by Bell, Gradyn
The midwife sighed deeply. She was truly exhausted. She was not getting any younger, and the last forty-eight hours had been taxing. That it had culminated in the loss of the young girl’s life had been a blow. She was beginning to fear she might be losing her touch. Her fame as a midwife who seldom lost either mother or child had spread far beyond her village, and even the lesser nobles of the area would encourage their wives to send for her when their labours had begun.
“Arnaud will need to go to Lavaur tomorrow at first light to let his wife’s parents know what has happened. Perhaps the fact that the baby is doing well will soften the blow.” She looked over to where Maurina slept the deep sleep of the innocent, her baby cheeks pink in the firelight. “Did you know they called for Bertrand Arsen just before she died? And there was no priest there,” she added meaningfully.
Her daughter hurriedly made the sign of the cross and cast her eyes about her, as if to make sure there were no demons about in her house. “Oh, the poor girl. To have gone to her maker unshriven. What could Arnaud have been thinking of?” The idea of meeting your maker without the benefit of Holy Mother Church filled Berthe with horror. She crossed herself again. “He’s a good Catholic. I’ve seen him at mass many times. Never her, though.”
“Her family comes from Lavaur and you know what that means,” the old lady said. “They’re a strange lot, although having said that, they never allow you to leave the house without some sort of refreshment, usually a cup or two of wine, and they always pay up on time! That’s more than you can say for some good Catholics around here.” The midwife sniffed her disapproval. She was owed several sums for accouchements she had attended, and by worthy pillars of the community at that! “I expect her parents will want to see her laid out. I have heard they have some weird customs for the burial of the dead, not the least of which was that consolamentum thing they did to the poor girl as she was breathing her last breath.”
“What was that?” Since the believers usually kept to themselves and refrained from speaking out loud about their rituals, Berthe was agog to find out all she could. Many strange stories had permeated the non-Cathar population, and people were ready to believe anything they were told and eager to pass on the gossip.
“Didn’t seem like anything much,” the old midwife replied. “She seemed happy once he had laid his hands on her head. He did have something else with him. It looked like a book, and he put that on her chest.”
“Was it a book of magic, do you think?” Berthe looked animated at the thought. She’d have some tales to tell when she went to do the washing tomorrow!
“Looked a bit like a small Bible to me. They didn’t open it or anything. I couldn’t see much through the keyhole, though.”
Berthe looked disappointed. She couldn’t wait till she went to do the washing at the lavoir to pass on all the news to the other women who would also be doing their monthly laundry in the stream that ran past the mill. She had hoped for something a little more exiting, but this would have to do.
It was late the next day when Arnaud arrived back with his wife’s parents. The sky had been threatening rain all day and it fulfilled its promise just as they climbed down from the cart that had delivered them to the bottom of the hill below the village. The track up to the village itself was too rutted for anything except travel by foot, so they were obliged to make their way upwards in the pouring rain.
It was cold and dank inside the house. Even though the weather was relatively mild, because no fire had been lit, the damp had permeated everywhere. Earlier, when it was light enough to see into the back of the cottage, Arnaud’s own mother had come in to remove the stained bed linen and wash away what she could of the remains of the previous day’s tragedy.
Arnaud looked at the cold, pale body of his wife, and sadness overwhelmed him. Fighting back tears, he left his in-laws to do what was necessary for the soul of their daughter. They stood together quietly for a few moments before the dead girl’s father cut off some of her hair and trimmed her nails. Carefully gathering together the cuttings he put them into a leather pouch.
Although the girl’s mother seemed sad, her father seemed less so. “Try to remember, my dear,” he said to his wife, “that she has not gone from us. Her soul will soon be reincarnated… who knows, perhaps into the body of the baby, Maurina,”
This provided some comfort to his wife, who wiped away the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. “She was so young to die and she wanted a baby so much.”
Her tears welled up again. He looked at her and took her hands in his. “Come. There is nothing to be gained by staying here. Our daughter’s spirit has gone and we must leave Arnaud to grieve with her body.”
Chapter Three
Northern France
1199 AD
The de Montforts
Even though the November day was cool, the air was hot inside the armourer’s tent. This particular craftsman was the best in his field and Walter had chosen him because of his unsurpassed reputation. His skills had already been called upon several times, even before the tournament had begun, to make last-minute alterations to hauberks, helmets and chausses. Well-adjusted equipment was critical to the success of all knights. The commission the armourer would earn from making a miniature set of armour for Simon de Montfort’s elder son would further spread his fame; he would return home to Germany after this tournament with enough orders to carry him through until the next great event the following year.
When the armourer looked up from his work and saw who his guest was, he bowed low to Simon and shouted for his assistant to bring the small hauberk. The chain mail on the garment gleamed in the sun pouring in through the opening of the tent. “You can see, Messire, the quality of the rings of the chain mail. They are very light but substantial enough to protect a young boy. The whole thing weighs less than eight pounds, a weight any young lad should be able to carry without too much fatigue.”
Simon was impressed and saw at once that this man deserved his reputation. “You have done well, Master Armourer. I can see that you truly know your craft. When I present my son with this tonight, there will be many more orders to follow. I will make certain of that!”
