In the tavern yard, a trio of blackamoor jongleurs were struggling to sing against the hubbub. With no sign of Lisette or her usual companion, Thomas, Richart joined a bench of Catalan chapmen.
The tidings gleaned from the traders made little sense at first. They told him that the city of Montpellier had already surrendered to the crusader army but that there had been no arrests of heretics or looting. That was good to hear and things sounded very orderly. The army commanders, the dukes of Burgundy and Nevers, together with the pope’s representative, Arnaud Amaury, had held meetings with the town consuls and the delegates of the Lady of Montpellier, who was wed to the King of Aragon. Richart’s new companions told him that the crusaders had also discussed peace terms with other major landholders of the region, including Rogièr, Vicomte de Béziers and several knights representing the Order of Templars.
‘Presumably money changed hands, then,’ said Richart, making circles with his cup upon the table.
The oldest merchant nodded. ‘It’s a choice: buy them off, take the cross or surrender.’
‘But they can’t all make peace,’ Richart pointed out grimly. ‘Such an army will not turn back empty-handed.’
‘No, of course they won’t,’ agreed one of his informants. ‘They are after somewhere they can achieve a base—a place which Christendom won’t object to them seizing. Do you know Béziers, senyor?’
‘I have been there.’
‘Ha!’ An eyebrow raised. ‘And I take it you know its previous history.’
‘Slaying lords and breaking bishops’ teeth?’
‘Well, then you will understand. First, Lord Rogièr offered money, and when that was refused, he asked to join the crusade.’
Richart swore inwardly. A pox on Rogièr! How many more would take the cross against the heretics?
‘Yes, my friend, I see from your face you do not approve. Well, nor did Abbot Arnaud. He replied that not only did he not trust the young man’s sincerity but also that Béziers was the biggest midden of heretics and rogues there ever was. I even heard tell that the vicomte’s overlord, the Comte de Toulouse, mocked the young man, telling him to “go piss in the wind”, but I do not know if that is true.’
It was believable, Richart judged. Raymon had no liking for his nephew, Rogièr. ‘A candle without a wick’ and ‘still on the breast’ had been some of the more polite terms Richart had heard Raymon use.
He let out a loud breath. ‘So, Béziers is the honeypot these wasps are making for, but it has stout walls.’
‘Yes, senyor, but you should see the engines of destruction this army is carrying. Where are you from?’
‘Not from Béziers, thank the saints.’ He noticed two soldiers in chainmail had come into the yard and were observing everyone’s faces. He did not recognise them but he was taking no chances. ‘Well, good sirs …’ He shrugged and lifted his palms on either side of his chin. ‘Let’s hope Béziers knots this great army up until their knight-service is over and the King of France whistles them home.’
‘We’ll drink to that, friend.’ Several ale cups clinked.
When he saw the soldiers disappear into the tapster room, Richart gathered the remainder of his bread and cheese into a kerchief for Derwent, but then the music halted him. He had forgotten that Lisette was here. The jongleurs were singing her song: ‘In my arms, I held him’.
As my friend died slowly from his wounds.
His hair was gold upon the pillow
But the light in his eyes had gone.
He’d travelled far, far away.
Never to return.
The Moors’ voices trembled with such emotion, that thinking of Adela, Richart’s heart melted. Why, he wondered, was Lisette not singing with them and where was Thomas? He lingered, looking in vain for either of them, and when one of the musicians headed for the piss buckets in the stables, he waited for him. ‘Your pardon, friend,’ he said softly, waylaying the man as he came back through the yard. ‘I recognised Lisette’s song and I saw her cart in the lane. Where is she?’
The Moor tensed like a prodded malpolon, dark fingers going for the cross that hung about his plump neck. ‘Go your way! I talk to no strangers.’
Richart held out his hand. ‘I’m a fellow troubadour and a friend of hers. I was in Mirascon in June. That’s when I last saw her.’
‘Mirascon!’ A glob of spittle hit the cobbles. ‘Lisette’s been murdered.’
Murdered? The earth quivered beneath Richart’s feet again. Death could strike at any time, yet Lisette … Lisette was dead?
