‘Get that witless cur out of here and tie it up,’ snarled a fresh voice. ‘Where is she? I can hardly see in this shityard. Light another lantern!’
‘Best not delay, captain, we’ll need to move on once the rain clears,’ cautioned the troubadour.
‘Did I ask you, you fat bag of bones? More light, curse it! Giso, you do it!’
The three shadows by the door separated. There was the rattle of a lantern being unhooked from beside the door, but astonishingly it was a priest who stepped forward. Indifferent to Adela’s state of undress, he tossed his wet cloak over one of the bales and dropped to one knee beside her, stuffed his gloves beneath his belt and tugged out a straw spill from the bale. As his sleeve fell back, she saw the leather scabbard bound to his arm. There was no law against a priest carrying a knife, but there was a sinister intensity about him and his scarred face argued bloody battlefields rather than candlelit chapels.
‘Saints’ ballocks! I asked you to guard the prisoner not undress her.’
Adela realised now that the harsh voice was a woman’s, although she did not immediately recognise the nun who limped forward. Others would have been mistaken, too, perceiving the aged face framed within the tight-fitting white coif as proclaiming no threat. However, lit from below, the angles of the woman’s harsh face flickered grotesquely, familiarly. An ancient goddess of revenge would have looked so—or an unholy abbess supping at Satan’s table.
‘Well, Hallelujah! So my lady is awake now!’ Jeanne d’Athée sneered. ‘Oh, the sweeting wants to say something. Better be honeyed words, little Alys, or we’ll cut your tongue out! Don’t just stand there, you lout! Let her speak!’
Adela gave a sob as the écorcheur loosened the gag. Just the stink of him and what he had nearly forced her to do almost had her puking. ‘Drink, please!’ she rasped. Her thirst was greater than trying to make sense of anything.
The mercenary snapped her fingers and the faux priest called Giso unslung a leather bottle from his shoulder, shoved the flask between Adela’s lips and tilted it. She took a gulp, choked, then managed, swilled and spat. ‘More!’ she pleaded.
‘Enough!’ snapped L’Aiguille. Coming stiffly down on her haunches, cold, damp fingers tucked Adela’s breast back beneath its covering. ‘So, little Alys—’
Adela made a swift decision. ‘I’m not Alys, you stupid piece of dung.’
The piece of dung pulled back, her eyes furious, and the écorcheur exploded with laughter. ‘Nearly as rough a tongue as you, cap’n. Cut if off, shall I? Yon dog would gobble it fast enow.’
‘You fornicatin’ son of a filthy whore!’ Adela growled at him. Swiftly, she turned a steely-eyed stare upon her captor. ‘I never was poxy lift-your-skirts Alys, but looks like I fooled you an’ all, Aiguille.’
‘Convince me!’ The drawn-back lips, the show of yellowed teeth, bit into the air between them.
Adela tried to look cocky, though beneath Herliva’s kirtle her heart was galloping for the nearest postern. Norman French, raw from the marketplace, was now her only weapon. ‘I wuz her servant, see, an’ when we was ambushed after we left Toulouse I stole ’er jewels, Lady Alys’s, that is, an’ ran, only that flapmouth Sir Tibaut mistook me for my lady an’ I been laughin’ ever since until you wantwits interfered, curse your bloody souls!’ She ended with a mighty, sulky pout.
There was a momentary silence and an exchange of stares before they rallied their standards and pennons. ‘Nah, cap’n,’ guffawed the écorcheur. ‘She probably learned rough an’ all from tuppin’ ’er stable lads. Like a bit o’ foul tongue, do yer, my lady?’ He waggled a forefinger. ‘Makes yer horny, does it?’
‘Oh, shut yer mouth, yer brainless cul!’ snarled Adela. ‘Listen, Jeanne, why in ’ell do you think the weddin’ never ’appened? ’Cause his lordship finally nowsed I ain’t his poxy whore of a lady. But wot I can’t fathom is why yer got me here. Can’t ransom me if I ain’t Alys, can yer, an’ if I was you, I’d be bloody leagues from ’ere wherever ’ere is. Why are you out of your cage, that’s wot I wanna know. Ohhh!’ The slap carried the full weight of hate behind it. ‘Only askin’ the bleedin’ truth, ain’t I!’
If her eyes had not watered with pain, it would have been a pleasure to see indecision in the mercenary’s eyes.
