The troubadour's song

by Patricia Werner

  She gave a secretive smile. "I will appear at dinner this noon

  resolved to my fate. I will hand over the keys to our lord and master, and then I will ask permission to hold musical entertainments and poetic competitions as we are used to do."

  "Do you think he will grant it?" said Isabelle, not looking up from her sewing.

  "I don't see why not. When he isn't out fighting, he enjoys music and poetry," answered Allesandra.

  "How do you know that?"

  Her expression was ironic as she replied, "I had the pleasure of dining with Sir Gaucelm and Count de Montfort, or rather the ^pleasure, especially in the latter case. They housed themselves in the Lady Borneil's castle at Muret and before I could get away, we were placed under house arrest. As hostess, Marguerite entertained them."

  Marcia's eyes widened. "Did he tell you then what he planned to do here?"

  "No, he didn't even know who I was then. I claimed to be a northern woman. I thought I had him fooled." She allowed herself a little shrug. "Perhaps not."

  She arose and went to the small writing desk and lifted the lid to retrieve parchment and quill.

  "Come," she said. "We must make plans."

  As was the custom, the household assembled in the great hall at noon. The steward Julian stood by the pantry door directing the servants in carrying the dishes in from the kitchen. Although nothing was said, the glance he exchanged with his mistress assured her that although he was doing his duty by serving their new overlord, in his heart he remained loyal to her. She was grateful for such loyalties. There might come a moment when she would desperately need them. Quietly that morning, she had instructed Julian to let it be known among the staff that an appearance of submission must be made.

  When Allesandra entered the room, silence gradually fell over those assembled. She stepped up to the dais to take her place at

  the high table. Gaucelm was already there and turned to meet her. She began her act of cooperative submission without losing her dignity. And as Gaucelm bowed to her, she looked out over the strange household, her own people huddled together in knots, Gaucelm's retainers lined up next to the benches set before trestle tables stretching down the hall.

  It galled her to have to do what she must do. But she prepared herself to hand over the heritage that was hers, to symbolically relinquish lives into the hands of the man who towered beside her. A man whose kindness or cruelty she had no notion of. But she must live through this meal. She turned to face the enemy who seemed to mock her with his handsome looks, waiting, watching her with stealth, she thought.

  "My lord," she began in a voice that could be heard to the corners of the hall. "I surrender my house and my lands, hitherto held from the count of Toulouse, into your hands. For my vassals' sakes, we beg mercy and restraint in all your dealings. We pray that the profits you will reap from these lands go to a just and good king who will see the good in treating his people well. We hope that in time we may show you a way of life that you can respect."

  She rattled a huge ring of keys that she had tied to her girdle, which she now untied. "Rather than cause more bloodshed, I humbly submit to you, Gaucelm Deluc of the He de France. As your vassal, it is my obligation to serve you. For God has judged in your favor." Temporarily, she thought to herself.

  An uneasiness could be felt between the two cultures that stood separated in the room. And again Allesandra felt a cold hand tighten around her heart. How could they expect to live in peace when their ways were so foreign? They did not even speak the same language. Beliefs and culture were different. But she handed Gaucelm the keys and made a deep curtsy.

  He, in turn, behaved courteously, accepting the keys with one hand and offering her his other hand to lift her up. She accepted his hand, felt its strength, and then reclaimed her hand as quickly as she could, while she lifted her head to hear what he would say.

  "People of Toulouse," he said in a booming voice. "I accept the surrender of this castle and all its lands in the name of the king of France. It is my hope as well that we can live in peace until the conclusion of this holy war. We come as the army of God. As I am vassal to the king and have sworn to fight for France and Holy Church, so I accept this fief and the service of this noblewoman, Allesandra Valtin. Let us dine today in symbolic unity, and tomorrow you will see our justice where there is no cause for retribution."

  His men hailed him in a cry that struck Allesandra as that which must have come from Germanic tribes of old. As if enacting their warrior heritage, the corps of soldiers grasped drinking cups and downed the wine in them while her people stood mute.

  The formalities over, Gaucelm gestured for a servant to pull back the carved, high-backed chair on the dais. He waited until Allesandra had been seated, and then he, too, took his seat.

  This was the signal for the rest of the diners to sit on the benches along the side of the trestle tables, and the servants began to bring in the meats. The silence was punctuated with low words here and there, the scraping of benches, and then the sound of wine being poured into cups. When the din covered private conversation, and the high table had been served, Gaucelm surveyed Allesandra.

  "I see you are much better this morning."

  She lifted her spoon to take a sip of the fish soup in the bowl she shared with her dinner partner. "I am better," she said, not looking at him.

  "I am glad."

  Was he? If so, only because having her cooperation would make his assumption of overlordship easier. She kept her face blank, pushed away the soup and accepted a trencher of meat set before her while Gaucelm sampled the soup.

  When she glanced sidelong at him, she was disconcerted to feel a tremor of awareness dart through her. How empty the high table had been since her husband had died. Grown used to wid-

  owhood, Allesandra had been in no hurry to remarry, and her overlord Count Raymond had not pressed her. But she'd never expected the master's seat at the high table to be filled in this manner. She'd always expected that in due time it would be filled by a man Count Raymond would find for her, a man worthy of her estates and of herself.

