The troubadour's song

by Patricia Werner

worked on silently until he finished his tasks, knowing enough not to disturb his master further.

  The crusading army proceeded in formation beside the River Seine as they approached the Royal Palace. The body of Simon de Montfort was covered with a newly embroidered cloth of his colors, and his litter was carried by his most loyal knights, Gaucelm among them. The general's riderless horse was caparisoned in newly sewn cloth with brightly colored embroidery. Citizens lined the streets. And as they approached the massive palace, courtiers waved from parapets of the thick stone walls. The king's palace not only served as living quarters, but also as the depository for the king's treasures, and as an armory as well.

  They carried Simon's litter to the foot of the broad stone steps in front of the gatehouse, where the palace guard waited, colorfiil pennants atop their poles. After the crusading army formed up behind them, the knights lowered the litter onto a bier that had been prepared for the body. At the sound of the clarion, the shouts died down and the king emerged with his entourage.

  The king was not a tall man, nor muscular in appearance. But he had a sort of shrewd wisdom about him, and his sharp turquoise eyes missed nothing. His hair was a mixture of brown and gray, and the beard on his firm, determined chin, the same.

  Gaucelm knew his practical intelligence to be tempered with sentiment. He was a man of shrewd caution and prudent courage. His quick temper was overruled by patient perseverance that had expanded his empire from a strip of land along the Seine to a formidable power. He was what his country needed at a time when, between England and Germany, France might have ceased to exist.

  The king was garbed for the solemn occasion in a long red tunic and gold-threaded sleeveless overtunic, and white-and-gold mantle. His crown of gold and jewels glittered in the perfect sunlight, as did the jewels of his girdle, sword-hilt, and gloves. He presented a regal but concerned countenance and stood for

  a moment in silence gazing at the covered form of Count Simon de Montfort.

  With the king was the pope's legate, the bishop Frosbier, dressed in ecclesiastical robes. Gaucelm and the other knights knelt as the royal party and the pope's legate came across the flagstones. Bishop Frosbier took a position a little behind and to the right of the king.

  The breeze carried only the sounds of soft lapping from the Seine, rustlings of clothing, and stirring of leaves from the gardens beyond, as the crowd waited respectfully. At last, King Philip lifted a hand and spoke to the waiting crowd so all could hear.

  "Rise, my loyal knights. We are here to pay respect to this great general, our loyal vassal and defender of the true faith. We mourn his loss and offer condolences to his loved ones. He will lie in state at our great cathedral Notre-Dame de Paris, so that all may mourn him. He will not be forgotten."

  Amaury stepped forward and knelt before the king. "My lord, as the inheritor of my father's title and command, I thank you for the respect you pay us. It will be my great honor to continue in your service."

  Gaucelm watched the king raise the young man to his feet and continue with the speeches. The papal legate, a tall, thin man with strong lines of nobility showing in his bronze-complected face, blessed the bier and then gave his blessing to Simon's family. While these proceedings were going on, Gaucelm allowed his eyes to flicker over the familiar surroundings from which he had been away so long.

  He had a view of the gray stone walls of the palace on his left, the river beside which they had marched, the formal gardens behind him, and the spires of the churches rising over the timber and stone edifices that Philip had built.

  The speeches were finished and the knights who carried the litter moved forward once more. To a funeral dirge played on clarion and pipes they took up their burden and wound through the gardens and along the street by the river as citizens paid their

  respects. Then they crossed the stone bridge over one arm of the Seine to the stone-paved streets of the He de la Cite. It was some distance to the cathedral.

  The buttresses of Notre-Dame de Paris sprawled before them. The magnificent cathedral was as yet unfinished, but it was already renowned throughout the kingdom. Pilgrims came from far and wide to admire and to worship.

  They carried Simon's litter inside the cool stone walls, and Gaucelm blinked in the dimness of the vaulted nave. The colored glass of the rose windows admitted muted sunlight from outdoors, and the rising pillars and ribbed vaults offered an awe-inspiring setting for Simon to rest in state before his burial.

