‘Seguinus will be disgusted when he hears we could not wait until our wedding night,’ he whispered against her forehead. ‘But what’s in a day?’
She lifted her finger. ‘This to Seguinus! I daresay he believes that husbands and wives should not see each other naked.’
‘I’ll wager he—’ Richart broke off, chuckling. ‘No, let’s not venture there.’ And they both laughed.
‘Tomorrow is the Court of Love and you ride to the hunt?’ she asked.
He nodded wickedly. ‘You won’t miss me. You can swoon over our handsome troubadours.’
‘From my observation, they all looked to be fat and extremely hairy. Except Lisette.’
‘Ah, the beautiful Lisette.’
‘Have you had her?’ Adela asked, forgetting she was a lady. He didn’t take offence. In fact, he managed a teasing smile that melted her further. ‘You have?’ She reached out to shake him, but in an instant he had her wrists pinioned against the pillow.
‘I’ve had a lot of women,’ he said silkily, his gaze telling her he had her exactly where he wanted her. ‘But at the moment one is enough.’
‘At the mom—’ He staunched her playful indignation with a kiss.
‘I thought you had two,’ she murmured when she could breathe again.
He drew back. ‘Come on, I told you that I no longer have a mistress.’
‘No,’ she teased. ‘I mean I was wondering who you made love to just now? Alys or Adela?’
She instantly regretted saying that as she watched his mouth tighten. He let go of her, clawed a hand through his hair and then, as if the question no longer tormented him, he managed a scoundrel smile. ‘I don’t know.’ He stroked a teasing, caressing finger down her nose and across her parted lips. ‘But I can tell you this. You are both goddesses.’
Although there were several hours of darkness left before sunrise, Adela was perturbed to find Maud waiting for her halfway up the servants’ stairs to Lady Alys’s quarters. While poor Gaspard, Richart’s body-servant, might be yawning too much to perceive the anger rumbling behind Maud’s cool servility, Adela did and swiftly sent him back to his master.
‘Of all the fools on earth, you win the prize,’ hissed Maud, sliding off the embrasure sill. ‘An’ you look like the cat wot’s had the cream. Been strokin’ Lord Tomcat’s tail, have you?’
‘Godsake, Maud, if he cares for me, he’s not going to hang me.’ She did not want the night to end in anger.
‘So you still ain’t told ’im, not that that’s a surprise. You reckon you can get away wi’ this, don’t you?’
‘No, I will tell him. I swear it.’
Maud shook her head in pity. ‘With the Court of Love an’ the cathedral mass today and then the wedding tomorrow, tell that to the fairies.’
‘The wedding tomorrow?’
‘Well, everyone else believes so.’
What’s in a day? He had brought it forward because of the news from Lyons.
‘O sweet Christ!’ Adela clapped her hands to her face. ‘I just didn’t—’ All joy was gone from her now and the only friend she had looked as implacable as the Almighty might on judging Judas. ‘What shall I do?’
‘Don’t ask me. You’ve made such a fine, fancy work of being Lady Alys that I ain’t certain whom I’m dealin’ with anymore.’
‘Oh, Maud, forgive me,’ she cried, longing to fling her arms about her beloved friend, but there was no absolution there. ‘Why didn’t you leave without me last night?’
‘Didn’t know what was happenin’, did I? Anyway, I’m goin’ now. I just wanted to say farewell proper like.’ A callused hand lifted to Adela’s cheek. ‘God be wi’ you and bless you, girl. You may think yourself in love wi’ ’im and he with you, but you ain’t her an’ you never will be. And so, farewell.’
Chapter Fifteen
All who are about me admire my worthiness, but could their eyes see into my heart what would they not discover? … I rule over others but cannot command myself.
Héloïse to Peter Abelard
Sponged, perfumed and clothed in splendour, Adela sat tensely in the chair of estate that dominated the dais. Today, she must preside over the Court of Love. If they only knew who she really was!
Her tiring women had told her she looked beautiful. The scent of lemon clung pleasantly about her throat and a chemise of finest linen caressed her limbs under a bliaut of Sicilian honey silk. Her hair was drawn back from her forehead and braided beneath a filmy veil that was secured by a chaplet of flowers. Powder had been applied to her brow, nose and cheeks to tone down her unfortunate exposure to the sun.
