At first light, they headed for the citadel. Last time Richart had entered the vicomte’s castle, it had been for Rogièr’s wedding to his seventeen-year-old bride. Now the courtyard was forlorn, the stables were empty and the remaining garrison were no doubt manning the city’s outer walls. A couple of dogs were on duty, but they were panting and stretched out, and the surly porter at the postern was wearing a why-was-I-left-behind face.
‘My lord’s gone to Carcassonne, so bugger off!’
‘But he summoned us,’ whined Derwent. ‘Why didn’t someone tell us?’
‘Yer little cul, don’t you know there’s a bleedin’ great army arrived during the night?’
‘Can’t see over the battlements, can I?’ snapped Derwent.
‘Nor can I,’ lamented Richart behind the eyecloth. His fingers bit into Derwent’s shoulder. ‘Find out what is happening and come back for me.’ Then he added cajolingly to the porter, ‘Good fellow, might I beg a feed from your kitchen afore we try our luck elsewhere?’
‘An’ they’ll probably tell you to piss off as well. Oh, so be it, but I’m warning yer, Master Bernart don’t suffer fools, gladly or otherwise.’
Chapter Twenty-four
If I can find a generous friend To give me cheese and a bite to eat, Spiced wine or ale to gladden my heart, Then shall I sing for him, eyal! Of battles and love, of high and low. Heigh! Eyal! Eyal! Eyal!
Untitled by Richart de Mirascon
Feast Day of Sainte-Marie-Madeleine
In the kitchen it was rare to hear something sung that wasn’t profane. Even more so just past cockcrow. Adela could not distinguish all the words, but the voice from the passageway past the buttery was loud and well tempered, and the man sang several verses out of sight before he came down the few steps into the kitchen.
‘Can you spare a bite for a blind and hungry troubadour?’
Blind? Troubadour? It was needful for Adela to turn slowly; she continued to scrub the board, anything to stop her fingers from shaking. Being helped to the trestle near the master’s chopping block was a bearded, sunburned fellow wearing a fraying eye-cloth, a coif with tasselled ties that hid his hair, and a poorly dyed tunic. With a sob in her throat, she fled to the spice larder—the only place where she might snatch an instant of privacy to unleash her emotion—and leaned back against the wall, her knuckles to her lips.
A ripple of laughter and then the man was singing the Baa-Baa song. Impossible that the Lord of Mirascon had come for her? Himself?
A great tempest of laughter buffeted the air as she stole back in. Most of the kitchen servants were gathered round the singer. Even Onfroi was taking time off to set a tankard in his hand, and Bernart had straddled a stool to join his guest as though they were old drinking companions. The troubadour was telling some bawdy jest in broad Occitan, but she sensed that behind the eyecloth he was searching the faces. Then he rose, making some excuse to leave. No! Don’t leave! Had he not seen her? It was him. Dear God, it really was him.
‘Malingerer!’
She yelped as the sauce cook fisted her ear, sent her stumbling towards the fish block. ‘Get on with it, you tiresome cow!’ Tears blinding, she took up the scaling knife. It was an effort to keep her face down, hide behind the dank hanks of hair escaping from her coif. Concentrate on the blade! Don’t look up! The upstart scullion was watching her like a galley whipster.
The laughter had hushed. Bernart was talking about this siege that Giso had mentioned, asking for news, and the singer’s voice was soft and grave as he answered. Snatches reached her—mention of the pope’s army and a sibilance that sounded like Carcassonne.
Her scathing inner judge kicked her in the ribs again. A noble lord coming in disguise to find a deceitful menial? Even if Lisette had bothered to seek audience with Richart, why would he give credence to such a nonsense tale when he was better off believing his false bride dead? His temper had been mid-winter when they parted. And yet …
‘Oy—’ The hour bells of the city had Onfroi on his feet and poking Bernart. ‘Bestir yourself, you bibbler, or we’ll have your captain turd down here nagging us like an old shrew.’
Bernart belched, ordered that some pottage be given to the traveller, then he lumbered to his feet, roaring his usual abuse and the kitchen erupted into noisy, frantic preparations.
Captain turd?
O, Sweet Jesu! Had Giso lured Richart here?
