"I merely warn you, madam, that when the bishop's inquisitors come to this court, as soon they must, it will be an easy matter to draw attention to such things."
She faced forward angrily, refusing to look at him. "You purposely twist my words, my lord. I supposed you were enjoying the music."
Now he closed his hand easily about her forearm. "So I was. I merely wish to warn you."
His tone was convincing, and she spoke in a low, urgent voice. "You mean to say you are familiar with an inquisitor's methods."
He gazed at the frolicking company before them, their brightly colored costumes mingling against the gray stones and painted wall hangings of the hall. To anyone watching, it would merely seem that they were talking about the festivities at hand. But he answered her question. "I have seen them work."
She sat back in her chair. While still uncertain whether she could trust him, she took his warning to heart. She would have to be more careful in her speech when danger was near.
Gaucelm made no more mention of inquisitors but stood up and offered his hand. "Perhaps you would like to join the dancing while I talk with my men," he said.
She acquiesced and stepped down to join the circle now form-
ing to dance in formalized patterns to the flute, stringed instruments, and tambourine. She forced her mind away from her fright and conversed with her friends. When she turned to execute a step, she saw that Gaucelm had joined a group of his men drinking by the hearth. His profile was illuminated by the flickering fire, and by oil lamps suspended from brackets on the wall. Therein lay the real danger, and she knew it. Not danger from an inquisitor's court, but danger from a man who was waging a private war against her heart. And who would be the loser?
She must be wary even while she enjoyed herself among her friends. By the third dance, her throat was dry and she sought refreshment. Gaucelm broke off from his group at the same time, and they walked together toward a table laden with dried fruits where a servant dispensed wine.
Handing her a silver goblet full of locally harvested wine, Gaucelm smiled. "Perhaps you would care for a breath of fresh air after your exertions."
She nodded, unsure if this were wise, but she followed him to a door leading out of the hall. They took a stairway that led upward and out onto the ramparts. The fresh night air cooled her brow, and the sounds of revelry were now replaced by the soft night breeze.
The land below and forest beyond were still visible in faint outlines. The countryside to the north and east rolled away in dips and folds. Tiny lights burned in nearby cottages and on the westward hills where shepherds roasted their supper. Nearer, the occasional footstep of a guard on duty could be heard from the drawbridge below.
When Gaucelm finally broke the silence, it was to comment on the troubadours and their ways.
"I fail to see how these rules of artificial etiquette can actually lead to feelings of devotion between the lovers in these songs," he said.
Allesandra tried to explain. "It rests with the suitor to convince the lady of his sincerity."
Gaucelm chuckled softly. "But only by a number of artificial
signs. And if the lover takes a misstep, his behavior is reproached in one of these courts of love."
"That does not mean his affections are not sincere."
He chuckled. "Take the case of the gentleman who loved a lady, but had not the opportunity of speaking with her. He arranged that by his steward he and his lady-love could communicate."
"You have been reading our literature," she said, surprised, but still suspicious.
"I must practice my Provencal if I am to live here and hold these lands for France. If I am to dispense justice, I must do so in the native language. How better to understand the southern people than by reading their literature?"
"That is so, my lord."
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if other Frenchmen were so willing to educate themselves in the ways of the Provencals. But she withheld her comment.
Gaucelm went on. "The gentleman's and the lady's love was thus concealed in perfect secrecy. But it seems that the steward, forgetting his duty to his master, pleaded his own suit with the lady, and she gave him her affection."
"Ah, yes, I know the case," replied Allesandra.
Gaucelm described the story just as poetically as if he'd been a troubadour himself. But he needed neither music nor instrument to weave the tale about her, his voice low and beckoning.
"The gentleman was naturally indignant with the steward, so the story goes, and denounced the intrigue to a court of love."
"And do you recall the verdict?" asked Allesandra as they strolled farther along the ramparts.
"According to the story I studied in your books, the crafty knave was allowed to enjoy his stolen pleasure. But the court of love decreed that both of them be excluded from the love of everyone in future. That the lady never be invited to an assembly of ladies since she violated the precepts of womanly modesty in stooping to love one so low. And the steward be forbidden to
be seen near an assembly of gentlemen since he broke the laws of honor."
All this talk of love and Gaucelm's nearness quickened Alle-sandra's heartbeat in a most disquieting way. He moved to lift a hand to her cheek, and her face tingled at his touch.
"I would not want any harm to come to you, my lady, should the wrong ears interpret your love games. There is still much in your friends' poetry that sounds like heresy." His voice was very low, almost a whisper. "Take heed."
She felt her throat go dry and the blood rush through her limbs. "Is it inevitable that there will be an inquisition here?"
His hand slid round her head and along her back, and he gently pressed her toward him in a protective gesture. "I am afraid that cannot be stopped. It might be better to tell me the truth about your friends than to wait for the bishop's court."
Her feelings teetered between remembering what Gaucelm stood for and gratefulness for the mercy he had shown thus far.
He tucked her shoulders against his chest and gazed outward at the land that was the bone of contention between the king of France and the nobles of the South.