She leaned back, forcing herself to appear at ease. Between each case presented to the Court of Love, the troubadours would perform their love songs and at the end she would present the Silver Arrow prize to the winner. That was her duty. The comtesses of Foix and Toulouse, seated on the bench below her, would deliver the judgements.
A fanfare hushed the hall. The great double doors swung open to let in the court minstrels and dancers, all in iridescent peacock-green. Adela caught her breath as she saw who came behind them. Oh no, this could go so wrong for her. Derwent had bounded in, his face shining with mischief. He carried a lip-shaped bow and was naked save for a breechclout, a gilded quiver and a pair of wings. Skipping up to the dais, he leaned upon Adela’s knee.
‘My, my,’ he murmured, ‘this has the edge on peeling onions.’
Then he was gone, skipping back amidst the dancers, and all the while he cavorted, he blew kisses to her, imitating Richart’s expressions and mannerisms. It was a relief when the music ended and the great doors were thrust open once more. Everyone’s attention swivelled as the steward bearing his staff of office led in the parade of brightly apparelled troubadours, including Ponç, the straw-hatted jongleur from the tavern, and Lisette de Minerve, the only woman in their midst.
Several were of roly-poly girth, one was tall with a drinker’s red nose and the youngest had a plethora of golden hair mantling his breastbone and a mincing gait. A modestly clad man with silver curls received the most applause.
One singer, Olivar de La Salvetat, had to be led in, for he was blind and pitifully stooped. Grey locks hung from beneath his coif and a black cloth was tied about his eyes. His leek-green tunic was shabby, faded black leggings hung loosely on his shanks and his shoes were scuffed. He looked so shaky that Adela ordered one of the pages to fetch him a stool.
‘First case!’ The steward banged his staff.
To Adela’s consternation, it was Lady Yolande who came forward. She paused, tossing her head like a frisky mare in the presence of stallions before she addressed the bench.
‘I pray the court tell me if a knight may give his love to two noble ladies at the same time? If so, which one should have a greater claim on his love?’
This was too blatant. It was clear who the lover was. Adela could see the amusement on everyone’s faces. How would ‘Alys’ deal with this? Amazing herself, she leaned forward, put a finger to her lips and the hall hushed in surprise.
The judges gave no appearance of acknowledging Yolande’s mischief. They consulted in whispers and then Leonor, Comtesse de Toulouse, rose. ‘Rule Thirty-one states that a lady may be loved by two men or a man by two ladies.’ She sat down again.
‘But which should have precedence, mesdames?’ Yolande persisted.
‘The youngest,’ replied my lady of Foix, and the throng broke into laughter as Yolande’s face reddened. She returned to her place with a sulky sniff, unaware that behind her, Derwent was imitating her swaying walk.
Adela wanted to spring to her feet with a triumphant yowl; instead, she nodded to the waiting troubadour, Peire Cardinal.
He performed exquisitely, but Adela considered his proud demeanour robbed his verses of sincerity. Perhaps he considered his listeners should feel privileged to hear him.
‘Next case!’ boomed the steward and a young esquire, maybe sixteen years old, came forward. Scarlet embarrassment alr
eady flooded his profusion of pimples.
‘M-mesdames,’ he began, addressing the judges, ‘if … if a knight’s father orders him to leave his lady’s side, is the knight’s duty to his father greater than his duty to the lady?’
The Comtesse de Foix rose. ‘If the father orders his son to return home without a proper reason, then the knight must follow his heart.’
‘And if the son is an ass?’ bellowed a gruff voice from the back.
‘But the son might not know he’s an ass,’ quipped Derwent, and the young man’s skin flushed a darker red.
‘It depends on the son’s circumstances and the father’s reasons,’ stated the comtesse.
‘Then listen to mine, madame!’ The throng chortled as an elderly, balding knight pushed forward. ‘This lad here,’ he bellowed, ‘has spent half a year writing twaddling verses to some silly hen’s eyebrows. It’s about time he was making babes with a wife.’
‘Can’t he do both?’ chortled Ponç.
