Troubadour

by Isolde Martyn

  Adela dared not glance up at his face now, but she could enjoy the rich fabric falling back at his elbow, and the strength and beauty of his hands as his long fingers fastened once more around the mazer’s curve. Oh, if only she were in truth Alys. The protection of his name and his strength would be hers, even if it was given in duty not love. Deep inside her, she felt the womanly part of her body pay homage, already desirous of his entry. His entry! If she were Alys, in a few days he would be claiming her body as his possession. She could feel her face burning.

  He said something to her now in his own tongue. She liked the command, the timbre, of his voice. A firm voice. Not a man to be trifled with. Unable to understand what he was saying, her response of a smile did not satisfy him. He frowned and turned away, leaning across his brother to make a remark to Sir Tibaut before he twisted back to face her.

  ‘Are you recovered yet, my lady?’ he was asking her now in Norman French. From his tone, the question was offered out of duty; his real thoughts seemed to be as well guarded as his city. ‘You must have been very hungry when my people found you.’

  Adela rallied to attention, embarrassed she was blushing. Oh, she knew hungry. Hungry to play Alys, to listen to temptation.

  ‘I admit to being ravenous, my lord,’ she answered and added ruefully, ‘but being a woman, I suppose I must show some delicacy of appetite.’

  He looked surprised, yet her frankness still had not breached his formality. ‘And I trust the demoiselles have seen to all your needs?’ he asked.

  Another gracious nod from her. Oh, Lord, this was so tedious, so coldly polite even if she sensed him observing her person with a bridegroom’s speculation. Somehow she had to stir the real man to the surface.

  ‘You are not going to talk to me about peas, are you, my lord?’ she asked gravely.

  ‘Peas!’ That briefly slashed the politeness aside. ‘Peas, madame? Why should I talk to you about peas?’ Damnation! He had not thawed. Instead, he must think her a lunatic.

  ‘Well,’ Adela tilted her head and took a deep breath as she pensively made a furrow in the cloth with her fingernail, ‘your cousin seems to think the pea crop of Mirascon is vital knowledge for a stranger like me.’

  ‘Oh, God’s mercy!’ muttered the vicomte and glared along the table to where Sir Tibaut was holding forth. ‘You were lectured, madame?’

  She took some more wine and nodded. ‘I am not complaining. It did take my mind off my blisters and, where the road narrowed somewhat, he had to ride ahead, but that did tend to …’ she paused, ‘… remind him of other crops and—’

  ‘And you heard about beans?’ Ah, the ice was melting.

  ‘Regretfully, yes, and last year’s blight on the vines.’

  Lord Richart summoned the page to refill the mazer. The hint of a smile was beginning to soften his eyes, though the rest of his face had yet to notice. ‘What would you like to talk about?’

  Ah! Adela hadn’t expected that. That required swift thought. ‘Your family perhaps,’ she suggested, her tone gentle.

  He seemed prepared to oblige. ‘I have an older sister wed to a lord of Navarre, my mother and middle sister are dead.’ His face tightened. ‘As for my youngest sister, she has taken holy orders. Grandmother is very much alive but, to my regret, not here to welcome you.’

  ‘Because she disapproves of your marriage to Alys FitzPoyntz?’ Adela challenged with the lift of an eyebrow.

  ‘No, my eldest sister has given birth to her seventh child and Grand-mère has been away attending her. Mind, there are other reasons.’ He took a swig of wine, and solemnly stared down at the throng over its rim. ‘You are right,’ he murmured eventually. ‘Not all of my family approve of our alliance. You see, my lady, the troubadours arriving for the nuptials tend to tune up with all manner of gossip.’ His intelligent green gaze rose upwards to observe her reaction and she knew intense discomfort beneath that probing stare. ‘Wouldn’t you agree that the proclamation of a marriage is like poking a stick into a water butt, my lady? It stirs up all manner of filth.’

  Adela flinched inwardly. Filth! That was a strong term.

  ‘Only if you are trying to foul the water,’ she argued, lifting her chin defiantly. Her answer provoked a response that was difficult to fathom. Respect offered reluctantly? It was hard to know, and the frostiness was back in an instant. Perhaps she had made her answer too personal. Don’t try to get near me, his expression read. It bothered her greatly. What had he heard about Alys?

