dragged on the floor behind her. When I had finished dressing her, Agnes sat in front of her mirror and I stood behind, running the ivory comb through her long, straight blond hair and thought what a shame that I must bind it up behind her in a chignon. Even though I could hate Agnes, I always loved the feeling of combing her hair. I loved separating out the strands as I removed the knots, slowly and gently, starting from the bottom and working my way up to her scalp. All of a sudden I was woken from my dreaming by Agnes' voice.
“I know what you do with him, you know,” said Agnes.
“I am sorry, Viscountess,” I said. “I do not know to whom you are referring.”
“My husband,” said Agnes. “I know what you do with him each night.”
I stopped combing Agnes' hair. I said nothing.
“My dear cousin,” said Agnes. “I had long suspected you of being no better than a whore or jogleresa, but I did not want to behave so lowly as to spy on you. But, you forced my hand.”
I started to speak, but Agnes interrupted me.
“Don't even bother to deny it.”
I began to comb Agnes' hair again, but her hand grasped mine firmly and stopped it.
“I know what knowledge you hold over me, you ungrateful churl, but don't even think of using it, for I will throw you out of this household faster than you can think.”
Agnes let go of my hand and I started to comb her hair again, pulling slowly through the locks. I quietly formed them into a perfect blonde chignon at the back of her neck. I wrapped her head in thin strips of white silk that went under her chin, but making sure that her beautiful hair was visible from the back. Finally, I placed a circlet of gold on her head, encrusted with stones. Agnes stood for she was ready. So young, she had no need for powders and artifice. Her eyes were clear and bright blue, her cheeks pale and white.
She was not a good woman, that was sure. She still lived firmly planted in the foibles and luxuries and distress of this material world. But why, I wondered, yet again.
Azalais
Tuesday, August 4, 1209, evening
The good women had just celebrated with great joy the release of another soul from this cycle of suffering and misery, this earthly hell. The endura had finally ended for the sick woman who had received the consolamentum three days earlier. Azalais had watched and prayed as the woman breathed her last, her face calm and serene. All the good women in the house were made joyful by this escape and Azalais was relieved, since they had seen much suffering and death of souls who were not prepared to move beyond in the last few days.
But Azalais’ blissful mood was destroyed when she realized that she would have to fulfill her least favorite task as a healer. The woman who stumbled into the house of good women was heavily pregnant. She was supported on either side by two women, who wiped away the sweat pouring down her face. She shrieked and bent double with labor pains and Azalais ruefully prepared a bed for her in a storage room off the main room, still filled with the wounded from the siege.
Well, Azalais thought, that is the nature of life; there is the joy of watching one be released from this cycle of suffering and then there is the misery of welcoming another soul into this life of pain.
Azalais helped the grunting woman to lie down on the simple cot. She would need to keep walking to bring down the baby, but for now she could rest. Azalais could tell that her walk to the house in the heat of the late afternoon had fatigued her greatly. She was very pale.
“For how long has she been in labor?” Azalais asked the older of the two women who accompanied her.
“For one whole day and night and into today,” said the woman. “This is her first child.”
“And you are her mother?” Azalais said.
The woman nodded and pointed to the other woman.
“And this is her sister,” she said. “In this family, we have never taken so long for the baby to come. I worried and so we brought her here. She is getting weaker.”
“It is long, but not so long for a first birth,” Azalais said. “We will do all we can to hasten the coming. Untie all the knots in this room and take all the pins from her hair. Let everything down and loose and the baby will follow.”
The woman shrieked again and bent double, but Azalais could tell that she did not have much strength left. She examined her. The baby was in a good position and her body was sufficiently open. Azalais thought it probable the baby itself was fighting from entering this world of pain. She would have to trick it into coming to join them.
Azalais left the room and went to her herbs. She knew just what would make the baby come- spoiled rye. It was a strong medicine, but it was needed. Azalais brewed some tea of balm to calm the mother and added the rye.
Constance came into the herb room as Azalais brewed the tea. Azalais could sense that the girl remained angry with her, but that only made Azalais surer that she was doing the right thing in preventing Constance from talking with the young man.
“You will thank me some day,” Azalais said. “You will thank me for preventing you from ending up in a dreadful condition such as that poor woman. If you are not careful, that could be you in nine months.”
Constance slowly turned her face towards Azalais. It was livid with rage.
“You insult me, good mother,” Constance said. “Do you think I would give up all my vows and learning and my salvation for any earthly pleasure? For surely you know me better than that.”
“I know you well, my girl,” Azalais said. “And I know that you have become disobedient and willful. And with young girls that usually means one thing. Do not think me a fool, just because I am old. Now bring oil and cloths. We must heal this woman who was fool enough to fall into Satan's trap of perpetuating the evil in this world.”
Constance picked up the oil and cloth and sullenly followed as Azalais went back to the birthing room and gave the pregnant woman the tea. The flavor was bitter and she tried to spit it out, but Azalais forced it down her throat. She then gave the pregnant woman some hellebore to sniff. She began sneezing relentlessly, but Azalais closed her hands over the woman’s nose and mouth. The pregnant woman’s face became red as she bore down with great pressure.