‘Ponç!’ yelled L’Aiguille. ‘Where’s the bugger gone now?’
‘I’m here.’ A shape straightened up and waddled across.
‘Is this fuckwit Lady Alys?’
Ponç lifted the nearest lantern, stepped forward and peered at her. ‘Hmm, all I can tell you is this is the same young woman who presided over the Court of Love.’
‘I don’t want a song written, just answer the blessed question—is this Alys? Well, man?’
‘I don’t know, madame. I am still trying to fathom his lordship’s reasons for giving her to us. Harken, my girl, if you are naught but a serving wench, how can you speak so finely if you are not noble born?’
‘Oh, Ponç, it takes a brain, that’s all,’ Adela said with mock refinement, then added coarsely, ‘Had a priest for a da, see, so I can read ’n’ write. Listen, if you numbskulls are goin’ to kill me, do it! If not, let me go an’ I’ll not blab.’
His lordship? Richart? No, Seguinus. Her memory was clearing. Both of them?
L’Aiguille stood up, momentarily chewing her lower lip, but soldiering needed swift, ruthless solutions. ‘Easiest to kill you, blue eyes, then it won’t matter a rat’s turd who you are.’
Ponç cleared his throat. The freshly boiled hatred in his eyes told Adela she had acquired no ally in him. ‘If it was left to a brainless fool like me, ma’am, I’d sell her to one of the large stewhouses in Lyons.’
‘That’s not a bad notion, cap’n,’ joined in the écorcheur. ‘Fille de joie, eh! They’ll need fresh flesh with all them crusaders idlin’ around. However …’ He took one of the knives from his belt and ran his thumb gingerly along the blade. ‘Sharp enough if you want her throat cut afore we leave. Giso, what say you? Take our turns and then finito as they say in Rome.’ He sliced the air with his fingers.
The third man, Giso, ran a hand across his shaved chin but his considered answer made Adela’s blood run chill as meltwater. ‘Breaking her fingers might ensure some honesty if that’s what you require, Aiguille, but the dance of truth takes time.’
‘Captain!’ whined the écorcheur, wriggling his hips.
Adela almost did not see the movement, the dagger was drawn and hurled so swiftly. With the handle sticking out of his chest, the brigand fell to his knees, astonishment frozen forever in his eyes as he tumbled forward.
‘Not lost my skill, I find.’ L’Aiguille’s cruel glee was obvious as she kicked the body over and reclaimed her blade. ‘A man who thinks only with his prick is a fool.’ It was a womanly statement, usually shared over the mending or a hovel cookpot. ‘Saved you some trouble, haven’t I?’ If it was a hint for some sisterly gratitude or this she-devil’s attempt to prove that imprisonment had not weakened her authority, Adela was not playing her game. She armoured the muscles of her face and shut her eyes. Perhaps the self-same dagger would scrape a gash across her throat and let out her soul, a soul that had not much care to travel further despite her rash effrontery. In despair at losing Richart’s trust, she barely heard L’Aiguille’s harsh voice condemn her to more suffering.
‘Bag the clever trollop up again.’
Footsteps returning. Adela’s eyes opened, wide in horror, as the woman seized her throat.
‘I know exactly what to do with this … this menial who apes her betters.’
‘And what is that?’ the man named Giso asked from the shadows.
‘It’s called “redemption”.’
The statue of Our Lady in the little shrine was weeping as Richart’s drenched company reached the crossroads of the Via Tolorosa. His brother’s men, who had been searching through the western valley, were already there, as full of mirth as sodden cats.
‘Its roof needs m
ending,’ Jaufré, striding out to meet him, pointed his riding crop at the tiny gable above the saint.
‘Tell me something I don’t know already,’ Richart shouted back as he drew rein. His wedding tunic was weeping rainwater from the deluge he had just ridden through, and he could see no captives in the thicket of his brother’s horsemen.
Given the signal to dismount, both parties of men-at-arms mingled on the cleared land at the edge of the track. They grouped away from the dripping oaks and allowed their horses a chance to recover from the hard riding. The dogs, sloppy-tongued and hoarse, flopped on the drier patches of earth, exhausted. At least, a green watery light had replaced the ebbing clouds, and in apology, the sun was struggling forth above the hills.
