The troubadour's song

by Patricia Werner

  Much later in the day, when they had put enough small ridges and bluffs behind them, they stopped to rest and refresh themselves. They watered the horses at a stream, and then sat beneath the trees to catch their breath.

  The conversation finally came back to her escape and the appearance of her friends out of thin air.

  "We are glad to see you well, my lady," said Jean. "The message reached us where we had taken Raymond after retreating from the skirmish. We were worried that something ill had befallen you. Raymond saw you one moment in the thick of battle and then became too busy fending off the French. We looked for you as best we could before we were forced to retreat. We only prayed that if the French had taken you captive, you would be treated as befits a lady."

  She shivered appropriately at the memory of the danger and her narrow escape. But she was careful not to meet any inquiring eyes as she told her story.

  "Yes, Raymond and I became separated during the battle. I found a horse, whose owner had been pulled from the saddle, and I managed to mount. But the horse bolted, carrying me away from the battle. However, I was thrown when we reached the woods. I twisted an ankle and could not walk far. But some cottagers took me in until I could walk again."

  Christian gazed at her pensively, and she had to meet his eyes for a few seconds.

  "And your ankle, how is it now?"

  "It is well."

  Only now did she glance down to see that her loose gown had sprawled about her, revealing the ankle in question. Her shoes came just to the ankles. It was too late to withdraw. Her hose covered no swell or bulge. She felt obligated to explain.

  "The cottager's wife applied a salve and wrapped it. You see the swelling has quite gone down."

  "That is good," said Peire.

  But Christian just looked at her. "We were curious as to the sender of the message. Why an anonymous sender? Why not yourself?"

  She tried to keep the warmth out of her cheeks. "I did not know you were so close."

  "No," said Jean, smiling a challenge. "But the sender of this note did."

  He reached into his pouch and extracted a small strip of parch-

  ment on which some writing had been scrawled. It indicated that the lady Valtin waited at the Black Swan Inn in Montpellier and needed an immediate escort. She studied the note and then looked up with blank eyes.

  "So they did." She was not ready to reveal Gaucelm's part in her escape.

  Perhaps the three men became aware that she did not wish to discuss it. As troubadours, they would never press a lady to speak her thoughts unless she wanted to reveal them. Their manners made them hold their tongues, and this gave time for Allesandra to decide what should be said.

  In her heart she wanted to share with them her knowledge that Gaucelm was good and gentle. It was not his fault that he'd been born a vassal of the king. But she also feared to show her friends her weakness for one of their foes. A man who would march to take her lands again, given the chance.

  They all turned their attention to munching the dried fruit the knights carried in their saddlebags. Then Peire suggested they mount up again.

  "This country is so scorched from the fighting," he pointed out, "that we might have some distance to go yet before we find a patch of land that has been farmed, an abbey that has not been destroyed, or a settlement that may provide us with a meal and a place to rest."

  They took his advice and moved on.

  They spent that night at a monastery that had been spared by Simon de Montfort because it already swore fealty to the Mother Church. They were fed in a guest house and given beds in separate quarters. They were far from any settlement and so there was no female servant to assist Allesandra after a monk brought her several ewers of hot water and a basin from which to bathe. But she was just as relieved to be left alone to make her toilet and to sit for a while in a stout chair before a shuttered window as night drew in.

  She pondered for a long time how Gaucelm had been able to find out where the southern troubadours were and send for her

  rescue. Of course it must have been his inquiries that had led someone else to take word to the lord mayor that she was in the town. Perhaps someone had seen him write his message, or perhaps the messenger had read it before delivering it to Maguelone. She was fortunate that it had been delivered at all. She might never know the answer.

  They struggled on through impoverished lands that had once been the milk and honey of the Languedoc. Being farther from Toulouse, these lands had been more sorely affected by the years of the crusade. What she saw made Allesandra angry, and she realized how her own lands had been so much more fortunate. Heavily burdened with fines and taxes to the king while Gaucelm had ruled it, she had suffered economically. But her fertile land had continued to produce.

  She finally set eyes on her own castle again, and was welcomed with great ceremony. A few days later, the news came that the count of Toulouse lay dying, and they all left immediately to console young Raymond.

  In Toulouse, the count's palace was draped in black. The count had passed on to the next life. Young Raymond was now Count Raymond VII.

  Everyone grieved, for Raymond VI had been a well-loved man. Allesandra took part in the funeral service and procession that wound around the city for the benefit of the thousands of mourners. The troubadours carried his coffin into the crypt beneath the church, where his bones would rest with his father and ancestors.

  The next day Raymond VII received blessings and honors. All the troubadours sang for three days of feasting. Allesandra was emotionally drained by the show of feeling, especially during these dark days when all of Toulouse must band together against the encroachments of king and pope.

  In the next weeks, Raymond traveled about the county, surveying the mood of his people and taking an assessment of their resources. At the end of August, he met with Allesandra, who

  was once again hosting Jean de Batute and Christian Bernet, come to keep her company and cheer her after the sadness of the old count's passing. The troubadours were not blind, either. And several times when Allesandra entered the room, they broke off their low whispers to turn and greet her with curious expressions.