The jongleur pushed past but Richart grabbed his arm. ‘In Heaven’s name, wait, fellow! I must know what happened.’
With a wary look towards the packed trestles, the man shook him off. ‘Go and be hanged! I’m saying nothing more.’
‘Then maybe I’ll tell the local seigneur you’ve thieved Lisette’s cart.’ The kick of authority was in Richart’s voice.
‘You are not one of us,’ the singer complained, his eyes large with suspicion.
‘Whatever I am, I was Lisette’s friend.’ He tilted his head towards the wicker postern. ‘Outside! I need to hear all you know. Was she in trouble?’
The Moor hesitated, sweat glittering on his dark skin, but he complied and a few moments later, leaning against a horse rail outside the nearby smithy, his tongue loosened.
‘Me and the others met Lisette and Thomas on the road from Béziers and there was talk of us all travelling together to Toulouse and then south to Foix but she said no, she had to go to Mirascon. Had to. “It was important,” she said. We thought no more of it and continued our journey, but a few days ago when we were on our way back to Mirascon, we saw her wagon drawn up crookedly by the side of the road just past Almangue-sur-Fidele with a flock of geese around it. At the side of the cart, we found Thomas lying dead in the ditch, and Lisette stretched out on the ground all bloody with a little goosegirl cradling her head. The child told us she had held Lisette as she died and she was loath to leave her lying there and could we fetch help?’
‘A blessing on the girl. Did she see who attacked them?’
‘She told us she was driving the geese between the vines when she saw three horsemen in hauberks come galloping up the road from Mirascon. Shortly after, she heard screams and hid, then she saw the men ride hard back towards the city. When she finally felt it was safe to step out on the road, she saw the bodies and the cart. Because it was done so hastily, she thinks there was no other purpose but to kill them. She was certain it was the soldiers because the wounds were fresh.’
‘Did Lisette manage to tell the child who her killers were or why?’
‘Lisette did say something as she was dying. The child thinks it was a message for a kitchen maid in Béziers called Alys. To say she was not dead but then, God save her soul, she died.’
‘And you are certain Lisette had just come from Mirascon?’
‘Yes, judging by the direction of the cart. We didn’t know what to do. After what the child told us, we were afraid to go there, so we loaded the bodies into the wagon and took them to the priest in Almangue. He is a good man. He believed us and gave us leave to keep the horse and cart. Better to do that and be on our way as fast as possible than bring trouble to the village, he reckoned. See, we are no thieves, man. We sang Lisette’s song in remembrance of her.’
‘I’d not do that for a while if I were you. Ah, I see your friends have come seeking you.’ The other two jongleurs had come swaggering out, puffed up for a fistfight, but Richart’s informant patted the air calmly. ‘No fuss, eh. I’m coming.’
As he turned to go, Richart said warningly, ‘There are soldiers here on someone’s scent. I hope it was not yours.’
Nor mine, he added silently as he struggled out through the congestion of packmen and herders driving their animals into the safety of the village walls. Word of the army was spreading and over the stink of animal dung, he could almost smell the brewing stench of fear. A hungry army would seize anything bu
t, with luck, Poussan might have a tomorrow.
The stifling air was loud with the tabor-noise of cigales as they led Pilgrim up a pebbly goat track on the scrubby slopes north of Poussan. The fragrance of the thyme and rosemary bushes, bruised by their passing, was refreshing after the dust and flies of the road. There was no need for a campfire save to keep biting insects away and they had nothing to cook. Watching the flames and embers might have been comforting, something to do in the long hours before nightfall, but there would be no forgiveness from the heat, even at dusk.
Richart was in no mood to talk and mighty thankful that his news had dumped Derwent into a rare silence. Today’s tidings were like painful shards that needed to be picked out and examined along with the darts of regret and guilt that were still embedded in his mind. A skinful of strong wine could have given him the oblivion he craved, except his purse and leather bottle were lightweight now. Anyway, they needed to stay vigilant; wood smoke and voices proclaimed that others were arriving to take refuge upon the hillside. He and Derwent would need to take turns in keeping the horse from being thieved.