‘Nothing!’ Jaufré reported, smoothing his soaked hair back from his forehead. ‘A couple of horse-traders who saw no profit in staying to watch you wed, the usual straggle of churls and just now a party of religious on their way to Montélimar.’
‘That’s curious. We rode a mile beyond here before making our return. They did not pass us.’
‘Not yet, no.’ Jaufré dismounted and, taking his brother by the arm, skirted the largest of the puddles and led him round the elbow of the road. ‘See that barn halfway up the hill back there, I gave them permission to shelter there from the storm. They hope to reach La Salvetat before curfew.’
‘Not like you to be so charitable.’ A straggle of hedge indicated a cart track’s meander up to a cluster of buildings. Richart could see a large hound scampering about and several mules tethered beneath a south-facing byre, but there were also horses. ‘They have men-at-arms with them?’
‘A few hirelings, yes. You doubt my word that I questioned them fully? Ask my men.’ He turned and called out, ‘The abbess’s company, lads, we saw nothing suspicious, did we?’
‘No, sir,’ came the chorus.
Richart paced. ‘Given her age, L’Aiguille cannot have gone far. Who is this abbess?’
An evasive waggle of finger and wrinkle of nose from Jaufré. ‘Well, abbess-to-be. Sister Elisabetta from Saint-Martin-de-Canigou. She has been appointed to a religious house in Limoges. There’s an emissary with her from Jean de Veyrac, the bishop who sent for her. They showed me the letter.’
‘I need to go and see for myself.’ He gestured for his horse to be brought to him.
The fraternal, perfect teeth showed as his half-brother squelched after him. ‘By the holy saints, you cul, is my word not enough?’
‘No, Jaufré,’ Richart answered, patience an effort. ‘You’ve never met L’Aiguille so how could you be sure it wasn’t her?’ He grabbed the reins of his ambler.
‘Our noble lord doubts our word,’ Jaufré exclaimed to his men then he twisted back to face Richart, all spittle and anger. ‘It’s your familiar you should be questioning, dear brother!’
‘Familiar?’
Jaufré was relishing his audience. Every eye was on him. ‘I mean Derwent, brother. I’ll wager a hundred écus that he’s John’s agent, sent to rescue the hostage right under your very nose. It’s common knowledge he and your serving wench insisted on visiting her against your orders. Taking the mercenary flowers, do you suppose?’
There was muttering along the line.
‘Leave Lady Alys out of this!’
‘Lady! Lady? You were about to wed a peasant’s get. Is this your thanks?’
‘No, this is!’ He drove a punch beneath Jaufré’s chin.
The surprise assault drove his brother backwards across the furrowed road. To the laughter of Richart’s men, Jaufré landed arse and shoulders in one of the fresh puddles, but as he struggled up, he grabbed a handful of mud and hurled it true. Blinded, Richart had no defence as his brother’s gloved fist hit through his guard and he crashed down on his shoulder. Jaufré sprang astride him, getting in another blow before Richart’s fingers found a stone and toppled him.
‘He’s gone horn-mad,’ cried Jaufré, trying to draw his dagger as they rolled. ‘Seize him!’
Richart heard an obedient rasp of sword, and then, thank Heaven, his captain was roaring at every man to hold back.
Every punch was delivered with the viciousness of a hate that had been festering in each of them like some monstrous abscess. Richart, of heavier build, managed to heave a knee into Jaufré’s groin and jam his forearm across his kinsman’s throat.
‘You accept my authority? Answer!’ He thrust his weight forwards.
‘Y-Yes, damn you!’
Satisfied at the scarlet, gasping face, Richart disdained to offer its owner the hand of peace. ‘Mount up!’ he ordered the ring of subdued men-at-arms. ‘And you, you bastard, are under escort. Get him onto his horse!’
‘Stow that!’ Jaufré climbed painfully to his feet, his wrist against his bloody nose. ‘I know this day has been a disappointment for you, but to make me the butt of your anger is unforgiveable.’ Beneath the filth, the silky smile had slithered back.
‘Be thankful it was your butt and not your neck,’ Richart exclaimed, setting his foot on the stirrup. ‘We return to Mirascon!’
The nearby village of Almangue-sur-Fidele was suitably awed to witness their lord and his heir sluicing themselves on the steps of the stream where the local housewives usually pummelled breech-clouts. No explanation was proclaimed before Richart remounted and led the men-at-arms back to the city.
