The Song of the Troubadour

by Stephanie Cook

  Trencavel looked around at the knights and soldiers lined up around the courtyard. He did not want to lead them to surrender and defeat. He would lose his lands as would they. So many had fought and died already for this city and to give up now made him want to rage madly, to plant his sword in the skull of every Crusader who had come to destroy his people and his lands. But, then Trencavel thought of his people who sought refuge inside this city. So many. So many weak and young and vulnerable. They would not withstand a long siege. There was no honor in ruling over a city of the dead.

  “Very well, I will negotiate.” said Trencavel.

  The knights in their ranks seemed to stiffen, but no one uttered a sound.

  “Sire,” Trencavel continued. “Take into your hands this city, and all within its walls. Long ago, your father and mine loved each other. In remembrance of this, I entrust all to you.”

  Trencavel bowed down and kissed the ring of the king again. He stood and watched as the king and his two men walked to their mounts. They rode out of the courtyard. Trencavel ordered the gates of the city shut tight. Trencavel breathed again. He did not know for how much longer, but the city was still his.

  Bernard

  Sunday, August 9, evening

  Did Judas feel a marked man after he had kissed our Lord in the garden? Did he wonder how long it would be before his treachery was discovered? How long he would be able to live before he was punished for his betrayal? And yet, he who betrayed our Lord Jesus Christ and sent Him to His death was allowed to live, while I, who had betrayed only heretics and blasphemers, was likely to be driven to my death for my acts.

  Though it was evening, I had just awoken. I had spent the day hidden in the cathedral and had finally fallen asleep. I had been walking the city streets all yesterday since I escaped from the Castellar and all last night. I searched all the refugee faces, but could not find Guillaume anywhere. I did not even know if he had managed to escape the carnage of yesterday morn. I was sure that I was being followed late last night by two night watchmen, but I disappeared down a narrow alley and managed to escape from them, the drunken foolish louts. But, I did not know how long my good fortune would last. If the mason had escaped, he may have guessed that it was I who had betrayed the weak spot in the walls. In his rage, I was sure that he would hunt me down himself, if the guardsmen did not succeed.

  I knew what my fate would be. I suppose that I had been preparing for it ever since I was first given these orders by the Father Abbot. I will not lie. I prayed that the Father would pass this cup from my lips, but, like the most Holy one whose life we can only try to emulate, I, too, drank the bitter dregs. I did not mind my fate, now that I knew that my purpose here had been served. How many souls would be saved by my actions? It would be like counting the grains of sand on a beach. But, I wanted one thing only before they took me. I wanted to see Guillaume and I wanted to confess to him. I wanted to go to my death pure and absolved of all sin.

  I headed to the marketplace and found a stall that sold cheap wine at mad prices. My throat was parched and my tongue swollen from thirst. The wetness of the liquid grapes filled my mouth with joy, but nothing I drank could quench the deepness of my thirst. I tried to ignore my fellow patrons, but their incessant drivel filled the night air. But, soon I heard the most joyous news and cocked my ear to listen to an old man rumbling on.

  “It may all be over by tomorrow,” he said. “The King will save us all. He will slaughter them all in their beds and drive off these invaders.”

  “Not a chance,” said another grizzled man. “My sister's aunts' cousin is in the Viscount's guard and she heard the King advising the Viscount to surrender. Even the King of Aragon is afraid of this army.”

  There was still a glimmer of hope for my earthly existence, if these rumors were true. I could be back with my Father Abbot tomorrow evening, if I could just stay alive until then. I imagined myself honored and feted at the table of the Father Abbot. Maybe I would travel to Rome as the Abbot's personal secretary and maybe even meet our Lord's representative here on earth, the Holy Father himself.

  An old man put down his wine glass and began to cry.

  “If he surrenders, we will be butchered!” said the old man. “Remember Béziers!”

  “But, we are not going to fight,” said the first man. “Surely, they will not be too hard on us.”

  “They have many dead already,” said the old man. “They will not forget those who have died. We will be butchered in recompense. There is no hope.”

  The old man spilled his wine as he began to sob uncontrollably.

  I stopped short my reverie; I had just been imagining myself in cardinal red, gracing the offices of the Vatican. How mad! I must keep my head clear. If I were even to see my Father Abbot ever again, I would need to avoid being killed by the Viscount's men and then by the Crusaders themselves.

  Suddenly, I heard the clomp of the guardsmen’s feet as they marched along the cobblestones streets of the marketplace. I hurriedly threw down the last of my wine and pulled my cloak closer around me. I left the wine stall and tried to move away from the guards quickly, but without attracting too much attention.

  “That's him,” cried a voice. “He's the one I saw talking to the spy.”

  I started to run, my heart pounding. I knocked over a young man as I quickly turned into an alley and I could hear the man swearing at me.

  “Catch that man,” yelled a guard. “He's a spy.”

  I looked over my shoulder and saw that the young man had joined in the pursuit and was gaining on me. My breath was becoming labored and my side ached with exertion. I did not see the cobblestone that tripped me, but only felt the wind knocked out of me as I fell forward to the dirty street with all the force of forward momentum. I struggled to get back up quickly, but it was too late. The young man landed on my back and pinned his arms to my side.