Once the coast wind from the east brought relief, he managed to fall asleep, his dagger handle close at hand. A few hours later, he woke with a jolt not because bright sunlight was slapping him awake and flies were crawling around his eyes and upper lip, but because his sleeping mind had been working on the cipher of Lisette’s dying words.
‘By Heaven!’ he exclaimed, hastening to his feet and rushing across to where Derwent lay snoring. ‘Wake up!’ One bleary eye opened, the small man lifted a finger rudely and rolled the other way. ‘Listen to me, Derwent! Adela’s alive.’
Both the dwarf’s eyes snapped open. ‘You are insane!’ Then he sat up with a jerk, looking around. ‘Lordy, I’m supposed to be on watch. Have we still got Pilgrim?’
‘Yes, listen! Kitchen maid Alys-Béziers-not dead. What if Lisette went to Mirascon to tell me she had seen her?’
Derwent yawned. ‘My lord, you clutch at straws. There will be hundreds of drudges in Béziers called Alys. Lisette, God rest her, could have been babbling about some friend or sister there and not realised she was so close to death. Don’t look so ill-tempered. It’s likely the little goosegirl may not have heard Lisette’s words aright or this jongleur’s tale be at fault.’
Richart grabbed up the horse’s saddle. ‘You forget Lisette was murdered on someone’s orders,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘What if she told Jaufré instead? I have to go to Béziers.’
‘And search the entire cit—’ From the turrets of Poussan came the frantic donging of the bells, but they could hear something else, like the roar of the very earth shifting. The rumble of a thousand voices, clashing steel, and the pound, pound, pound of drums and marching feet coming towards them. ‘It’s the army,’ wailed Derwent, crossing himself.
‘At last,’ exclaimed Richart, snatching up their few possessions. ‘This is what we came for.’
He could feel Derwent uneasy behind him on the saddle as he kneed an anxious Pilgrim further up the hill. They were not the only ones seeking the best vantage point above the Via Domitia. Dusty labourers from a nearby quarry came running and others, too. Fugitives and pilgrims, goatherds trying to hide their flocks from the army’s clutches, all crept out from their camps—distraught ragged people falling on their knees begging that Christ would save them. Despite his high birth, Richart felt a unity with them, a unity of awe and terror, as they beheld the end of their world marching along that narrow road.
‘See, not too many,’ observed Derwent dryly, but Richart could hear terror whittling the small man’s humour. There were hundreds; a living spear of soldiers stretching back to the horizon.
At the front, carrying a tall, silver cross, walked a young priest, clothed in white robes. Behind him on richly caparisoned white horses rode the three papal legates, the spiritual leaders of the crusade. Foremost in his glistening white cape and glinting mitre was the Abbot of Citeaux.
‘Looks more like an emperor than a shepherd of souls,’ commented Derwent.
‘I’ll wager this is not a crusade but the settling of old grudges,’ muttered Richart. ‘That’s Arnaud Amaury. The last time he was here, he feasted so well that no one believed his piety and most of us scorned him as a hypocrite.’
Either side of the legates marched Cistercian monks bearing the blue-and-gold banners of their order, and flanked by more attendants rode three archbishops and some half-dozen bishops. The only one Richart recognised was Reynaud of Montpeyroux, the exiled Bishop of Béziers. Then came the military commanders at the head of a great entourage of knights and esquires, each clothed in white surcotes, with costly destriers on leading reins bearing their hauberks and weaponry. Richart knew the leading lords by their banners: the dukes of Burgundy and de Nevers, appointed by the King of France, and behind them, to his disgust, riding beneath the familiar gold tricuspid cross upon bright scarlet was Raymon, Comte de Toulouse, with a ginger-bearded knight beside him.
‘Who has scarlet with a white lion?’ he asked over his shoulder.
‘Hmm, could be Simon de Montfort. Calls himself Earl of Leicester, though King John will not let him have the lands in England that go with that right. A poor horse among exalted beasts. He’ll be hungry for conquest.’
‘With the rest.’ Richart could make out a small contingent of horsemen riding up from the opposite direction to greet the leaders. ‘Devil take him, that’s Pierre de Bermond, Lord of Sauve, greedy braggart. How many more are going to capitulate?’