Clearly, Vicomte Rogièr kept the ablest of his kitchen staff at Carcassonne. Richart winced at the tasteless broth, but supping slowly gave him a chance to edge his eyecloth up a fraction. The pale, young drudge at the fish block was clothed in a faded russet slop, buckled with a rough belt that cinched in too many folds. The simple slit of a neckline needed sewing up. She had allowed it to bare one shoulder; however, the way she huddled into herself told him it was not to attract men but rather to avoid the fabric gaping over her breasts. Because of the crude couvre-chef on her head and only a few greasy wisps of hair showing on her forehead, it was hard to be sure of her colouring. Struggling with the scaling, she wiped her sweaty brow with her forearm. But then for an instant she glanced straight at him.
A bolt of recognition, hope, shot through Richart’s heart. Alys-Adela, thin as a mass-wafer? Adela? He wasn’t certain. It was too dangerous to dispense with the cursed blindfold. Bumbling to his feet with the empty bowl, he left the bench and deliberately collided with one of the scullions.
‘Your pardon, clumsy of me.’ Across the fellow’s shoulder, he saw the girl fully. The side of her face was bruised. Could this poor beaten drab be his Adela? Bitter anger thundered through his blood but he forced his fists to uncoil. He needed certainty.
Using his hands to guide him, he fumbled his way gradually towards her. His approach was making her uncomfortable; she was wielding the knife with fierce concentration. Deliberately he walked his knees into the side of her chopping block so that the impetus pitched him forwards. She gasped and flung herself away as though he had scorched her and he fell as a blind man might, his shoulder catching the wooden corner and knocking him sideways.
‘Olivar, you’ll do yourself a mischief.’ The tiresome clerk was instantly beside him, grasping his elbow, helping him to his feet. ‘Come out of harm’s way. Have something more to eat.’
The man led him to a corner stool safely away from the spits and hearth, but although it doubled his distance from the girl, it enabled him to watch her obliquely while he chewed the cheese bunyol. His emotions were seesawing between confidence and despair. Surely his feisty hairbraider could have found an excuse to come near, give him a true sign of recognition? Had they given her a beating that had robbed her of her wits? Or maybe it wasn’t her.
When the girl had finished the scaling, her taskmaster sent her across to the hearth. Using the thicknesses of her waistcloth as mittens, she heaved up a steaming water pot, wincing as though more than the weight caused her discomfort, and staggered across to wash the blood and slimy guts into a pail, then she hooked a smaller pan above the fire. The fellow, who had hit her, was pointing her to a large mortar and pestle beside a pile of fishbones and hollering at her to fetch some spices. ‘Grind ’em with long pepper, cinnamon and ginger for the galatine and be swift about it, you slack shrew!’ he called out after her. ‘And make sure the vinegar water boils fully!’
At last, she was coming his way, her face down.
‘Go, please! They’ll kill you.’
Richart lifted a hand but she was gone already into the room behind him, and when she scurried back, her arms laden with jars and small canvas bags, she took a path away from him, not looking back.
Per Crist! He would get her out! He rose to his feet and then he caught movement at the stairs, a soldier in a hauberk, and swiftly sat down again, watching as best he could. The fellow’s metal coif was thrown back across his shoulders. The moustachioed face, with its cruel lines, seemed familiar. He had seen that scar before. Yes, the night he and Adela had gone to the tavern. Who in Hell
was this? Was Rogièr employing mercenaries?
The soldier scanned the kitchen; his stare found Adela briefly before he strode across to speak with Bernart. A swift exchange and the master cook clanged his ladle for attention although the kitchen was hushed already.
The soldier, legs astride, chin up, rasped out his purpose: ‘As you know his lordship has left for Carcassonne, but he has given orders that every able-bodied man is to report for duty on the walls. This kitchen will have to run with even fewer hands. You, you and you, come with me!’
‘But today’s the city’s feast day,’ protested someone.
‘Well, you can yell that over the walls. Ask the enemy in for cakes and ale.’ He came to stand in front of Richart. ‘Who’s this? The pot stirrer?’
‘He’s a blind singer,’ said Onfroi.
‘From where?’
‘Anywhere,’ quipped Richart, touching his forehead in respect. ‘People on the road yesterday said the pope’s army was on its way so I thought I’d better hole up here.’
‘Well, they’ve fuckin’ arrived, setting up camp now, so we’re on rations, Bernart.’
‘God and Sainte-Marie-Madeleine protect us!’
Like the fearful others, Richart, too, crossed himself. The stakes had been raised. Adela looked so exhausted. Merde, even if he got her and Derwent out of the city, what then?
‘Can Béziers hold?’ he asked.