  The task finished, prayers and benediction were given by Bishop Frosbier, who had led the procession. Finally, Gaucelm arose from bended knee, free to go about his business.

  His morose mood was still on him outside the cathedral when he jerked his head up and squinted in the sunlight as he heard his name called. He saw Andre Peloquin striding across the paved square. A man of equal height with sandy coloring, he was garbed in olive-green tunic and dark hose. His fur-lined mantle was richly embroidered, fitting for such a festive day and creating a prosperous look. His old friend was a welcome sight, and surely if anyone could ease his soul, Andre could.

  "Gaucelm, my friend," said Andre as he embraced his friend. "I saw you in the procession and waited here for you."

  "Glad I am to see you, my old comrade. I'm in need of a proper welcome. It's so long since I've been in these parts, I feel a stranger here myself. And much in need of news. I'd heard you were back from the Holy Lands, but my news is old. You must fill me in."

  Andre laughed his sunny laugh, his tanned countenance alive with confidence and zest, making his blue eyes sparkle.

  "Then join me at the tavern and we shall share some wine and perhaps dine if you've an appetite. But your mother and your brother and sister will be waiting to see you. Would you rather not see your family first and sup with me later?"

  "I've a need for good company now," Gaucelm replied with certainty. "Then I'll see my family and sup with them this night."

  He turned to look for his squire, who he knew would be waiting for instructions. Spying the young man, he issued orders for his horse to be left for him at the palace stables but that his belongings should be taken to his family's manor outside Paris.

  "Be sure and relay to them that I am well but that I am with my old friend Andre Peloquin, with whom I have business. I send my affections, and I will attend on them this evening."

  The squire nodded and went off to do his master's bidding. Gaucelm and Andre turned away from the cathedral square. They headed for the narrow winding street that led between shops where artisans worked and merchants displayed their wares at the front of tall, narrow houses.

  "I heard the Provencals are no fighters," said Andre as they made their way to the tavern. "How was Simon defeated after two years of success?"

  Gaucelm sighed, some of his bleak mood returning. "It's true that the lesser strongholds were easy to take. And in a pitched battle, the southern alliance lacked leadership. But the towns are strong. Much more independent and tenacious than any we have in the North. They govern themselves and behave independently. They've no love for us, that is sure."

  "Hmmm. And so you were routed before the walls of Toulouse?"

  "That is true."

  They entered the tavern house and found a trestle table to one side of the room, near a stout oaken pillar supporting crossbeams above. The tavern keeper filled a carafe of wine from the spigot of one of his barrels and set it before them. There was enough conversation among other customers that Gaucelm and Andre could speak without worry of others eavesdropping on their conversation.

  Gaucelm took a long draw of wine and then set his wine cup on the rough-hewn wood planks of the table. He let go a long

  sigh. "I tell you, Andre, I am weary of war. And yet I know nothing else."

  "Ah, that is because you have seen defeat. What you need is the thrill of glory to revive you."

  "Glory. Is there any? Is it really our duty to rid the world of all but those whom the Holy Church decrees are inheritors of the earth?
"

  Andre regarded his friend with affection and sympathy. "Ah, weary you are indeed. But much of what you say is true—though I would not have it heard that I said as much. Many times as I sweated and bled in the East, I wondered how the Lord could have allowed the Saracens to retake the land won with so much Christian blood, if the enterprise of the crusades is pleasing to Him."

  "And how of our king's hard-won lands from the English?" asked Gaucelm, bringing the conversation back closer to home.

  "He continues to grow strong and dominates all the dukes, counts, and seigneurs of the realm. The treasury grows from the money his vassals render instead of feudal service. Trade is encouraged. Truly he has strengthened the monarchy and weakened feudalism in France, while at the same time, he has left the English king weakened, subject to his feudal barons there. The same in Germany. He has accomplished much."

  "And the Church? What of his relations there?"