The Armourer beamed with delight at the praise and the thought of other orders to come. Who could tell? Perhaps he would have enough work to take on another apprentice or two. If they learned well, he could begin to think of early retirement! He looked up at Simon from the bow he was making and, with a deftness born of frequent practice, caught the satisfyingly fat purse that jingled comfortingly as Simon tossed it to him.
“Come tonight to the great hall and avail yourself of the food and the festivities,” de Montfort said warmly. Above all, Simon appreciated a man’s skill, whether it be in fighting, making armour, singing or, indeed, even cooking. His own standards were high, and he appreciated the same in others.
“Amaury will be delighted, as would any lad,” said Simon, as he left the tent with his squire. “It will ease his departure somewhat, this gift.”
“His departure, my Lord?” Walter looked mystified.
“The Lady Alicia and I have decided it is time for him to go to my uncle of Leicester’s estate in England. He leaves next week.”
“So soon? It seems but yesterday he was a babe in swaddling clothes. I remember him well, for I had just arrived at Montfort when he was born.”
“He will be nine on his next birthday, so it is not before time. He is growing very fast and has a reckless sort of courage, which, if guided correctly, will stand him in good stead in the future. No amount of armour, good weapons or excellent mounts will make up for lack of courage or courage wasted in a foolhardy way. A soldier must learn to use his brain as well as his brawn!” In Simon’s opinion, taking huge risks on a battlefield was akin to committing suicide and too often led to the loss of good men.
In the castle, a lengthy meeting between the preacher Fulques de Neuilly, his host, Count Thibaut and his marshal, Villehardouin, was drawing to a cl
ose. It had been a long and tiring session with the preacher, who had recently arrived from Rome with a message from the Holy Father himself. Pope Innocent had had small response from the nobles of France and the rest of Europe to his latest call to Christendom to take up the cross against the newest onslaught of the fierce Muslims who insisted that the Holy City of Jerusalem was theirs and were prepared to fight for it. Unfortunately the Christians felt the same and were heartily annoyed at the temerity of the Muslims. They were not so annoyed, however, that they felt inclined to rush off and fight. Pope Innocent had subordinated all else in these early years of his papacy to the calling of a Crusade and to rousing what he thought was the indolence of the King of France and his knights. In truth, after the failure of the last Crusade and the routing of the Christians by the infidels less than ten years earlier, no one was particularly interested in what many saw as a lost and expensive cause. Unwilling to give up Jerusalem, the Holy Father had taken it upon himself to send out Legates across the continent to exhort the population to commit to taking up the cross, form yet another army and set out to recapture the city.
Fulques de Neuilly was just such a Legate. Although only a mendicant preacher initially, he had such a powerful preaching style that he drew himself to the notice of his church superiors, who saw in him a “man of the people” who could be valuable to them. It was not long before he came to the notice of the Holy Father himself. Pope Innocent knew that this last big tournament of the century would be an ideal place to preach the cause of the Crusade. Dukes, counts, barons, brothers of kings, sisters of kings and nephews of kings would all be present in one spot for a few days during this holy period of Advent—it was too good an opportunity to miss!
Because of his powerful preaching style, Fulques was chosen to go and deliver the message. He had delivered it so convincingly that Thibaut and his marshal had been fired up with enthusiasm by the importance of this Crusade. He had given him permission to preach at the end of the tournament on the field in front of the lists, where all the knights would hear, and all the wives would be there to encourage them! He looked forward to a successful end to his preaching mission!
Although the sun was shining that afternoon, there was a wintry bite to the air as the competitors took their places. The dais was for the spectators—mostly noblemen too old to take part, their wives and the wives of the knights who would be riding this afternoon and the next day. Alicia felt herself shiver, not altogether due to the cold. Although Geoffrey was Simon’s friend, she had grown fond of him and did not wish to see him injured, or worse.
As she and Geoffrey’s wife, Marie, made their way to the dais where they would sit, they looked like two beautiful tropical flowers, dressed as they were in the most colourful of bliauts. Their dresses were elaborate to suit this splendid occasion, heavily embroidered at the high neckline with wide bands of embroidery and with fur-lined sleeves that reached nearly to the ground. Later on in the day, as the afternoon sun sank, the ladies would wear their pelices (fur-lined silk over-garments) but for now, the cut of their dresses showed off every part of their slim figures, and the young knights who would compete jostled impatiently to obtain the brightly coloured favours that the two women had pinned to their sleeves. Good manners dictated that the favours of the ladies should not be worn by their husbands, and the knight who chose a particular lady would dedicate his performance in combat to her by wearing a ribbon, veil or some other piece of her frippery that might be tied to his lance or helm.
For a few moments, all the ladies present on the dais were besieged by knights already dressed by their squires in the armour they would wear when mounted. It was no easy task to move about dressed thus, but somehow it was accomplished and the call to battle was made. Although Alicia was well used to tournaments and was in no way faint of heart as some women were, she always felt the same apprehension when the men lined up in turn to throw themselves into the contest..