  Well, it was useless to say something dignified about truth in marriage when this man was sitting next to a lie that would make him a laughing stock. And here was further trouble—the scowling bishop was about to spur into the conversation.

  ‘I cannot help observing that you have very damaged hands, my lady,’ the churchman said tactlessly, with a rustle of sleeve that let forth a waft of incense.

  ‘Hmm,’ Adela spread her fingers. ‘I was hoping, my lord bishop, that no one would notice. Those courteous, thoughtful écorcheurs should have provided gloves and nourishment instead of killing everybody. What do you recommend?’

  ‘For écorcheurs, madame?’ interrupted the vicomte dryly. His expression had lightened as if he appreciated her humour.

  ‘A strong hempen rope for each of them, my lady,’ declared the bishop. Then he asked across her, ‘Is Jaufré to have them hanged in situ or are they to be brought to the gallows in Mirascon, nephew?’

  ‘He has to find the whoresons first—and the evidence,’ replied Lord Richart. ‘Madame, we are hoping you and your servant may give us some idea of where the attack took place.’

  Adela had no wish for a search to be made—either of the woods or her memory! The thought of Alys’s body being found, of hands examining the burned skin, the shreds of clothing. She visibly shuddered.

  ‘Thanks to whoever cudgelled me so hard,’ she began—the wince as she pressed the bruise above her hairline was genuine—‘I have no clear recollection of what happened.’

  The vicomte’s gaze was searching the lower tables. ‘My people have tried to question your servant but she speaks no French. Where is she?’

  ‘Still recovering, my lord. And you are right, she has no French. Nor much understanding of distances and direction either, I assure you, but I’ll talk with her again.’ She turned to the bishop. ‘Such adversity was a testing time for both of us. Although the woman served me many years, I confess I hardly knew her, but she proved to be a stalwart companion and I have given her payment for her loyalty.’ No lies in that admission.

  ‘God forbid such circumstances ever occur again,’ the bishop murmured and underscored his meaning with a pointed stare at the vicomte. ‘A pity about Père Arbert.’

  Pain and something else hardened Lord Richart’s face. ‘Yes, I regret my decision not to keep him with me.’ Then he was scrutinising Adela again. ‘Forgive me for saying so, my lady, but you don’t seem to have made much progress in langue d’oc, or is it just modesty that keeps you from trying? It would have pleased me better if you were able to show some mastery in our tongue by now. Did you not find Père Arbert a good enough teacher?’

  Ah! Here was the reason he felt cool towards Alys. Blame for his chaplain’s death.

  ‘My lord, I beseech you, give me breathing space. What happened in the woods has shaken me both in body and mind.’

  He actually looked chastened. ‘My apologies, my lady,’ he said stiffly.

  Oh, what would content this man?

  She tried a humble smile. ‘Why not say so in your own tongue, my lord?’

  That somehow appeased him and after such dangerous teetering, the conversation crawled onto safer ground. As he pointed to various objects, Adela tried very hard to remember the words. She was thankful she had a good ear, and her knowledge of French and Latin helped. Many of the words seemed a corruption of Norman French or maybe it was the swirling way he spoke. Mind you, learning the Occitan for ‘cup’ or ‘cheese’ would not assist her to explain the tru
th, but at least she would not starve or thirst just yet.

  Course upon course arrived for her delectation. The vicomte himself gravely selected morsels to tempt her, arranging them delicately on the silver platter set before her. It was an indulgence to have him attentive to her pleasure and she said a silent prayer of thanks that she at least knew what table manners were expected of a noble lady. Everyone about her ate with care and courtesy, using the napkins set out upon the snowy cloth to wipe their fingers and their lips. No stews were slopped onto hollowed trenchers of bread as in the north; each person in the hall, whether high or low, had their own bowl and platter.