“The baby will come soon,” Azalais said. “Keep forcing her to push. She is merely a lazy girl.”
The mother and sister moved and stood on either side of the pregnant woman, holding her body up as she screamed and pushed down.
Azalais oiled the woman's birth canal, as Constance massaged her stomach, trying to force the baby out and into the world. The pregnant woman screamed again, as her labor intensified. The pains came at only a few minutes apart. The rye was working.
Azal
ais leaned across and whispered in Constance's ear.
“Is this what you want for yourself? Think carefully, girl,” she said.
Constance looked up and stared at Azalais with angry eyes.
“How can you think so little of me? I will tell you the truth, if you want it. I could care less about the boy, but I am sick of this place. I am sick of being helpless as we are destroyed. I am sick of watching the wounded scream in agony, all the while knowing I can do nothing to stop them. You have taught me never to fight, always to live in peace, but what happens when they come to kill us? Will we just stand here and not raise a finger to defend ourselves? What kind of madness is that?”
Constance was yelling and the pregnant woman and her kinfolk were staring at them in silence. All of a sudden, the woman gave one last shriek and Azalais saw the head of the baby pop into her arms. The woman heaved one last time and the baby’s shoulders pushed out and the rest slithered free. Azalais grabbed the baby and cut the umbilical cord with her knife, four fingers from his stomach. He let out a full cry and Azalais handed him to Constance. She washed him in a bowl and rubbed his body with salt. She then handed him to his grandmother, who started to swaddle him tightly.
Azalais watched the mother as she expelled the afterbirth and then cleaned the bed. If the new mother survived the night and did not get milk fever, she would continue in this world. Azalais prayed for both the mother and the baby and only hoped they would come to take the consolamentum before dying and would never have to come back to this world again.
Azalais nodded to Constance and they left the room together.
“We have nothing to fear of death, Constance,” Azalais said. “You and I have received the consolamentum. If we are killed in this siege, we will be free. It is something you should face with joy, not trepidation.”
“Yes, please forgive me,” said Constance. “I did not know of what I spoke.”
She left the building and went to the garden. Azalais watched her, more worried now than before. Infatuation with a boy seemed a mild threat compared to the blasphemy that Constance spoke today.
Gauda
Tuesday, August 4, 1209, night
That night, the castle hall reverberated with music and song. Trencavel and his men had managed to stop the Crusaders and we still had access to a water source, despite the river having been lost. The wine flowed freely, even if water was still a precious commodity. I sat, as usual, next to my cousin the Viscountess Agnes. She ate only fruit and a simple dish of fish in olive oil, but I watched as her eyes traveled hungrily over the plates spread out before us. To save water, Trencavel had ordered all the livestock slaughtered, so we ate as kings. Tongues of pork in bittersweet sauce, leg of mutton cooked with grapes and wildflower honey, slices of wild boar with basil. I delighted in savoring each bite, watching Agnes struggle to compose herself.
A heavy hand banged a glass of wine down next to me and I quickly moved to avoid the splatter. Bertrand de Saissac sat to my left and so dining was a danger to my best robes. They were simple compared to Agnes' silks, but I still retained some items of quality from my previous life before my fortunes had changed so drastically and I did not plan to allow Bertrand to ruin them.
“So, Cabaret,” said Bertrand. “How did it feel to finally fight today?”
Cabaret, seated to the right of Trencavel, leaned forward to answer Bertrand. His neat, gray beard quivered and I could see Trencavel's face tighten. Conversations around the table stopped.
“It felt good to beat those bastards,” said Cabaret.
Bertrand let out a hearty laugh and raised his mug to Cabaret, who responded in turn. All the other knights around the table joined them and the drone of conversations again began to rise. Trencavel leaned back and took a long sip of wine.
The hall was immense. More than 400 knights must have been seated around the long, wooden tables, enjoying Trencavel's hospitality in return for their service. There were few women in the hall and those who did sit among the knights and soldiers were, for the most part, women of low virtue - jogleresas, acrobats, and whores. I studied the musicians playing in front of our table, which was raised on a dais in the front of the hall. Despite the fact that no fire burned behind us, the room was very hot and I could see the sweat on their faces. The drummer was an awkward young man who provided a lively rhythm for a dance that was given a joyous melody by a flutist and harpist. The flutist was a very pretty young girl and I would bet that she made more from selling her favors to lonely soldiers than she ever did from her music. An old minstrel, who looked like he must be her father, played the psalterion, providing the base of the chords that underlay the song. Four acrobats danced to the melody in a chain that weaved around the room, in between the tables and occasionally on them. One of the acrobats began to juggle two mugs left on the table and several knights hastily quaffed their wine and threw their empty mugs at the juggler. He nimbly caught the mugs until he was juggling five. A fat knight threw a sixth mug at him and he caught it for a second until everything came crashing down around him. Fortunately, the mugs landed on the soft reeds of the floor and none broke. The juggler bowed deeply and the soldiers madly applauded.
