The Song of the Troubadour

by Stephanie Cook

  After the song finished, the hall burst into applause and while I knew I should be humiliated, I felt an intense joy. I decided to play one of my own songs then. How many times had I watched while some other woman mangled my verses and threw in sly winks and kisses during the sensuous passages? I always wanted to scream at these harridans, for turning my words of sensuous, almost divine, passion, into the backroom grunting of whores and piss-drunk groping of villains. I had always wondered what it would be like to sing as the male troubadours did, their own voices singing their own words. To be able to actually sing the words the way I meant them to be sung. I now knew. It was joy.

  After I sang my own song, accompanied only by myself on the harp and the drummer, I began to feel uncomfortable. The weight of so many men's eyes on my body and face felt sickening. I started to hear whispers and laughter from some of the tables and knew that the words of the soldiers were not comments on my musical style or phrasing. I quickly got up and handed the harp to the joglar.

  “You are welcome to join us any time, my lady,” said the leader of the group.

  I could not believe the effrontery of the man to think I would stoop to his level.

  “I do not think that likely,” I said. “But, I do thank you for your accompaniment.”

  I reached into my pocket for a few coins to give to the man. He would not accept them and I flushed. The pretty flutist laughed at my discomfort. I quickly made my way back to the table, but as I sat down, Agnes rose and left the room. Trencavel followed her. I turned to my left and looked at Bertrand de Saissac. He drained his mug and placed it on the table.

  “You sang very beautifully,” he said. “But, I wouldn't make it a habit, if I were you.” We both turned to watch as the acrobats began to dance again and the joglars started tossing knives and all manner of objects into the air. The hall became steadily louder as the amount of wine increased. I drank more than I should have, wanting to taste again that delicious power of performing and knowing that I must pretend I had never experienced a more shameful event in my life. I must have left the hall very late for I had to step over passed out bodies on the floor of the hall. All I knew is that I wished Agnes to be asleep before I entered her antechambers to sleep. I did not want to face her again tonight.

  DAY 5 OF THE SIEGE OF CARCASSONNE

  Wednesday, August 5, 1209

  Bernard

  Wednesday, August 5, 1209, morning

  “You are a man of God, Bernard,” said Guillaume. “I cannot believe you raised a hand in violence.”

  “Guillaume, keep your voice down,” I said.

  I anxiously looked around, afraid that one of the mason's apprentices had heard Guillaume's words. Fortunately, they all seemed too occupied repairing the damage caused by the Crusaders to pay attention to our mutterings.

  The morning after our noble Crusaders' defeat at the hands of these heretical dogs, surely the work of Satan himself, Guillaume and I were back at work in the Castellar suburb with the mason. Though our willfully ignorant forces had not attacked where I had directed, they had none the less done considerable damage to the walls of the suburb with missiles thrown from catapult and trebuchet. Early this morning the mason had surveyed the damage and we now worked on the most damaged section of the wall, in the southwest corner of the suburb.

  The carpenters had already built a small ramp so that the mason and his men could work near the top of the wall. The walls here were built of a double thickness, sealed together with a mixture of mortar and pebbles. In this section, the outer wall had remained standing, but most of the inner wall had been destroyed by a falling stone projectile. Already, stone cutters worked to hew the large stones take from the Cathedral. Just seeing those stones, taken from such a holy place to be used in such a despicable manner, reminded me of the sacrilege these minions of Satan were capable of. I resolved yet again to do everything in my power to fight this wave of evil.

  I continued to make the mortar, adding the water slowly to my mixture of sand and lime. Now I had Guillaume to help me, which surely aided my sore arms and also allowed me to keep an eye on the boy. When a batch was finished, I sent him up the ramp with the fresh mortar in a basket on his back. I was not sure that he would even join me this morning. After he refused to go with the mason's men yesterday while they defended the walls, he had disappeared. I had not seen him until late that evening, back at the crowded boarding house. He would not tell me where he had gone and refused to even speak to me until this morning.

  This was so like Guillaume. He had always left me to do the hard work, the necessary work, the messy work. How were we to continue our subterfuge and spy on these heathens if they did not trust us? I was forced to pretend to defend the city yesterday, though my whole body and soul ached bitterly against the actions I was required to take. Guillaume simply disappeared, heedless of the effects of his action. Then he had the gall to lecture me on my behavior. It is simple to live a pure life if one does not consider that we must survive and vanquish our foes in this tarnished, material world. But, I reminded myself that Guillaume was young and did not yet comprehend the complexities of life. I must strive to be patient with him, nurturing him in his faith and helping him learn his lessons of obedience.

  Guillaume came back with his basket empty. He glared at me as he placed it down beside where I worked.

  “I can no longer live like this,” said Guillaume.

  Fortunately, he spoke more softly this time. Between the shouts of the men as they worked and the stone cutters' tools chipping the blocks, we were unlikely to be heard. Nevertheless, Guillaume's stupidity and selfishness annoyed me. I fought to remain patient.