"I fight for the unity of France," he reminded her. "And the king fights for the pope. One needs to take care in these dangerous times."
"We are in your hands now, my lord," she said, trembling against him. "You are our protector."
He reached to turn her in his arms, his voice and look suddenly intent. "Would you have me as your protector? I believe we do not have to be enemies, if you would be truthful with me."
She opened her mouth to speak, but the words choked in her throat. Gaucelm did not resist the temptation of lowering his lips for a kiss.
The joy at having a man's strong arms about her swallowed Allesandra, and she could not help but respond to his embrace. In her confusion, she tried to think of how he might be right. If he were on their side, he would be able to protect them from the
evils of the French inquisition. But there was no time for plotting, for Gaucelm's embrace became more urgent.
She trembled as they stood close. His arm wrapped around her waist, and she felt the reckless desire to want to stay thus, forever.
"Allesandra, my lady," he whispered in a hushed voice. "Come with me now. Let not this night keep us apart. Let me show you that I am not your enemy."
Her heart thundered against her chest, and she said nothing. Instead, she allowed him to slide his hand up her arm and hold her shoulder as he kissed her temple. Then his other arm slid about her and he held her in a warm embrace. Their kiss was natural, as if she'd known him forever. And she could not deny that she wanted more of him. How had he wormed himself into her heart and mind thus? Was he one of Lucifer's angels then? Tempting her beyond her own control?
Somehow her feet moved as he wrapped one arm about her waist and led her the short distance to a doorway. He escorted her down the steps to the door to the great chamber.
The evening of celebration and the int
imate discussion of the ways of love had drawn them undeniably together. Alone now in his chamber, the effects of the evening fanned their desire. The look of passion he had thrown her way now feasted on her own flushed face as he gathered her into his arms again. Her body throbbed with a desire stronger than any she had ever felt, as strong as the sinful ones sung about in the poems. And she knew she was not going to fight him anymore.
"Madam," he said in his sensuous tone. "I am no poet, and I do not waste time on words. I would show you my feelings. With my actions, I would prove myself."
All thought was gone now, except for those of this man. She pressed her lips eagerly against him, and her hands could not help nesting in his thick, black hair. Only the light from the fire in the fireplace cast the burnished outlines of his chiseled face. She caught a breath as his hands began to caress her through the folds of her robes.
Then he pushed aside her surcoat, threw offhis own and deftly untied the girdle at her waist. His lips found her ears and throat, while his hands flamed the desire in every part of her body and her own hands eagerly explored the muscular prowess of his powerful frame, traitorous as it was. She was hungry for this man and no longer cared to resist him.
It did not seem to matter that only hours ago she had told her friends that Gaucelm Deluc was her enemy. That she vowed to work to overthrow him and reclaim her castle. For now all she wanted was for him to claim her for his own. The need her body had felt ever since she'd been thrown together with him in this castle now cried out for fulfillment.
He led her to the bed and then knelt to lift the hem of her garment as reverently as any troubadour would do. He kissed her ankles and then her calves, making her gasp as he pulled the garment upward and then over her head until she stood before him in her thin, form-revealing smock, slit up the sides to reveal calf and thigh as she trembled where she stood.
Now he relished gazing at her feminine form, only temptingly covered by the flimsy smock.
And she could only stand and gasp in wonderment as he removed his own tunic and shirt, untied girdle to drop braies and hose, and stood at last before her in naked masculine magnificence.
She was no virgin and did not turn in shyness, but gazed in heated passion at the male display before her. She could barely breathe, so great was her excitement as he stepped up to her, gently grasped her shoulders with his hands and then lowered his mouth for a kiss. She opened her mouth, drinking in the pleasure of his hunger. His hands found their way under her smock, while his hard organ brushed her thighs.
The craving between her legs tingled with unbearable need, and then his mouth found her breasts, kissing, teasing, prodding through the material until she thought she would faint. Then he removed the smock, and they embraced each other, flesh to flesh. They lowered themselves to the bed, and he stretched out beside
her, exchanging her kisses with his, feeling the delight of her skin, as she touched and caressed his male firmness and muscular torso.
All was passion and ecstasy. There was no thought but for the pleasure of which the poets sang and the ultimate with which a lady could reward her suitor. She raised her knees when he lifted himself to mount her, and arched her back, crying out when he joined his flesh to hers. His own excitement was such that she heard his ragged breathing, and his voice was fraught with passion as he whispered, "This is the ecstasy of which I've dreamed these many nights." He bent over her, cupping her face in his hands.
She clasped his shoulders, giving herself completely to the thrusts of pleasure, building and building in mutual exaltation until the pinnacle of fire exploded within. How long had this been unremembered in her years of widowhood and how much greater was this cry of rapture. She wrapped herself around him in the moment of intense, deep passion that threatened to carry her away.
He kissed her again as he held her damp body to his, and then they lay entangled, his face against her flowing hair, her limbs clasping his.
She did not want to let him go, until finally they moved to lie next to each other in more ease. Still, he caressed her hair, and she lay a hand against his hip. She wanted him to be forever thus with her, their bed a safe haven in a time of war, the enemy subdued.