  Andre grunted so as to infer that things were not so harmonious between the king and the Church. "The king replaces ecclesiastics in council and administration with men from the rising lawyer class. He is not a man to let religion countermand his politics."

  "What do you think he'll do about the South?"

  Andre shook his head. "That, my friend, we shall just have to wait and see."

  Gaucelm paid a dutiful visit to his family at their chateau outside Paris. The shell keep rose squarely on a mound above fair

  meadows and commanded the royal forest behind it. As Gaucelm entered his family's lands, he observed the vines being harvested. Most of the laborers took him to be just another knight traveling on the king's business. But as he neared the village, his father's overseer, Hercule, stopped his work and came across the field to salute him. He came through a gate in the fence and waited until Gaucelm reined in by the side of the road.

  "My lord," said the overseer. "We had news that you were safely returned. Your family will be pleased."

  "Thank you, Hercule. I see the harvest has not suffered."

  Hercule looked proudly at the villeins gathering grapes, those in the distance singing while they worked. "Your family treats their villagers well. In return, they are more than willing to do the extra required of them at harvest time. It will be a good wine this year."

  "Excellent." Gaucelm saluted the man and rode on.

  The village was a straggle of timber-framed wattle and daub houses and thatched farm buildings along the road. A stone church dominated the scene. As he rode through, the villagers stopped their gossip and their work to turn and bow, the women to curtsy. For they recognized the younger son of the house of Deluc, back from fighting in the South.

  After riding through the gatehouse of the fortified chateau and handing over his mount to a groom, he was received with honor and warmth by his mother, still lovely in her middle age, who waited for him by the large stone fireplace in the hall.

  "My son, our prayers have been answered and you have returned safely to us." She beamed affection at him.

  "Thank you, Mother," he said, kissing her hands. "And are you well?"

  "Quite well, my son. We prosper. Your brother's wife is with child again, they are so blessed."

  "That is good."

  His pregnant sister-in-law, Marie, entered the hall and came across to hold out her hands to him. Gaucelm kissed her cheeks.

  "You are radiant with good health, sister," he said, smiling down at his brother's bride.

  "I'm pleased that you think so/And we are glad of your return. Rene will be glad to see you. But he is today at the manor near Amiens, and will not return for a week."

  "Then you must tell me all the news," said Gaucelm, accepting a goblet of wine brought by a servant.

  He knew his mother and sister-in-law would pamper him until he could stand no more. But he owed them his attention for a few days at least.

  "Then you must rest and refresh yourself," said his mother, laying a fond hand on his arm. "We will prepare a banquet and some entertainment."

  He could not help smiling at these women who welcomed him with open arms. Truly, it nourished a man to be so loved. But as he looked at them, he felt a tug in his heart. They loved him, but only in second place to the heir to the estate, his older brother. Rene would allow Gaucelm all the time he needed to stay here until he could decide his course. But a younger son was merely a guest in his family's demesne. Such was the way of the world. Even now Gaucelm felt that he had his own fate, and he would find it.

  He was plagued with thoughts of the beautiful Allesandra, the traitorous enemy who loved him passionately. But how two such foes could join in love and harmony for a life together seemed at the moment impossible. So Gaucelm pushed away those thoughts, which caused in him an indescribable longing, took the seat by the fire, and turned his attention to the women's news about their lands.

  Later that evening, Gaucelm's squire lit a fire for him in the chamber that would be his as long as he stayed in this household. His favorite dog found him not long after his arrival, and now the hound stretched out in front of the fire, head on paws, eyes on his master. The squire lit lamps suspended by chains from

  iron hooks in the paneled walls and left his master alone. Gaucelm picked up the bundle his squire had left rolled up after unloading his saddlebags.

  He carefully unrolled it, revealing a small volume of vellum sheets, bound with thongs between leather-covered boards. He smiled to himself as he brought the book to the comfortable chair by the fire and opened it. No expensive illuminated work this, but simple, flowing handwriting floating across the page.