The comtesse waited until the merriment subsided. ‘The court is not here to settle a family squabble. We advise that the son should return home for the time being and worship his lady from afar.’
‘Ha!’ guffawed the father, slapping his son’s shoulder so fiercely that the youth nearly fell headlong. ‘There’s your answer, boy!’
So the rule of fathers must not be challenged, even in this court of women judges.
The blind singer was next. Had he been injured or stricken from birth? Adela remembered two afflicted people in her village: an old woman with milky-grey skin across both eyes and an elderly serf with a sliver of side vision—‘thin as a new moon’, he had told everyone.
As the hall applauded Olivar, Adela sensed a subtle change in the atmosphere. People were watching her. This surely was not my lord Vicomte, garbed to trick her. How could that be? From her window, she had seen Richart ride out leading the hunt.
Olivar sang in Norman French.
I beheld a beauteous lady.
Her hair is the hue of corn at harvest time.
Her lips are ripened cherries,
Forbidden like the fruit of Eden.
Ah, how I long to set my hand upon her breast.
How can I not love her?
His voice was soft and his playing hesitant at first, but then his fingers warmed to his task, and his voice grew in strength and beauty. Maybe it was deliberate, for the music even became more rhythmic and virile as he began the second verse.
Out of my reach, I thought her,
But when she smiles at me,
Opening her moist lips
And our breaths mingle,
I am in Paradise.
How can I not love her?
And this poor man would never set eyes upon any lady now, she thought sadly, as he bowed in error to the window.
Another case was announced. To Adela’s horror, Derwent was the plaintiff. He strutted forward and stood before the bench, legs akimbo, as cocky as a rooster.
‘Mesdames, may the likes of me become love’s vassal or do I have to be double in size and adorned with a knighthood?’ And before any of the judges could draw breath, he raced up the steps and set his elbow on Adela’s knee. ‘Suppose,’ he cried, turning his head to the audience, ‘suppose for hypothesis, I were to fall madly in love with Lady Alys here, is it permissible?’ Then the damnable little rogue tried to scramble onto her lap.
‘Get off!’ she snarled through a tight smile.
‘You, face the court!’ snapped a voice that the dogs of Foix would have instantly recognised. ‘Steward, fetch the fool down this instant!’
‘Coming.’ He obeyed, pretending his bones were rattling in fear as he awaited the verdict.
‘Alas, fols!’ exclaimed my lady of Foix. ‘No, you cannot fall in love with a noblewoman.’
The small man’s face became stony. ‘What you are saying then, mesdames,’ and now his tone grew acrid as it had often been at King John’s court, ‘is that a dwarf can love a maidservant but not her mistress?’
An icy finger scratched down Adela’s spine. God help her! Could she rein Derwent in somehow before he destroyed her? As she drew breath, Lady Leonor forestalled her. ‘No, little master, surely it is natural for you to love only your own kind.’
He winced, and then as if that was pretence, too, he declared, ‘You’re wrong, bona domna. As Cupid, I say that a dwarf can love any woman, both maidservant and noble lady. He can love both as faithfully as any twice his size.’ His nut-brown eyes swerved to meet Adela’s gaze without malice. Yet one never knew with Derwent. There had been a multitude of times in the royal household when he had leaped from sweet to malevolent in an instant.
‘I bid the Court of Love farewell, and take my leave,’ he was saying now. Hurt shook in the timbre of his voice. ‘Madame, your servant.’ A salute to Adela, then he walked from the silent hall, head down, trailing his bow like a scolded child.
Adela found her breath again, her emotions still jangling—relief, gratitude and definitely confusion. Had she just been presented with a declaration of love? She leaned back, forcing herself to seem serene, relieved to be distracted as the steward announced: ‘Sir Raimon de Miravel.’
Such a sensual voice; the silver-haired troubadour seemed to be singing to her alone and Adela felt her body grow warm. All the women were parting their lips in yearning.
‘Last case!’
A well-fleshed female arm went up. Heart racing, Adela thought it was Maud, but it was a woman with dabs of flour still clinging to her rough-fibred skirt who stepped forward. How wonderful that this was permitted. Vive Mirascon! The woman scrubbed a nervous finger on the side of her capacious nose before she asked: ‘Is … is a woman of lower rank permitted to ask the opinion of the court?’