  “Guillaume, can we not discuss this matter in a more private location?” I asked.

  Guillaume face took on a stubborn set that I knew well. I knew we must discuss this matter here and now.

  “I have made my vows to a life of prayer and service to the Lord,” said Guillaume. “I cannot stomach the deception, and I do not know how you do so. Truly, brother, I worry for the state of your soul. I would not want to even think this of you, but it seems as if you are even relishing this situation. It seems no more than a game to you.”

  I continued stirring, but leaned closer to Guillaume so that I could talk quietly near his ear.

  “You dare to call this a game, when I am risking everything to follow the Abbot's orders,” I said. “Do you not remember how close we came to disclosure last night?”

  We had returned to the old tavern, praying that the Lord Abbot had seen fit to pay our ransom, for such it was. I knew in my heart that the Lord Abbot would do that and more for all his children, but the packet of coin was short. Surely, some intermediary had turned thief, for there was only 5 times the amount of the normal pay, instead of the 10 times requested. I had thought that I would faint as the smuggler glared at us. Finally, he decided that it continued to be worth his risk, even at the 5 times pay. I knew we were truly blessed and that God guided our every action and protected us, even to the point of softening the heart of this vile cutthroat. The Lord would do everything to make sure that we succeeded in our most holy mission.

  “Close, yes, and it is not surprising, since we are spies. This is not how our Lord Jesus Christ wanted us to preach his Gospel,” said Guillaume.

  “Guillaume, you talk of your vows, but you seem to find one very easy to break - obedience. It is not for us to question the will of the Abbot. Dare you to say that you know better than our Abbot or even the Pope, how we can best serve the Lord? You have been too long with these heretics, Guillaume, and seem to be acquiring their ways,” I said.

  Guillaume suddenly moved away from me and began lifting his basket. I turned to see the mason coming over to us. I hurriedly stirred the mortar, which had hardened a bit as Guillaume had distracted me from my work.

  “Boys, are you arguing?” asked the mason. “Surely, you must respect the memories of your family. They would not have wanted to see you turned against each other. Yo
u have only each other left in this world and you must cherish that bond.”

  The mason placed his hand on Guillaume's shoulder and patted it. Guillaume looked at me and then looked down.

  “Forgive me, brother,” Guillaume said. “I was not thinking clearly. The mason is right.”

  I was glad that my brother had seen the errors of his ways, even though it had taken a heretic to point out that he was wrong.

  “I accept your apology, Guillaume,” I said and turned back to my work.

  The mason looked at us and walked away. Surely, his was a soul worth saving from the hell fires of damnation. Guillaume and I must continue our work. It was the only way that the mason could be saved.

  I scooped out more mortar into Guillaume's basket and he returned to the ramp. I realized that the mason had spoken the truth. For though Guillaume and I had not lost our family at Béziers, we were alone in the world. Our parents had been killed by mercenaries when we were still children. My father and mother had been honest, God-fearing people, who worked hard and lived lives of devotion. And they had been slain by drunken louts, soldiers for hire who cared not for any Lord, earthly or heavenly. They had been caught up in the squabbles of earthly princes over land and wealth, lords like the Count of Toulouse and the Viscount Trencavel, who cared not at all for the Peace of God.

  Fortunately, monks from the Cistercian abbey nearby had come to our village after the raid and had found us hiding in the charred remains of our barn. Guillaume had not even yet been weaned. I think he bore no recollection of our mother and father, though I tried to instill a memory of their goodness and the horror of their deaths. I remembered it all too well. The screams of our neighbors, the thick smoke in the air, and my mother's face as she hid us in the barn. It was all madness, the fury of those mercenaries, for they did not fight to gain advantage or even wealth. They wanted only to despoil, to pillage, to lay all to ruin.

  The monks sent Guillaume to a wet nurse until he was weaned and then he joined me at the abbey school. So we found a new home. I loved the abbey, with all its rituals. I loved the chanting of the monks in their white robes and the smell of the beeswax candles, so clean and pure compared to the guttering tallow candles we had used at home. I loved studying in the scriptorium as a boy and then working there as an adult, copying manuscripts before handing them over to the illuminators. I was able to read so many treasures in my position as a copyist and I believe I could have been happy there all my life.

  Guillaume was not a scholar, but he too found his place in the order. As a child, he was adored by the monks, coddled and spoiled in a manner not befitting those who had chosen an order renowned for the strictness of its discipline. The severity of the regime was eased for Guillaume, who was given meat against all the rules of the order. As a child, I was offered the same cuts of meat and extra portions that were given to Guillaume, but I had studied the Rule of St. Benedict and instead of giving in to these carnal pleasures, I reprimanded the monks who had broken their office by offering this food to me. I followed the rule strictly, but the monks all doted on Guillaume, with his weaknesses and moral laxity. Even as a youth, he did not pray with the devotion and fervor that I did. Guillaume even fell asleep in chapel, but the monks excused it. They said that he was fatigued from his strict devotion to a regime of manual labor. But, I knew better. Guillaume was young and strong and would rather spend his days cutting down trees and clearing land and then napping in the sun after a full, rich meal of delicious meats. It was I who lived an exemplary life of devotion, prayer, and discipline.