Bertrand turned to me and spoke, too close for my comfort, since he obviously did not follow the proper rules of manners suggesting that one should not speak directly to another unless one were sure that one's breath did not offend. But then I should not be surprised at his uncouthness for he also ate his meat with both hands, instead of just using the first three fingers of the right hand. I sighed and placed my wine glass under my nose, hoping the strong smell of the young wine would dispel his vapors.
“Gauda, you must ask the joglar to sing one of your songs,” Bertrand said. “I would love to hear one and I dare not ask you to play for us here.”
I smiled at Bertrand. He was a sweet man, for all his boorish manners.
“It is not my place to ask,” I said. “Anyway, I doubt these musicians know my music. I do not have wide renown.”
“You mean, unlike your first husband,” said Agnes. “I am sure any joglar would know Raimon of Miraval's famous chansons.”
I felt my face flush, but I said nothing. Agnes took a delicate bite of her bland fish and smiled at me. I did not understand how a face that looked so like an angel's could mask such a vile temper. For surely, our faces are the outward manifestation of all our vices and virtues. Sometimes, I thought she must be a witch to look so innocent and sweet.
“But, I have a better idea,” said Agnes, licking her lips like a cat. “Why doesn't Gauda perform for us? I, too, would so love to hear her sing and I almost never have the chance, since she is always playing for you, my husband.”
Agnes turned to Trencavel. He reached his hand to his neck to loosen the collar of his tunic and coughed.
“Surely you jest, wife,” said Trencavel. “You have Gauda at your command at any time. She can play for you tomorrow.”
“Yes, Viscountess,” I said. “I will play for you tomorrow, in your chambers. Any song you would like to hear.”
Agnes smiled and put her hand on Trencavel's arm. I could see the shimmer of her blond tresses in the candlelight.
“No, I must hear her sing tonight, now,” said Agnes. “I have waited long enough.”
I looked to Trencavel, but he did not meet my eyes. I began to rise from my chair. Bertrand's big paw shot out and pushed me back to my seat.
“You cannot allow this,” Bertrand said to Trencavel.
Trencavel stared at Bertrand, but said nothing. Bertrand slowly removed his restraining hand and I, once again, rose from my chair. I walked in a daze to where the musicians were playing and waited for them to finish another lively dance. I leaned over and spoke to the old man, who seemed to be the leader of the group.
“I have been asked to sing by the Viscountess,” I said.
The old man covered his surprise well.
“What will you sing?” he asked. “We know all the songs of the troubadours
.”
“I would like to use the harp of your joglar, for I always play when I sing,” I said.
The joglar who had been singing handed me his harp, with a very curious look. The pretty flutist glared at me. I looked at the drummer and saw pity in his eyes. I seated myself in the chair vacated by the harpist and ran my hands over the strings. A few knights in the front row of tables had noticed that I was now sitting with the performers and quieted down, stunned into silence by the spectacle of a lady performing as a common jogleresa. I felt their eyes boring into me like knives and felt my breath start to tighten. I consciously slowed down my breathing as I had been taught.
“Do you know the canso of Azalais de Porcairagues that starts 'Now we have come to the cold weather'?” I asked.
The musicians nodded. I briefly glanced up at the hall and saw how many people were there. Fortunately, most were not paying any attention to me, more occupied by their drunken stories and the carousing of the acrobats at the back of the hall. I felt my clothes tighten on my body as if they were for a woman smaller than I and felt sweat trickling down my back. I nodded to the drummer, who began a steady, slow beat. The old man played the first chord on the psalterion and I began to trace the notes of the melody on my harp. I began to sing the lyrics of my childhood teacher, Azalais, who had written this song with a broken heart.
I had never performed in front of such a large and undiscerning crowd. I felt first shame, but then a kind of excitement and nervousness. My voice was not very loud and I did not think I would be able to be heard. But, a very strange thing happened. It was almost as if the quietness, the stillness was an irresistible force. Soon, the entire hall was listening to me. I had never felt so exposed, yet this was intoxication better than wine.
I looked up at the raised dais and saw Agnes staring at me, savoring my humiliation. I felt my face flush with shame, but raised my shoulders and kept singing. She may force me to act the part of a jogleresa, but I would not give her the pleasure of seeing me fail. I looked instead at the Viscount. From this vantage point, he seemed so different from the man I had been entertaining for the last two years. The Viscount was still so very young, only 24 years old. He still wore his dark beard and long hair to his shoulders in the old style, though more and more young men shaved their faces and cut their hair short in the last few years. It was a good decision. It made his angular face appear more mature. And, I saw now what I had never seen in all this time. He stared at Agnes with such a longing that I became embarrassed for him. Yes, Agnes was incredibly beautiful, but no man should be forced to display such unrequited desire for his own wife. I knew so well the planes of that face and every sinew and curve of his flesh, but I knew not the man at all.
The Song of the Troubadour Page 9