  Exotic new flavours, piquant, spicy, fragrant, burst upon her tongue. Astonishingly, a dish of salted, fresh chopped herbs, moistened with oil and vinegar, was served beside the slithers of roasted meat and a gravy flavoured with cherries. More viands arrived, some served with figs, others with oval green fruits, salty, with stones inside. Adela tried green stems with tight buds soused in butter, and sauces, sweet yet sour upon the tongue. By the time she felt sated, tiny almond pies appeared, each flavoured with rosewater and doused with honey. ‘Quinquinelli,’ Lord Richart informed her.

  It was impossible not to be generous with her praise of both his servants and the repast. Unlike the feasts in King John’s castles, nothing tasted like it had spent the morning being carried round a freezing bailey before it reached the table. Only the vicomte stayed cold.

  And Derwent still had to make his appearance. There were tumblers, troubadours singing of love and reciting verses, even a man with a serpent that writhed about his body. A youth brought in two small dogs that walked upon their hind legs like men while he played a whistle. Yet no dwarf. What was his vile game? To extort riches from her? If so, she had little time left to implore Lord Richart’s mercy especially with Bishop Seguinus and the rest sitting so close? Many a time Sir Jaufré, with a display of white teeth, sent her a sympathetic smile that was as warm and wolfish as his brother’s was chill and stern, and she sensed the bishop was listening to every word she said even when he was conversing with Sir Henri on his right. The comment about her hands was not the only time he tried to provoke her.

  ‘I understand you had intimate acquaintance with the King and Queen of England, madame,’ he remarked as the servants brought in the final course of silver dishes laden with fruit. It was not only Adela who tensed. Although the vicomte’s face remained impassive, she caught his intake of breath. Sir Jaufré, too, turned his head to hear her answer.

  ‘Have you met King John, my lord bishop?’ she countered, plucking a wishbone of cherries from the platter.

  Her neighbour’s eyes narrowed, but by not answering, he cleverly forced her to continue. Adela smiled innocently as she bit into the cherry; inwardly, she was struggling to find the right words. There must be no lies that could be cast back at her later. ‘You see, my lord,’ she replied with a sigh, setting the cherry stone on the plate, ‘I do not think there is anyone who can claim close acquaintance with King John. He is very guarded, very unwilling to trust. Her highness, on the other hand, is far more open and possesses great charm and, yes, there were times when we were close.’

  When I was combing her hair.

  Sir Jaufré joined in, after a swift exchange of looks with Bishop Seguinus. ‘There is talk that he is harsh to women, that he forces himself upon widows and other noblemen’s wives.’

  ‘Yes, he can be ruthless, Sir Jaufré. Indeed, I once found myself having to defend my virtue.’

  ‘Successfully, I trust, madame?’ Was venom lurking in the cheerful quip?

  ‘Yes, Sir Jaufré.’

  ‘She would not admit otherwise, would she?’ muttered Seguinus in Latin.

  Had the vicomte and his brother understood that unkind comment?

  ‘In vino veritas,’ she replied, touching the mazer, and then before they could shrug at a phrase most men knew, she continued in Latin: ‘Bring me the Gospels so I may swear upon them.’

  Amazement cracked the bishop’s superior expression.

  Hiding her satisfaction, Adela scanned the three men’s faces. Vicomte Richart sucked in his cheeks, but his gaze slewed sideways to his brother’s face.

  ‘You understand Latin, madame?’ Sir Jaufré asked.

  ‘Well, it seems she does,’ answered Bishop Seguinus dryly. ‘Your pardon, bona domna.’ A tepid apology, which Adela received with outward serenity.

  At last the lord beside her was looking at her as though she was more interesting than a table garland.

  Adela desperately needed him to like her. It might ensure he would be more kindly when he learned the truth. But at this instant she was still playing Alys and what would Lady Alys say now?

  ‘Was that an example of a stick in a water butt, my lord count?’ she asked serenely and slid the second cherry between her lips.

  He actually laughed. ‘I believe so, my lady. Welcome to the court of Mirascon!’

  Impatient to have some time to himself after the interminable ordeal of the feast, Richart dismissed his future wife’s suggestion that they stroll in the garden together. He advised her that the heat would be too much for her and signalled to the demoiselles to escort her to her chamber so she could rest through the hottest part of the day. Relieved to reach the sanctuary of his apartments, he stripped off his finery, dismissed his servants and threw himself on his bed.