  “You thought you could run, you bastard spy,” said the young man. He spat on my face. “That's for my dead brother, you murdering fiend.”

  I felt my captor's hands tighten their grip on my arms, twisting the shoulder until I winced. I was glad to see the two guardsmen catch up with me. I was whipped to a standing position, with a beefy guard on either side. The young man spat again in my face.

  “Let me spend a few minutes with him before you take him,” begged the young man.

  “We would be more than glad to let you, and might even give you a hand,” said the older guard. “But the Viscount has given strict orders that all men taken as spies are to be brought to the palace for questioning. The last one had an unfortunate accident before we could get him to the Viscount's man and we were brought to account for it.”

  A crowd had begun to gather. I sweated as I heard the word spy bandied about. Some of the young men at the edges of the crowd had picked up stones and pieces of brick. The angry young man was scowling at the guards, but said nothing. I felt hugely relieved when the guards finally began to move me out of the alley, pushing aside the crowd with their staffs. A group of men followed the guards, muttering and swearing, but they did not dare to attack me while the Viscount's men were guarding me. I never thought I would be glad to be taken to jail, but I preferred the Viscount's justice now to that of this crowd, who looked as if they would like to rip me from limb to limb.

  DAY 10 OF THE SIEGE OF CARCASSONNE

  Monday, August 10, 1209

  Constance

  Monday, August 10, morning

  “She wants you to help her in the courtyard,” said Beatritz.

  Constance did not know how Beatritz could decipher her sister's words. The slow woman could speak, but it was a guttural language that Constance could not follow. Gratefully, Constance got up and followed the slow woman down the stairs. Beatritz' constant crying and moaning had begun to irritate Constance. She felt bad for the woman, who had lost her home and her husband his livelihood, but she did not wish to hear the keening anymore. The children were miserable as well, hot and thirsty. Their mothe
r's fear spread to them and they cried as well. It would be a relief to go downstairs and help the sister with her chores.

  Constance followed the sister to the kitchen. A basket of vegetables sat on the trestle table. The sister handed Constance a knife and the two women sat down and began peeling carrots and onions. Constance threw the chunks of carrot in a heavy iron pot that hung over the fire. They poured a little precious water into the pot and continued to cut vegetables for the stew. Constance wondered how long the house's supply of vegetables would last. She hoped they had a deep root cellar.

  The heat in front of the fire in the hot August morning was stifling and Constance could feel sweat pouring down her back. She stood up and opened the door leading into a little courtyard behind the house in the hope of maybe finding a small breeze. In the courtyard, the two apprentices and the journeyman sat under the shade of a small apple tree. They were sharpening their tools and idly eating apples plucked from the branches of the tree. Constance came back into the kitchen and sat down again at the table. She could still hear the crying from upstairs, but it sounded more remote. A bee droned in the air. The voices of the young men wafted into the kitchen.

  “The mason is going to have to pay for this disaster even if it wasn’t his fault that no stones were left to make the base,” said the journeyman. “He'll have a hard time getting work once everyone knows it was his wall that fell and let in the invaders. A reputation is a delicate creation - you can work your whole life for a good one and see it destroyed in a day.”

  “But, what will happen to us?” said the older apprentice. “I have almost finished my apprenticeship. Will I have to start over again with someone else? I don't want to eat the scrapings of the pot and work my back to the bone again for yet another master.”

  “We'll be ruined,” said the youngest apprentice.

  “Boys, it doesn't have to be like this,” said the journeyman. “When this is all over, come away with me. We'll go to another city, and I'll pass their guild test to become a master. I have some gold coin saved up. I'll take you on as my apprentices for half the normal time. We can become a masonry shop.”

  “And we work for you for free for all those years, even though we're trained men and almost journeymen ourselves,” said the older apprentice. “That sounds like a good deal for you, but not a very good one for us.”

  “Take it or leave it, boys,” said the journeyman. “You don't have any money to set up on your own and no guild will let an unfinished apprentice start in their town. You'll be run out of the city in no time. You can always wait around here, but I don't think your current master is going to have much in the way of business soon. If he even manages to avoid a prison cell.”

  Constance listened intently. She worried for the mason, who had been so kind to Bernard, Guillaume, and herself. She wondered if she ought to say something to him about his treasonous workers, but did not know if she would do more damage than good. Anyway, the mason was probably smart enough to guess what his journeyman was up to. Even in the best of times, these men were always scheming for a way to get their own workshop. More than one mason's widow was all too quickly married off to the journeyman who shared her roof. Maybe Guillaume would know what to do.

  Constance also worried for Bernard, but she knew he must probably be dead. Guillaume had not spoken of his brother, but his face was lined with worry and the dark circles under his eyes were surely a sign that he did not sleep. But, then who could sleep? Rumors were flying around the city. The Viscount would surrender. They would all be massacred. The Viscount would fight with the King of Aragon and they would all be saved. Constance did not know whom to believe. She only believed that, whatever decision the Viscount made, it would not go easy for the common people of the city. Their homes and coins were to be the spoils of this battle. If their Viscount could not protect them, all would be lost.