  Gaucelm had picked up enough Provengal to be able to read it, though he knew that the more hidden meanings would escape him. But he formed the words softly as he began to read the somber, mournful poem. He held the book so the light fell across the page, and he gave a strong voice to the poems. The dog lifted his head and perked floppy ears, listening.

  "You'll do as an audience, I think," said Gaucelm to his pet, breaking off and allowing a smile to curve his sensual lips. "Tell me what you think this means."

  The dog whined, but Gaucelm continued reading. "Bitter, bitter my anguish be, and never, never, must I give up hope/ Great and overwhelming grief is life/ Dare I give heed to passing joy?" He lowered the book. "Dare I think that she speaks of me?" he whispered softly to the dog, who got up to come and put his head on Gaucelm's lap to comfort his master.

  "Good boy," he said. "Yes, I miss my lady Allesandra. It seems hopeless, eh? That I will ever see her again. And now Simon's death stands between us."

  Gaucelm felt no guilt over having stolen the collection of poetry she had admitted to writing. It was his one memento of her. And if she discovered the theft, perhaps she would realize it was small payment for his friend's life. She might be angry that the poems were gone, but perhaps she would hope that one day he would be able to restore them to her.

  "And what of this one?" he said to the dog, then quoted another poem written by her. "No troubadour will sing for me, for I have raven hair." He smiled to himself, remembering how all the songs

  written by the poets who went from court to court praised flaxen-haired beauties.

  He lowered the book, envisioning Allesandra's body stretched out on the bed, her raven hair fanned out over the pillow, and felt a powerful surge of desire.

  With winter, campaigns were over for the season. Gaucelm was sent to help the king patrol counties newly won from England. Then everyone turned their attention to the Christmas feasts. Gaucelm returned to his family. To keep fit, there was hunting on fine winter days. When things were too quiet, he and Andre and other French knights jousted in tournaments. Gaucelm wore the favor of a lady no one knew. But for all that, the winter months passed slowly.

  And yet, Gaucelm was aware that King Philip had not entirely forgotten Languedoc, for the king was reminded of it on a regular basis by letters from the pope. Noblemen in Gaucelm's position itched to march south again, to expand their fledgling demesnes gaine
d by the wars against England. And so Gaucelm was present at a council convened by King Philip and attended by the papal legate Frosbier.

  Gaucelm and Andre were both dressed in new tunics, surcoats, and fur-lined mantles. The royal guards stood with lances upright as the invited knights and ecclesiastics passed from gatehouse to inner ward, across cobbled courtyard and then up a wide set of stone steps to the arched entrance to the great hall. They waited in groups until the doors at the far end of the room opened and the king entered, robed in white and blue with gold fringe about his mantle, and a large ruby gleaming from his ring. He took a seat on the dais, and the council began.

  "My lords," he said with a sweep of his hand to include them all. "You are here to advise me on this matter of a further crusade in the South, which 1 can ill afford. At the request of the Holy Pope of the Mother Church, we have crusaded there for two years in order to eradicate heresy. And yet those of you who have been

  there can attest how tenacious and slippery the southerners are. Conquer one county and what do they claim? 'There are no heretics here. We know no heretics.' Conquer the next county and it is the same. Why? Because the southerners protect each other. Their culture is what binds them, not their religion. I do not see the sense in further crusading if we cannot at least extend our territories to the south. But even in this, the southerners have presently foiled us."

  He put his finger beside his cheek, his elbow resting on the chair arm as an indication that he was finished speaking. The turquoise eyes were alert and penetrating, making each man feel as if he looked directly at him.

  "Your Majesty," said the tall, aristocratic legate, Frosbier, stepping before the king. "May I speak?"

  "Go ahead, Reverend Bishop. I am aware that you speak for the pope. I do not wish to hide His Holiness's wishes from this assembly." And he gestured that the bishop should take the floor.

  The bishop Frosbier, garbed in white robes with gold and silver threads, and his tall mitre on his head, nodded and then turned so he could also face the men assembled in the hall.