  She surmised that they were speculating on her time after the skirmish at Avignon and were full of curiosity about her anonymous protector.

  The weather had turned sultry and warm. The summer light lingered long into the evening, and they sat on a balcony off a receiving room that perched in the western tower. Stars twinkled in the evening sky, and scents of honeysuckle wafted from shrubs on the slopes beyond. Raymond spoke his mind among his friends about what he had been thinking.

  "Avignon has fallen," he mused. "Both sides have become weary enough to compromise."

  They had already received the news about Avignon at Allesandra's castle, but now Raymond explained how it had come about.

  "The Avignonese were convinced that Louis would not leave without some satisfaction," he told them. "The siege hurt the town financially, of course. In a few more months they would be ruined. Their pride was not worth that much. A surrender was easily arranged."

  "It was terrible, though," said Jean. "Their walls were destroyed, and a fine was paid."

  Raymond nodded in disappointment. "The town paid an indemnity of six thousand marks and gave hostages. But there was no killing or looting."

  "Thank God for that," commented Christian.

  "Yes," continued Raymond. "The king entered the town peacefully."

  "And used the stone bridge to cross the Rhone." Jean scowled in irony.

  Raymond gave a shrug and shook his head. Allesandra sympathized with his burden, but thought she knew something of

  what he was about to say next. For he had alluded to it when they'd spoken privately before supper.

  "The fall of Avignon is a great achievement for France. Louis will meet no resistance on his march."

  "But he cannot rush headlong for Toulouse," said Jean. "He must leave garrisons and establish administration i
n the lands that have submitted themselves to his rule. This will take time and further reduce the strength of the army that comes this way. He will not attack us this year."

  "No," said Raymond. "I do not see how he can." His face looked tired, his shoulders weighted by the length of their fight. "We hold Toulouse and the lands north of Toulouse to Poitou. France can only drive us out at the cost of bloody fighting. But by the end of the fighting season they will hold all the lands east to the Rhone. And there is another thing I fear."

  "Our people are tired of the fighting," he explained with a tired look of resignation. "I do not think they will rally again the way they did after the death of Simon de Montfort. They sense the difference between resisting the Capetian king and resisting the hated Montfort greed. What I've heard these last weeks on my travels is that many men are ready to consider a permanent peace on the basis of existing boundaries."

  There was silence for a moment as they digested this news. Allesandra feared being trodden under the heels of the French, who would no doubt take harsh financial punishments, or worse. It spelled the end of their independence. She was chilled by what she knew must be promised in any treaty of reconciliation and felt the ominous presence of the hand of the church even from this great distance.

  "What will you gain?" asked Christian solemnly.

  "I cannot say, unless France will explore the possibility. But if a conference is set and a treaty negotiated, there would be two things I would hope for. Peace for our lands first of all. Recognition as count, so that I may protect our rights as much as 1 can." He paused. "And reconciliation with the Church."

  No one said anything, and Allesandra read the shuttered ex-

  pressions of her two friends. She found words to try to ease the discomfort of the conversation. "If you are reconciled with the Church," she said slowly, "will the Church leave us alone?"

  He lifted a hand. "That I cannot say. I would have to make compromises I am sure . . ." He did not enumerate.

  "Is there a council set already?" asked Jean, who knew that Raymond would not have told these things unless he had some indication that they might actually take place.

  Raymond leaned back as if preparing his words. "You know my young sister, Jeanne. She would be promised to the king's young brother, Alphonse."

  The other three glanced at each other. Then Jean spoke again. "But you might one day have a son."

  Raymond shrugged. "I might."

  "And Jeanne and Alphonse might have children of their own," said Christian.

  Raymond nodded. "There would be hope for the future."

  They all considered what he proposed. An end to war, boundaries drawn, compromises made. And hope that future generations would soon forget their obligations to distant cousins in Paris.

  They said little after that. Raymond did not know when such a conference would be called, but he had indications that it would be called. There would be written negotiations first. But eventually he would have to travel to Paris to ratify a treaty.

  Later that night Allesandra was left alone in her chamber to consider all that Raymond had said and all that it might mean. As much as she cherished what now seemed like a faraway fantasy of passion and escape with Gaucelm for a few days, that dreamy time was colored by the realities that would accompany this compromise Raymond was willing to make because he thought it best.

  She heard a tap at her door and expected it to be Julian, come with some late-night urgent request. Entertaining the count put a great deal of strain on her capable steward. Instead, she saw that Jean stood at the door, looking apologetic for disturbing her. But also looking as if he wanted to talk.

  "Am I disturbing you, my lady?" he asked quietly.

  "No, Jean, please come in. I was just contemplating."

  She invited him to sit in the wide window seat where the evening breeze helped cool the room.

  "You think it wrong that Raymond wishes to fight no more?" he asked.