Behind his bruises, there had been some decision-making. He would insist that Grand-mère should go to stay with Lady Esclarmonde until the danger of the crusade was past and he would confine Jaufré to his quarters. If Henri’s men had not found L’Aiguille within a day, he would send an ambiguously worded message to Sir Reginald in Bordeaux asking him to inform King John that L’Aiguille had been ‘released’, adding the postscript that although Lady Alys was dead, he hoped the king would continue to honour the alliance. Lastly, he would interrogate Derwent.
Caught like a flea in the combing of the castle and city, the surly dwarf had already spent the afternoon in a dungeon. Henri, bad-tempered from returning empty-handed, had suggested the dwarf’s interrogation would be enhanced by a show of thumbscrews and the threat of knotted cords used in inventive ways, but Richart waived that. Instead, Derwent was marched upstairs, dusted and tossed before him in the great chamber.
With a sour face that most prisoners would never dare show, the dwarf clambered to his feet, straightened his belt and bestowed a reproachful glower on the guards on either side of him.
With a slight lift of a ringed hand, Richart dismissed the soldiers to wait outside and with only a growling Henri in attendance, he sat back and regarded his surly prisoner.
‘You are still here, then?’
A rebellious grin crinkled the little man’s face. ‘Was I supposed to leave? Procreate with the King of Aragon’s amusing little she-dwarf? You should have reminded me, my lord.’
‘Fellow,’ roared Henri, ‘there are plenty in this castle who would like to see you put to the question, myself included. Show manners to my lord or by the Devil’s balls, I’ll thrash you to ribbons.’
‘When I’m worth more to your master in one piece, Castellan? Tsk, tsk.’
A swift grab of Henri’s arm was necessary. ‘Yes, Derwent,’ Richart observed, restraining the old man, ‘but it is now time for a reckoning. Upon the lectern over there is a copy of the Holy Gospels. I require you to put your hand upon it and swear that you will answer our questions truthfully.’
The dwarf shrugged, sauntered across and lifted his palm to the leather cover. ‘My work is telling the truth, holding a mirror to those I serve. I hereby swear to tell no lies. See! No bolt from Heaven.’
‘Be glad of it. Now, sit!’ Richart indicated a cushioned stool.
‘What? My arse upon the arms of Mirascon?’
‘Sit!’ That was from Henri. Derwent obeyed, his hands clasped between his knees.
Richart leaned forward again. ‘Explain to Sir Henri how you knew Alys was an imposter.’
For an insta
nt, a far-off look entered the little man’s eyes as though some happy memory had climbed forth.
‘Answer!’ barked Henri.
‘It was not so at first. My lady’s appearance reminded me of a servant I knew in the queen’s household, but I do not claim close acquaintance. We were as two rooks feeding in different cornfields.’
Henri stared at the dwarf with deliberate steel. ‘Did you never consider that you had a duty to disclose your suspicions?’
‘Upon my father’s soul, Sir Henri, I had no suspicions.’
‘Pah, no suspicions!’ Henri snorted. ‘That was because you already knew she was not Alys.’
‘Ah, Castellan, even my poor brain required a few hours of pecking to sort the chaff of disbelief from the grains of truth. Once the pail hit the water, so to speak, I challenged her and she admitted it.’ Derwent shook his head before he once more looked up at Richart. ‘She was going to confess to you, my lord, but with all the public feasting she felt herself wade in deeper and deeper and she desired to safeguard your honour.’
‘On your advice, I daresay,’ scoffed Henri.
‘Not at all, sir. I warned her.’
‘But you did not see fit to warn me?’ Richart asked coldly.
‘No, my lord. It was not my business.’
‘Not your business!’ Richart sprang to his feet and plucked up the dwarf by the neck of his tunic. ‘Word-spinner! God give you mercy! Adela would be alive today if you had spoken.’ A few strides and he flung the dwarf up onto the high aumory. ‘She would be alive!’
Scrambling to hold on, Derwent crouched, his eyes round with fear. ‘Shall I jump? Break my bones? Will that satisfy you, Lord of Mirascon? If you want me to be your whipping boy, then so be it.’
‘No, I do not want that!’ Richart’s breathing slowed. He paced to the window, gripping his forearms, his entire being aching with loneliness and despair.
‘Adela may not have been a lady by birthright but she was by nature,’ Derwent muttered. ‘I suppose you would have made her your concubine.’
Troubadour Page 29