Veni Sancte Spiritus! The chanting and the drumbeats roared Might and Righteousness. Knights, esquires and the less armoured sergeants on their amblers rode past, rank upon rank of them, a lethal river of fighting men in their white gambesons and blood-red crosses. Following them marched the serjeanz á pié and city militia, line after line of archers and foot soldiers banging their shields with every step.
‘I wish I had invested in red silk.’ Derwent sighed. ‘Some merchant is a great deal wealthier by now. Mind, if it rains, will the crosses bleed?’
The south will bleed whether it rains or not, thought Richart in despair. If this army is marching on Béziers, what are my chances of finding Adela? Yet if they plunder Béziers, it may safeguard the fate of Mirascon.
That was not the end. Now came the mercenary companies, the routiers, human locusts free to endlessly slaughter with the pope’s blessing and not limited to forty days’ leave like the King of France’s vassals.
In gut-gripping horror, Richart realised his worst fears had come to pass—trundling slowly, escorted by engineers, miners, carpenters and smiths, groaned the oxen carts, almost buckling under the weight of timbers and iron. Screwed, ratcheted, bound and axled, these would provide the walking belfries, ladders, trebuchets and ramming engines to destroy the cities in their path.
‘O, Jesu!’ As the true Lord of Mirascon, Richart wanted to fall to his knees in anguish.
I cannot fight this. We are but one little city-state.
‘Well?’ prompted Derwent dryly, shaking him by his belt. ‘You still want to go to Béziers?’
Chapter Twenty-three
The universal Church of the faithful is one outside of which none is saved.
Pope Innocent III
Béziers
Adela at last heard the lord of the castle mentioned by name: Vicomte Rogièr Trençavel, one of Richart’s wedding guests. What’s more, he and his Jewish seneschal were expected back from Montpellier, wherever that was. Jesu be praised! Somehow, she would gain an audience.
The kitchen ranks swelled as soon as the lord’s regular master cook and his officers took over. Now there was a pantler, butler and sauce cook as well as their assistants. Bernart was berated for his slackness and returned to his usual position of under-cook. For Adela and the lesser menials, it meant chastisement and they were made to scrub the floors and walls as well as carry out their other labours. Adela’s hope of getting a newcomer to listen to her was as useless
as getting one of the stray dogs to talk. The officers barely noticed her save to bark orders, but when one man began to heed her, Bernart knocked her aside, exclaiming her mind was as soft as an addled egg and she ‘believed herself a lady’.
Worst of all: Giso was back. He sought her out with a warning. ‘I’ll have you flogged if you keep trying to bleat your ludicrous story.’ His gauntleted fingers grabbed her chin, painfully forcing her head back against the wall of the cellar.
Adela tried to look at him without fear. ‘Why don’t yer kill me, yer monster, and ’ave done?’ she gasped, half-choked.
‘Because my captain might need you soon, my sweet. Who knows, we may cut your throat before the walls of Mirascon or catapult your stinking corpse into your lover’s bailey. Now go back to your scrubbing, you dirty little slut, and keep your tongue from wagging!’
‘Fas cagar!’ Adela spat in his face only to receive a blow that drove her stumbling into the nearest shelf of casks. Her body ached all day.
Saint-Thibéry
Playing the hare and reaching the ancient bridge over the Hérault at Saint-Thibéry before the crusader tortoise crawled in required navigating the mesh of farm lanes, avoiding the army’s scavenging parties and trusting that the fearful peasants who gave them directions were being honest. They became lost several times, but the saint of travellers, Saint-Christophe, must have been rosy with ambrosia that day for they covered the twenty or so miles by evening.
Monasteries had their secular uses, especially if they had thick walls. The people of Saint-Thibéry had already vanished into theirs, leaving their houses and water mills deserted. It was tempting to camp in one of the empty dwellings that night, but with a hungry army up the road, there was the risk they might find themselves snared beneath a burning thatch or spiked on a marauding sergeant’s spear come morning. A field was safer.
Troubadour Page 33