  She shook her head. "Oh, Jean, I'm not sure what I think. No war is good. And yet I dread seeing the Languedoc overcome by the French monarchy. Things will not be the same."

  "We have always had war."

  "That is true. But times of peace are when the people and the land prosper and grow healthy again. I would wish for that."

  "And for yourself?"

  She looked at him sharply and then looked out into the darkness. She could feel that he read her thoughts. "What do you mean?"

  "I do not mean to pry, my lady. But I have been wondering who your protector was that summoned us to Montpellier."

  She paused only for a heartbeat. "Gaucelm Deluc."

  He exhaled a breath. "I thought so."

  "Do you think I am a traitor?"

  He laughed softly. "Your heart is the traitor. But no, my lady. None of us is impervious to love."

  She leaned back and rested her hands in her lap. "Is it so apparent?"

  "You do not reveal your feelings unless you choose to, madam. But for those of us who know you well, or take the time to observe, there are signs of melancholy that only come when one is affected."

  She managed a smile. "You make it sound like a malady."

  "Is it not?"

  "Then what am I to do, Jean? I thought I would forget him when he was out of my sight. But my malady only grows worse."

  "You must sing of it," he said. "Pour forth your feelings in song and poetry. It will help you feel that there is a place for your sadness and longing."

  Her lips still curved in amusement. "Spoken like a troubadour."

  He smiled and lifted his arms in a gesture of acknowledgment.

  She looked out again to where a silvery moon cast a dull glow over the trees and capped the purple mountains with its pale glimmer.

  "If there is peace, that is only the beginning," she said with a worried expression. "Raymond will be made to compromise. What of the heretics?"

  Jean turned more grim. Alone in the castle with no French spies about, they could speak freely of the French crusade.

  "We will never be free of the pope's tyrants," he said bitterly. His vision took on an ethereal look as if he were seeing into the distance. "Those who will not bend to the Church will be punished. There will be many penances for those who recant. For those who refuse to give up their faith ..." He shrugged as if he did not wish to contemplate the consequences.

  "Yes," she said sadly. "To live with the French is one thing. To bend the knee to a corrupt church with hypocrites for priests, who deny the scriptures to any but the clergy." She shook her head slowly. "There are many who would rather throw themselves onto the flames than betray their beliefs."

  She looked back at Jean, her jaw set, her personal struggles set aside. "We must help them, Jean. There must be a place where the believers can go. A last refuge where they can be left alone."

  He frowned. "There might be such a place. Perhaps if Raymond must agree to search out heretics in his lands, those who wish to flee can take refuge at a monastery far out of the way where they will not be considered a danger to the intolerant Church."

  She nodded thoughtfully. "Is there such a place?"

  "There might be," he said slowly. "A refuge in the Pyrenees where French soldiers would never get to. A place isolated and harsh, all the better for the parfaits, who deny the world in any case and do not need to live in comfort."

  "Where would such a place be?" she inquired.

  "The chateau at Montsegur," he said. "I have seen it once

  myself. It perches on a peak accessible only by a steep winding path, too narrow for any army. It can be well stocked with provisions. The winter there is very cold. In a word, the place is impregnable. I've had word that Lucius Hersend is there now." A chill suddenly made her tremble, and she hugged herself. "Then if Raymond arranges a peace treaty and the inquisition must come, at least there will be a refuge for the faithful."

  Twenty-two

  Allesandra accepted Raymond's invitation to accompany him as part of his e
ntourage traveling to Paris to negotiate a treaty. Gaucelm was likely to be in Paris, serving in the same capacity to the king. Then what? Even if a treaty was negotiated, it would be an uneasy peace with much bitterness in Languedoc.

  Gaucelm's words echoed in her mind; he wanted them to find a way to be together, but how? She could not abandon her lands. She was tied to them until her overlord decided who she should marry. He might agree to her marrying a Frenchman to help him with his political goals if he was really resigned to compromise. But even if Gaucelm accepted such a political alliance, he would not want to live in Languedoc, where he would be disliked, a symbol of their defeat.

  Aside from the passion that existed between them, she did not know what was in his mind. If he married her, he might wish her to remain in He de France with his family, while he continued to fight wars for France. She wanted nothing better than to be with him, but given time for reflection, which she now had for many weeks, she knew in her heart that such a life would make her unhappy.

  She'd been formed by the South. Her exposure to foreigners from other southern kingdoms and the Far East was too inbred.

  She might be able to make concessions to outward appearances demanded by the Catholic Church. But in her heart she was a believer.

  And so she entered He de France in a somber mood. She took in the impressive sight of Notre-Dame de Paris rising magnificently above the He de la Cite. Scaffolds supported skilled workmen putting their artistry on the soaring building, and she remembered how she had pretended to be the wife of one such mason. But Gaucelm had quickly seen through that guise.

  Where was Gaucelm now? Would he be waiting in the royal palace that they now approached? The fortified palace sat not far from the quay along the great River Seine, and she could not help but look at its formal gardens and well-guarded towers with some resentment.