  He was displeased with himself. Talk about a blind man stumbling to find his way! His conversation during the banquet had been awkward, especially with Uncle Seguinus listening in like some remorseless old chaperone and his brother being as charming as Eden’s serpent.

  One thing had gone well. The Almighty be thanked! He had stopped seeing the dead girl at Corfe in Alys’s face. It was the live woman that perturbed him now. Something was wrong. His expectation, perhaps?

  After the long sleep to restore her spirits, he had expected her to be flirtatious and spoilt. Only she was not. And she didn’t babble nonsense either. When she raised her chin and spoke, there was substance in her words. Latin, what’s more! Not just well-known sayings—Alys FitzPoyntz could compose her own phrases. Plenty going on in that head each time she’d replied to him, and the way she dealt with his uncle without giving offence. Impressive!

  But he could see her answers had been cunning. Had she borne a babe to John? He should find out if there were telltale stretchmarks on her skin. His first mistress had carried those. Alys’s breasts certainly looked firm, unsuckled by any babe, although noblewomen bound their breasts instantly after childbirth to staunch the milk so they might conceive again soon. Thinking about Alys’s breasts made him hard, very hard. He was about to put his hand on his prick and relieve his discomfort when other fingers reached there first.

  ‘Yolande!’ He slapped her hand away with an oath, but her gorgeous body pursued him as he rolled back from her.

  ‘What’s wrong, my dearest lord?’ Soft arms strove to fasten about his neck before he snared her wrists.

  ‘I have too many concerns on my mind.’

  ‘Liar! Next thing you’ll be telling me your head aches instead of your …’ Her eager fingers crept towards his crotch.

  ‘Do you not listen!’ He swung his feet to the ground and left her lying on the bed. In the past he had always enjoyed their love-making, but circumstances had changed. He could not get the memory of Alys’s slender body out of his head—firm little breasts that begged kissing, blonde coils of hair that needed unpinning so he might run his hands through the golden strands as he plundered her lips.

  ‘Ah, I know what this is about. Alys!’ Yolande flung out the woman’s name as though she was retching.

  ‘You will speak of my future wife with respect,’ Richart ordered coldly. ‘And which cursed idiot let you in? I gave orders I was not to be disturbed.’

  ‘Poor Richart,’ she purred, stroking the pillow provocatively. ‘So you want me to respect King John’s whore?’ Moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue, she added,
‘But I can guess what’s going on! Your male pride won’t let you admit that you’re marrying another man’s leftover. You are trying to fool yourself that the rumours are wrong.’

  ‘I’ll use my own judgement.’ The marriage was less important than the alliance it sealed.

  She slid seductively from the coverlet and came across to him. ‘Then use it, my darling! Ask yourself how it is that Alys survived when the rest of her servants perished? I’ll wager she and her jewel box scampered at the first sign of trouble.’

  ‘Yolande, stop this! Any defenceless woman would have done the same.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Her fingers slid playfully through his hair. In the past he had enjoyed that caress; now he found it irritating and abruptly pulled back. Undeterred, she pressed closer. ‘You must be careful, my love. Delude yourself that she’s honest and she’ll have you eating the oats from her palm. You are too clever for that.’ Cupping his face, she pressed her lips to his and when he did not respond, let her fingers tiptoe down his tunic. ‘They say English women are either whores or abbesses. She’ll betray you or bore you.’ Her hands found the fastenings of his chausses but he stepped back.

  ‘I am not in the mood!’ Then remembering how generous she had always been, he pulled her back and kissed her on the forehead before he pushed her towards the door.

  Adela reached Lady Alys’s bedchamber with relief, grateful for the respite that Lord Richart had granted her even if it meant her dilemma was prolonged. Her first thought once she had dismissed the demoiselles was to check the inner room to make sure that Maud was gone. The room was empty and the palliasse where her friend had slept was not yet stowed beneath the bed. Satisfactory! It meant no servant had been back there during the banquet. Maud would have had plentiful opportunity to steal away while most of the castle were feasting in the great hall.