‘I suppose so,’ exclaimed my lady of Foix, winging an I’ve-had-enough-face to Adela. Turning back, she said, ‘You will soon be needed in the kitchen, good woman, so make haste!’
Adela snared the words ‘knight’ and ‘lady’ and beckoned the steward over for a translation.
‘My lady, she asks that when a knight encounters a goosegirl, should he treat her with the same respect he treats a lady?’ By the saints! Had Derwent bribed this woman?
‘Pleasure both!’ shouted someone.
‘Enough!’ Adela rose from her chair. Her heart was palpitating and the quiet as they waited for her to speak was unnerving, but she must end this.
‘If … if there were more hours in this day, mesdames … and seigneurs, we could hold a … parlement on this matter, yet since … since we are here for entertainment rather than serious debate, and the silver arrow is not yet won, we must resolve this case swiftly. Mistress Lisette, pray will you give an opinion on this question? Translate, sir, I pray you!’
‘But she is not a judge, Lady Alys. It is against the rules.’
‘Please! Translate!’
He did so and Lisette stared up at Adela with round-eyed surprise.
Answer her! Adela gestured, her smile kindly, and watched the arithmetic tally in the singer’s face.
‘Knights should respect all women,’ Lisette proclaimed.
The men in the hall jeered good-humouredly; the women responded with a perturbing reticence.
‘I agree with the troubaritz,’ announced Lady Leonor. ‘Just in case the goosegirl is indeed a king’s lovechild. What do you say, Lady Alys?’ she asked in Norman French. For an instant, Adela’s mind was a cobweb tangle, but St Wita was with her.
‘Goosegirls come in all shapes. I believe the knight should judge her by her manners.’ To her consternation, it was the men in the hall who huzzahed the translation. She had not meant it that way.
‘What says the blind jongleur, Olivar?’ asked Lady Leonor. ‘We should value his opinion since he cannot see a girl’s looks or behaviour but must make up his mind by her voice.’
‘And hands!’ quipped someone. ‘What does he feel about the goosegirl?’
Lisette urged the blind man to
his feet and pointed him towards the judges.
‘Well, tell us, Olivar,’ demanded the Comtesse de Foix, frowning at the frayed sleeves, the dusty leggings and the obnoxious food stains on his tunic.
The man’s speaking voice was frail, less pleasant than his singing. ‘Since I cannot behold a goosegirl’s manners, mesdames, whether she will lie with me is up to her.’ A humble answer that had the demoiselles applauding.
‘Shame, Olivar!’ Ponç poked him in the ribs. ‘You are letting us down.’
Raimon de Miravel stepped forward. ‘Your pardon, mesdames and gentles all, but truly I have never met a goosegirl who has said no.’
‘Nor a shepherdess,’ chortled Olivar.
‘Nor a milkmaid,’ added Peire.
‘Messieurs,’ Raimon pretended to be offended. ‘I speak the truth. Let me prove it.’ And he raised the questioner’s rough hand to his lips. ‘Mistress, would you lie with me if I asked you?’
Traitor to her gender, she giggled. ‘Oh, sirrah, indeed I might.’ The men cheered. Knaves, Adela fumed, the lot of them!
‘Please you to bestow the prize, my lady.’ The steward summoned the page to bring the arrow.
Adela flinched inwardly. She did not have the experience to judge the difference between the niceties of a canso and a—what was it?—pastorel. ‘Let it be a decision for the bench,’ she decreed.
The steward shook his head. ‘No, gracious madame, it is for you alone to decide. Let the singers stand forth.’
‘This is a burden to me, masters,’ Adela told them in her halting Occitan. ‘It is a pity I cannot break this prize in two or three. You are all so excellent.’ Poetry, melody, voice—who excelled in all three? Taking up the arrow, she stroked it pensively, wishing that inspiration might come through her fingertips. ‘Raimon de Miravel, step forward! Receive the Silver Arrow of Mirascon.’
The choice pleased the hall. However, to everyone’s amusement, the blind singer was ripping away his blindfold, cap and the grey hair sewn beneath it. No longer stooping, Richart came up the steps to join her. ‘You chose well.’
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