  There was no denying that Gaucelm Deluc emanated authority. Worse for her, that courteous manners accompanied handsome, aristocratic looks. She ate slowly, adjusting herself to their strained situation when he washed his meat down with wine and then turned his gaze upon her.

  "Have you been widowed long, madam?" he asked her.

  She took her time answering. "Two years. My husband died fighting the Moors in Spain."

  "I see. He was a hero then."

  "Yes."

  She preferred not to discuss it. She rarely thought of the man she'd called her lord and master. A kind man, the marriage had been arranged by their families, and they had been companionable enough. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Gaucelm that her husband had been fifteen years her senior, but then she held her words. It was none of his business.

  Gaucelm let the matter drop and turned to business. "Perhaps after dinner, you will have your steward show me your records. I need to acquaint myself with the demesne."

  She adopted a pleasant look. "Why make it difficult? As you say, if you are taking no reprisals, I see no reason not to show you the demesne myself." And keep him away from parts of it she didn't wish him to see.

  His left arm rested on the table as the servants brought another course. She found it difficult to meet his gaze evenly, for her heart pounded skittishly and her skin felt clammy. Truly, his searching gaze was going to make dissembling the more difficult.

  Gaucelm's other hand rested on the carved arm of his chair near her. She saw him grip the arm as if restraining some emotion

  within himself, and her awareness of his power increased. For a moment she wished fervently for a conqueror more like her late husband, a man of ordinary looks, genial and conservative, if lacking in fiery spirit. Gaucelm was a hardened warrior who was also sensual, but a man who brooked no argument. Something about him overwhelmed her. She grasped her wine g
oblet and took a sip to steady herself.

  Looking straight ahead, she said, "My steward Julian will show you what records and household accounts you wish to see. I am at your service whenever you would like to see the lands and meet your tenants."

  "Very good."

  Then taking a breath, she remembered her plans to distract him and turned a pleasant expression upon him. "I do have one question, my lord."

  "And what is that?"

  "In times that were more gay, our evenings were spent in song. Many notable troubadours visited this court. Now they are away. But if it would please you, my messengers could let it be known that you would find it interesting if the troubadours and their jongleurs again visited this court and performed and composed as in days before the war."

  He narrowed his eyes slightly as he searched her face, suspicious of her offer. There had to be a reason she was so anxious to entertain him.

  "Diversions for my men are always welcome," he said. "I would learn of these troubadours."

  "I am glad," she said. "I think you will find it pleasing. We will do our best to acquaint you with our ways."

  He smiled and took a piece of fruit.

  "Tell me, where the troubadours gather, I have heard it called a court of love. Is that not so?"

  She gave him a sly smile. "That is so. There are many rules a courtier must follow if he is to be accepted in a court of love."

  Gaucelm lifted a dark brow, curious about the southern passions he'd heard sung of in flowery phrases.

  "I have heard that these poets who are famed for their verses are also fighting knights. How can a man trained to arms and combat also know music and verse?"

  "That is not difficult for a people steeped in Latin literature. And some of the love themes have perhaps come back to our shores from the eastern lands."

  "Hmmm. Then I suggest you assemble your court, madam, as long as they know into whose demesne they are being invited. And they must come accompanied only by musicians. A half-dozen troubadours at most. They may keep their arms if they give their word not to draw them. They will be given safe escort here."

  "Of course."

  Assembling so many knight poets in one place might offer them a chance to retake the castle, but Gaucelm was not foolish enough for that. No, her entertainment would work in other ways.

  They finished the cheese course and washed it down with wine. Then Gaucelm rose and held his hand to escort Allesandra from the dais. She accepted Gaucelm's hand only as far as the edge of the dais. She took her hand from his firm, warm grip to hold her train as she descended the steps to the rush-strewn floor.

  "It is a fine day," he said, forcing her to turn again and face him at the entrance to the hall. The din of the meal inside was still in the background. "If you would still like to accompany me in my inspection of the demesne, I would be glad for the company."

  "As you wish. I can be ready in half an hour."

  He smiled in amusement. "And do you have a horse to ride that would be more suitable than that charger you brought from Muret?"

  "Roussillon is a very good mount," she said defensively.

  He chuckled. "Oh, indeed, good for a strong soldier, but hardly for a lady. Don't worry, I do not wish to take him from you unless I need him," he said, seeing the ire rise in her lovely face. "I simply inquire as to a horse on which you would find more comfort." -

  She forced herself not to argue about Roussillon, to whom

  she'd grown very attached. But of course on familiar lands, riding at leisure, she would be better off on one of her mares. She started to issue an order and then remembered their positions. How vexing it was to have to be submissive, and for a moment she wondered how long she would be capable of it. However, she took a breath and then spoke calmly.

  "If you would be so kind as to have one of the grooms saddle my bay, I would appreciate it."

  He nodded in deference. "Then I will meet you in the stables in one half hour from now."