She looked across at Marie and could see her knuckles whiten as Geoffrey’s turn came. The names of the combatants were called and they took up their places, one at each end of the concourse. The affair seemed to take an age. The horses galloped in slow motion. Time stopped. The world began to rotate as Marie closed her eyes. Her heart flew into her mouth as a great roar went up. She heard the sound of the huge crash as though it were right in front of her. Not daring to blink, she opened her eyes, prepared for the worst.
“Merciful heavens,” she prayed fervently, “let it not be Geoffrey.”
Happily, it wasn’t. Lying almost in front of her in an undignified heap was Gauthier de Brienne. Pulling off his helm as he struggled to his feet, his face began to redden and he scowled. Saluting the crowd somewhat ironically, he waved to his opponent and assisted by his squire, limped off the field.
Geoffrey’s squire, who in the meantime had disengaged himself from the group of young men that had crowded round the entrance to the lists, pushed forward and helped his master dismount. With a jaunty wave of his gloved hand, de Joinville smiled at Marie and left the field.
“Gauthier is finished for this tournament,” Simon said to a startled Alicia who had not heard his approach.
“And Geoffrey lives to fight another day, God be thanked.” Alicia crossed herself devoutly. “Look at Marie; she’s as pale as a ghost.” She made a move towards the young woman whose colour was only just beginning to return to her cheeks. “Simon, this was her first tournament as a wife. She didn’t see what was happening because she was too afraid to watch.”
“She’ll have to get used to it,” Simon said somewhat unfeelingly. “He’ll fight worse battles than this, many of them in mortal combat. And don’t forget, he may be fighting me tomorrow! Geoffrey did damned well. I must go and congratulate him.”
Alicia looked troubled by what her husband had said, knowing as she did that Simon de Montfort never reckoned to lose, even to a good friend. She feared what the morrow would bring. How she wished he was not so obsessive about everything he did. Why did he always have to win? Why was his whole life lived on a black-and-white basis? There was never any room for grey! It would do him good to lose sometimes. Make him more human, she thought. We all make mistakes, but Simon never did. Her boys would have a great deal to live up to, she thought ruefully, imagining the scenes as her sons grew older and began to challenge their father.
She went over to Marie and took her arm. “Let’s go back to the chateau,” she said. “It’s freezing out here and you look quite shaken. Doubtless, there will be a fire lit in your chamber. That and a good hot posset will warm you up. I expect Geoffrey will join you as soon as he gets over all the adulation he’s bound to receive,” she added ruefully. “These men are like children, basking in each other’s praise. They don’t have a care for how we wives might suffer.”
In preparation for the festivities that evening, an enormous fire had been lit in the centre of the great hall and the high table had been prepared for the multitude of respected and important guests who would be seated at Count Thibaut’s board in just a few hours’ time. Some lively discussion had taken place with respect to the positioning of Fulques at the table. Despite the fact that he had been born low in society, he was the Pope’s Legate and, as such, must be given pride of place in the seating. Everyone was arranged in strict order of social rank; to make a mistake in the positioning could cost a servant dearly.
Neither Amaury nor his younger brother Guy could sit anywhere near the high table. Their place would be with the younger pages towards the back of the hall, out of range of the heat from the fire. They would have to dress warmly indeed to avoid the chill the November night had brought into the castle.
“Stop it!” Amaury hissed at Guy, who was wriggling in and out of the feet of guests as they stood in the chapel for prayers before dinner. “Papa won’t let you stay up if you don’t behave yourself.”
Grinning, Guy looked up at him and pointed to the very stylish shoes being worn by the knight in the row ahead of them. The long,
pointed shoes were a sight to behold! This was a popular fashion in the capitals of Europe, inspired by the slippers worn by the Turkish infidels and brought back to France by former Crusaders. It was the very large curls at the toe ends of the shoes that Guy found so amusing, they so resembled a pig’s curly tail. They were downright dangerous to walk in, and the mincing walk that some of the young knights had to effect to retain their balance was the butt of many of the squires’ jokes.
“If you don’t get back here, I’ll tell maman that you didn’t attend to prayers and you’ll be sent to bed.”
There was no way Amaury wanted to be involved in Guy’s bad behaviour. He planned to see the dinner out this evening, even if Guy didn’t. You could find out a great deal if you kept quiet and didn’t draw attention to yourself. He had learned far more gossip that way than his parents could imagine. They would have been horrified if they knew what scandal he had managed to pick up by being unobtrusive and keeping his ears open! He could already have told them a thing or two about some of the goings-on in their friend’s chateau!
When the bell finally rang to signify the end of prayers, the crowd moved as a unit towards the great hall. They all knew their places and where they should seat themselves. They had all been schooled in the niceties of rank, and no one would have dreamed of sitting in another’s seat. As expected, Amaury and Guy found themselves well towards the back of the hall; they could hardly see the fire, much less feel any warmth it might be giving off. They found themselves in the company of about twenty or so pages who were too young to wait on table but whose presence was required in the great hall to run any last-minute errands. The pages were also charged with the job of looking after the great hunting hounds that slept beneath the boards which served as tables for those not exalted enough to warrant a place at the high table. If nothing else, the dogs contributed some warmth to the draughty place assigned to the young lads.