  I believed that Guillaume and I would have been content to spend the rest of our days in the abbey, but we had been called by the leader of our order, Abbot Arnald of the Abbey of Citeaux, near Dijon. We traveled to the north in France, puzzled by the strange language and customs of these people and missing the sun of our home. Guillaume was forced, finally, to follow the Rule of St. Benedict strictly, now that he was separated from his doting and corrupting favorites at the abbey. I rejoiced in his struggles, for I knew that he would gain greater spiritual strength from them.

  I was in awe of the Abbot Arnald from the very moment I first saw him. His was a fiery faith coupled with a powerful intellect. The combination was inspiring. I finally understood so many things. Our small abbey in the south was only a tiny satellite of this vast spiritual empire, leading finally to the Pope, our protector. The Cistercians had a zeal for order, a passion for spiritual perfection, and a rigorous discipline. We despised the laxity of the Benedictines. Not for us their fat bellies and lazy minds. The Cistercians would play a powerful role here on this earth as well as in the heavenly kingdom to come.

  When we first arrived, we had been forbidden to shave our tonsures and our hair grew out wild and long. I was terrified. Had we committed some heinous transgression? Had the weaknesses of Guillaume and the monks been reported to this high level? Were we to be ejected from the order? But, then why would I, who had committed no sin or offense, be punished? It made no sense.

  Finally, we were commanded to the presence of the Abbot Arnald and our mission was explained to us. We had many questions, but did not dare to ask the august man. It was only our duty to obey. And this we would do, however difficult it proved for my lax brother. We would do our part to make sure that these heretics were destroyed and that the cancer they placed on the land was removed. In a world where our most Holy Pope ruled all powerful, and the order and discipline of the Cistercians pervaded the land, no ragged troop of mercenaries would ever again wreak their havoc.

  Trencavel

  Wednesday, August 5, 1209, midday

  The two sergeants dragged the man into the Viscount's hall, his legs jerking as they bumped along the stone floor. He was thin and his tunic was ripped. His head was bloody and it lolled backward. The line of petitioners waiting to see the Viscount's administrators parted to allow the soldiers to pass. Clerks at their tables looked up from their accounts and stared at them.

  The two sergeants approached the corner of the hall where the Viscount sat, surrounded by his vassals. They waited quietly for the Viscount to finish speaking. Their prisoner moaned. Trencavel put down the plans of the city he held and turned to the sergeants.

  “Who is this man?” asked Trencavel.

  The older sergeant cleared his throat and spoke up.

  “We found him at dawn sneaking in to the Castellar,” said the sergeant. “He carried coin, a lot of it.”

  “He couldn't give us an answer as to what he was doing,” said the younger sergeant. “So we’ve been beating it out of him the last few hours.”

  “At first he said he was just searching for his wife, who had a tendency to go prowling of a night,” continued the older sergeant. “But we knew better than that. He finally confessed. He didn't know the name of the man he gave the coin to, but he could describe him.”

  “And who is this man?” asked Trencavel. “Where is he?”

  “Well we went right quick to pick up the man and ask him a few questions. We thought he wouldn't be too hard to find. He's got a big scar across his face and he's always at that whorehouse by the Tour Davejean, but he was gone,” said the younger sergeant. “We beat up a few of the regulars, but they couldn't give us any information about him.”

  “We're sure he's really gone,” said the older sergeant.

  Trencavel swore.

  “So we don't know who the spies are inside,” said Trencavel. “He didn't know anything about them?”

  “I don't think so,” said the younger sergeant. “He only knew the man with the scar.”

  “Though he did keep mumbling about the monks,” said the older sergeant. “How they had so much money. Maybe the spy inside is working for the monks.”

  “Spies are always the damned priests,” Bertrand de Saissac interjected. “You should lock the lot of them up.”

  “A spy is sometimes quite useful if we can discover who he is without him knowing it,” said Trencavel.

  “Lock up
this man until he regains consciousness,” Trencavel said to the sergeants. “I want to know when he does.”

  The sergeants dragged the man away. Trencavel turned back to the table where he sat with Bertrand de Saissac and Cabaret. Just then the building shook when a large stone launched from a Crusader trebuchet slammed into the Tour Pinte, whose base formed one wall of the hall. Clerks grabbed parchment to keep it from being stained by spilled ink. Some dust from the ceiling floated down to the table where Trencavel sat. The missile bombardment, though desultory, had been going on all morning, but this was the first direct hit to the castle.

  “Target practice,” said Bertrand. “Fortunately, they know about as much about catapults and trebuchets as my mother.”

  “I wouldn't be so sure of that,” said Cabaret. “The Count of Nevers and the Duke of Burgundy have the gold to buy the services of the best siege engineers in all of Europe. They haven't even begun assembling some of their machines. The ones that are working are still being calibrated. They are only going to get better.”