  She dropped a small curtsy and turned, her blood pounding in her veins. This was going to be more difficult than she had expected. It was a full two years since she'd been beholden to any man. Her widowhood had left her well fixed. She could not put her finger on all the conflicting emotions that coursed through her as she hurried to the women's chambers to have her companions help her dress in loose gown and mantle appropriate for riding.

  Allesandra had hoped to slip away to have a word with those whose lives were in danger, but there was no chance. If Gaucelm insisted in galloping over the demesne, it was better that she be with him. By now word would have reached the believers that the castle had been overtaken. The bishop's court would soon follow. She must make it look as if no Cathars inhabited this neighborhood, though she doubted the bishop would believe that for a moment.

  A half hour later, they rode out through the gatehouse, her own guards now replaced by French men-at-arms. An eerie shiver raced down her spine. She felt almost guilty that her captor allowed her freedom, while her own house guard were shut up in the towers. Julian had assured her they were being well treated, but it furthered her resolve to reverse the situation as soon as plans were laid.

  From the upthrust natural escarpment that formed the foundations of the castle, they rode down into the fertile valley. Blue sky, fleecy clouds, and yellow grain splashed the early-autumn

  afternoon with color. Once past the fields, they began a gradual rise up a terraced slope where villeins tended the Valtin vineyards. Allesandra refused to think of them as the Deluc vineyards. They'd been in her husband's family for too long.

  Gaucelm gazed at the undulating horizon in the distance, beyond which the snow-capped peaks of the Pyrenees bordered the kingdom of Aragon. The clear air made the distance seem negligible.

  Allesandra pointed in a southwesterly direction. "The river narrows between those two peaks. That is our border."

  "I see. It is interesting to translate what I have seen on maps to the reality of rocks and hills."

  Borders and passes, more likely, she thought. From the way he squinted into the distances, she could see his military mind working. He would no doubt get a firm fix on his new lands in a very short time. But now that Peter of Aragon was dead, what enemy could he expect to ride from that direction?

  Gaucelm got down to inspect the grapes. She followed him, her own eyes scanning the fields. But the villeins kept well away, finding work to do at the far end of the fields. By now all would know that they had a new overlord. And they would come to pay their respects when it was time. For now, Allesandra tried to discern who among them might see who she was with and pass the word along as warning.

  "They say that wine has a memory," he said, dropping to one knee and letting the vine trail across his gloved hand. "That wines are deeply unsettled at the time of the harvest. Do you believe that?"

  His look sent a searing sensation across her, and she looked away, her expression neutral.

  "The natural world is in some way part of us," she answered. "If we abuse it, we cannot expect it to be so generous with us in return."

  "An interesting belief," he said, dropping the vine and regaining his height, "if perhaps somewhat pagan."

  She took his meaning and squared her shoulders. "If you are

  suggesting it is a Cathar belief, I doubt it. You must understand all the influences that have played a part in our land, my lord. The Arabs have left their traces. The Genoese and Venetians have traded here. Languedoc is a mixed culture. You will find many ideas unfamiliar to you; not necessarily all of them are Cathar."

  "Not necessarily."

  He took a step toward her between the vines, and she resisted her impulse to move back. She must not let him think she feared him. At the same time, his nearness affected her, and she began to see that it was not the enemy in him, but the man that he was that caused her such discomfort.

  Her heart rattled, and she touched a stake in the vines to help keep her balance. For Gaucelm was so near she could almost
feel the warmth from his face. His eyes danced across her face, and she looked down as his gaze dropped to her lips.

  A sudden rush of sensual longing filled her, and her lips parted as she took in a quick breath. How traitorous of her to find her enemy desirable. How traitorous of Simon de Montfort to send a man here capable of reminding her of her widowhood, to remind her of pleasures that had once been her right, but that she'd lived without and hardly missed these two years.

  Gaucelm said nothing, but did not take his eyes away. As she flicked a glance his way, she thought that he took in her figure before returning his dark eyes, tinged with hunger, to her face.

  She turned away, breathing quickly, moistening dry lips. An attractive man he might be, but she must not let him know she found him so.

  She returned to the horses, and the dry grass crunched under his leather boots behind her. Without a word he laced his strong fingers together for her to step into briefly as she mounted, her long, loose skirt sweeping behind her.

  Still trembling from what had just passed between them, Alle-sandra turned her horse and trotted along beside the pale-barked plane trees shading the edges of the vineyards. Ahead, a grassy meadow beckoned. From the top, flat-toned bells made a faint tintinnabulation where a large flock of sheep grazed. The shep-

  herds kept their distance from the lord and lady flying along in their direction.

  Allesandra circled before they reached the flock, leading Gaucelm off toward the more open lands beside the river. Here she could safely point out cottages that belonged to a hamlet of working peasants, his subjects now, and lead him away from the forested folds in the hills behind them.

  They slowed to a walk beside the sparkling waters, ducking to avoid overhanging branches. At the small collection of thatched cottages, craftsmen and farmers stood up from their work before their cottages, the women with eyes downcast and the men with caps in hand.