It was the dawn breaking that awoke her. A great serenity washed over her, and she snuggled deeper into the bedclothes, her hair spread across the pillows.
Then she sat up, pulling the covers with her, embarrassment flooding her. She remembered the pleasures of the night before, but now feared the consequences. Gaucelm was not in the room, but her garments had been thoughtfully laid across the foot of
the bed. No maid came to help her, but surely her women would know she did not spend the night in the women's quarters. She would have to make some excuse.
She rose and dressed quickly, but took time to braid her hair and cool her flushed cheeks. When she made her morning appearance, she must not look as if she'd just risen from her master's bed.
Then she borrowed a mantle, hanging on a peg. Her thought was to make it look as if she'd just come in from the forest. Why not go outside first, make her way to the house where she'd been a few nights ago? She could have a few words with her friends and then return, no harm done, and tell Isabelle and Marcia that she'd been away all night.
It was the hour when most of the household would be breaking their fast, so she made her way to the tunnel entrance without difficulty. When she came to the end, and pushed aside the hawthorn branches that hid it, she paused to make sure there were no Frenchmen about. Then she hurried along to the holding. To her surprise a great many people gathered in the yard, including Jean de Batute and Lucius Hersend. She was through the gate and into the yard before anyone noticed her.
"My lady," said Jean, breaking off. "There's news."
"What's happened?" she asked as faces turned toward her.
"Count Raymond and his son have landed at Marseilles. The southern provinces are rising up to join his army. Lucius and I are planning to go join the uprising."
"Do we still hold Toulouse?" she asked urgently.
"We do, and the walls are being strengthened every day."
The fear that she had kept at bay while distracting Gaucelm with a court of courtesy returned. She regarded her friends, the people for whom she was responsible, or had been as chatelaine of the castle.
"It is dangerous. Our captor, Gaucelm Deluc, speaks every day of the threat of an inquisition. I've told you all to disperse. Any gathering such as this will be suspect."
One of the women spoke up. "Our parfait is within. There is
a consolamentum. Do not worry, my lady. We have guards posted to let us know of anyone coming."
Allesandra drew in breath. The parfait conducting the Cathar sacrament so close to the castle? She broke away from the group and went up the steps to the house.
There the lady Cecelia Fontanta, dressed in a pure white gown with white veil, was kneeling before the parfait Bertram de Gide, who was just ending his sermon with a prayer.
Then Cecelia lifted her head and promised to devote herself to God alone. Allesandra was deeply surprised to see her friend take this drastic step. Whereas the believers were allowed to marry and to go on living in a world which the pure eschewed, one accepting the consolamentum renounced the world entirely.
Cecelia spoke in a firm, joyful voice. "I promise never to lie, never to take an oath, never to kill or to eat of an animal, and to abstain from all contact with a husband."
Bertram imposed his hands on her head and then bent to give the chaste kiss of peace on her forehead. She arose and exchanged the kiss of peace with those in the circle around her. Thereupon the rest of the believers dropped to their knees, for one who had taken the consolamentum was an object of veneration for ordinary believers who had not yet been consoled.
When Cecelia saw Allesandra, she beamed upon her friend and came to take her hands and then exchanged the kiss of peace with her.
"My dear Allesandra, I am blessed that you could share this moment w
ith me."
"Cecelia, are you sure you are ready to do this?"
The other woman's eyes shone as with inner peace. "Why not? My husband is dead, my lands are confiscated. If I am to suffer at the hands of the inquisitors at least my soul can have its reward. There is nothing left for me here on earth, but many joys in heaven. I will take to the road with Bertram and Emice and preach to the other believers."
Allesandra would not argue with her friend's choice, she only cared for the danger they all might bring to themselves.
"I'm afraid we cannot deceive the French who hold my castle if we continue to meet this way," she said. "I am suspected myself, but I have led Sir Gaucelm to believe that I am as orthodox as he. We have an uneasy truce."
"Have you, my dear?"
Guilt flooded her veins, and for a moment Allesandra wondered if the newly blessed initiate had been granted the power to read her heart. She tried to blink away the traces of her deception. But Cecelia went on to other matters in a practical way.
"Do not worry for us. We will be gone from here ere you are asked to betray us."
"I would never do that."
Jean entered the hall and broke into their conversation. "Quickly. There are soldiers approaching through the woods. We must leave by the back entrance."
The crowd scattered. "This way, my lady." Jean escorted Allesandra out a door and down a ladder behind the animal pen.
When she glanced back, she saw that the men about the house were now engaged in splitting wood and doing other normal chores. She could only hope that Cecelia and Bertram would find a way to secrete themselves if the French soldiers became too curious.
She and Jean stepped quickly along a path into the woods behind the house. In the distance she heard shouts, and then the sound of horses' hooves breaking through dried branches on the forest floor.
"Quickly. Sit there," ordered Jean, pointing to a fallen log.
No sooner had she taken a seat and Jean brought forth a flute, which he put to his lips, than three horsemen broke into the small clearing and splashed across the brook.
The troubadour's song Page 12