  The door to the street opened and Guillaume walked in, followed by the mason. The mason's face was livid with rage. He slammed the door behind him and the timbers of the house shook.

  “They don't have need for men,” said the mason. “My ass, they don't have a need. You could see the holes in that wall. They need every proficient, hard-working mason in this city to repair the damage to those walls. And now is the time! While the King of Aragon is here and they're negotiating, we've got precious time to do these repairs before the bombardment starts up again.”

  “Perhaps, if we are fortunate, there will not be a need to repair the walls,” said Guillaume. “If the King can negotiate an honorable surrender, we may all be free of this violence by tomorrow.”

  The mason turned on Guillaume and slammed his hand against the table.

  “Are you a fool, boy?” said the mason. “Do you expect those murderers to behave with honor? They slaughtered everyone in Béziers. They even burned down the cathedral where the idiot Catholics thought they would find refuge! There is no refuge. There is no trusting the word of those madmen. They want us dead and they will come and slice us down in our beds, our homes, our churches. Now they have come to convert us and we will never be free of their violence.”

  The mason turned and went up the stairs. Constance could hear him yelling at Beatritz. The children started their crying again. Guillaume came over and sat next to Constance.

  “I worry for him,” said Guillaume. “He is a broken man. They needed help today at the wall, but they did not trust him to do his job correctly. I don't know which he fears more - that they think him a traitor or merely incompetent.”

  Constance lowered her voice.

  “The apprentices and the journeyman have been talking,” said Constance. “They are scheming to leave him.”

  Guillaume' face clouded. He looked down.

  “I am sorry that you have not heard from your brother,” said Constance. “He could have escaped. He would not know where to find us here in the city.”

  “I do not know what to make of my brother anymore,” said Guillaume.

  He looked strangely at Constance. She did not know how to respond, so she said nothing.

  “I worry for us all,” said Guillaume.

  Azalais

  Monday, August 10, noon

  Azalais finished organizing the load of supplies that had been delivered from the castle this morning. Gauda had kept her word and the Viscount had sent water, grains, and meat to the hospital in the early hours of the morning. The porters had arrived under a heavy guard, even at that hour, and well they should have, for soon water would be more precious than gold in this city. Azalais stopped and stretched her back slowly. She was too old to be doing this, but there would be no rest until this siege was over, one way or another.

  The brief respite from bombardment had done the patients well, thought Azalais. The most seriously injured would surely die and she gave them medicines mainly to ease their suffering. But those who had suffered less severe injuries were showing signs of improvement. There were some wounded arms and legs that were festering, despite the good women's best efforts, but they could be amputated to save the life of the patient. Though, for what, Azalais sometimes wondered. A life begging on the steps outside the cathedral, most probably. Those who were not strong or rich had no other recourse than to beg for charity in this world. What a misery. Far better that they escape, but Azalais only performed the consolamentum on those who asked for it. It always surprised her how tenuously most clung to the last shred of their earthly existence and left it, wanting only to come back for more.

  “Sister Azalais, there is a man calling for you,” said Eleanor. Eleanor turned and left the pantry without waiting for Azalais' reply. The ancient Eleanor was barely respectful of Azalais these days and the younger women took their cue from her. Eleanor had not spoken to her again of Constance, but she commented frequently on the blessings of forgiveness in one or another context.

  Azalais often came upon a group of good women talking in low voices among themselves, only to have them abruptly stop as soon as she approached
within earshot. So, if this were to be a mutiny, so be it. Constance had brought her shame upon herself and she could come begging for forgiveness if she truly felt repentant. It was not the place of Azalais to go to her.

  Azalais left the pantry and walked through the main hospital room. A man stood at the door, supporting a pale woman at his side. She was doubled over, moaning.

  “Yes,” said Azalais. “You wanted to speak with me.”

  “Please, good woman,” said the man. “I have heard that you can heal with herbs and draughts. My wife is very sick.”

  “Can you not care for her at home?” said Azalais. “We have many injured to attend to and there are not enough beds as it is.”

  “She became ill so fast,” said the man. “I fear for her life. We are alone here in the city and there is no one I can turn to for her care.”

  “You are refugees?” asked Azalais.

  “Yes, from the countryside,” said the man. “We feared the army.”

  The woman moaned again and Azalais could see that her face was white and sweaty.

  “Very well,” said Azalais. “Bring her in.”

  Azalais guided the man to an empty cot in the back of the room, whose previous occupant had died from a sword wound this morning. The man helped his wife to lie down. Immediately, she doubled up in pain and her bowels loosened. Azalais stared at the sheet with a sense of resignation mingled with fear.

  “The bloody flux,” said Azalais.

  Azalais called over one of the other good women and together they began cleaning the woman as best they could. Azalais prayed that the rumors of surrender were true, no matter the outcome. She did not think a marauding, victorious army could do half the damage that this bloody flux would do. Of one thing Azalais was sure. This woman may have been the first stricken, but she would not be the last.