Bernart clapped him on the shoulder. ‘A murrain on any who say it can’t! You’ve seen the walls. Ah, but of course, you haven’t, being blind. Aye, Olivar, we’ll be fine. We’re a tough lot. But you can still walk out. I shouldn’t think the crusaders will hurt a blind singer unless you’re a Cathar.’
A gasp came from the bony older woman.
‘Calm down, you stupid hen. No good blubbin’.’
‘Olivar?’ The soldier’s eyes narrowed and he drew his sword. ‘A jongleur called Ponç told me of an Olivar, an especial troubadour who was not what he seemed.’
‘You sayin’ this man’s a spy?’ exclaimed Bernart.
‘I believe I am.’ The sword tip moved like an angry cat’s tail and found Richart’s heart. And at that moment, Derwent rushed in from the hall like a shrieking goblin. ‘The walls are breached! Flee! Flee!’ He charged through and flung open the outer door. ‘We shall all be massacred!’
The remaining minions ran out shrieking, and in that instant of distraction, Adela flung the pannikin at Giso. He screamed as the scalding vinegar splattered his face. But it missed his eyes. Only one chance. Only one patch of bared flesh. Richart sprang forward and drove his dagger up. It ripped into Giso’s windpipe and the man’s blood gushed forth.
‘Two can play that game.’ The whoreson of a cook had his carving knife at Adela’s throat, forcing her head back.
‘Want her that badly, do you, singer?’ mocked the clerk, pale as aged milk and out of reach behind the cook. ‘Must be valuable, then.’
‘Courtly love,’ explained Richart airily, wiping his dagger on his discarded blindfold (and loading an urgent prayer to whoever in Heaven was listening). ‘Troubadours such as I are allowed to adore and worship but, unfortunately,’ he shrugged, ‘her lord and future husband wants her back. Slit her throat and he’ll … well …’ He was aware of Adela’s fingers moving to the waist of her apron. ‘He’ll slit your tendons, one by one, unless the crusaders get to you first.’
‘Devil’s balls!’ Onfroi was ashen, pointing towards the door. They could hear the panic of the bells, the screams. Hell had come to Béziers beyond the gatehouse. ‘I’m leaving. Come on, Bernart!’
That heartbeat of slackness. Now! Adela tossed the fine mix of pepper and cinnamon into the cook’s eyes and broke free. ‘Ground it especially for you,’ she snarled. ‘God roast you for your cruelty!’ and as her two tormentors fled, she turned an awed gaze upon her rescuer.
‘My lord, I—’ She fell to her knees in gratitude.
‘Save that for later, if there is one.’ Derwent was loosening the sword handle from the dead man’s fingers. ‘Here! And load up with knives. I wasn’t jesting. The dregs are in charge of the cup.’
‘At first I thought you lied, Derwent.’ From the shadow of the archway, Richart stared down the street, jaw clenched in horror. Adela clung to her rescuer, her senses berserk. If the kitchen had been purgatory, this was worse. Screaming, terrified people were running past hounded by ruffians brandishing bloody billhooks. Per Crist! How did they breach the ruddy walls? They only pitched camp last night. What about the siege?’
‘Tsk, tsk, no starvation, ramming the gates, putrid corpses catapulted in,’ murmured Derwent. ‘Breaks all the rules. Everyone’s heading for the cathedral. Should we join them?’
‘No.’ Richart’s arm tightened around her. ‘God help us! It is the riff-raff in command. Where are the knights? Sleeping in?’
Adela stirred in fury as she saw a baby spiked from its mother’s arms. ‘O, Sweet Jesu!’
‘Be angry, that’s good, sweetheart. Which gate did they come in, Derwent?’
‘Across the bridge but every port stands wide.’
‘South then, Saint-Gilles’ Gate. Feign we’re with them, the ribauds. We’re certainly dressed for it.’ His arm swept her out into the anarchy. He started whooping like an exuberant victor, steering her out of the path of the oxen and terrified sheep that were being whipped down towards the city gates. The mob was pilfering all it could. Every door had been broken.
‘In here!’ Richart thrust them into a shop already invaded and propped her against the wall. ‘Here!’ He grabbed a woman’s head cloth from the floor. ‘Wrap something bulky in it, Derwent. Doesn’t matter what. We need to look like looters. Al … Adela?’
He was frowning, his lips a seam of doubt. Did he think her too weak to escape? She saw him looking to Derwent, their shared concern that she might be damaged, ruined in mind and body.
‘Adela?’ She flinched like a wild creature as he reached out his hand.
Exposed, shamed by her coarse garments and her hacked, greasy hair, she could feel their repugnance, read the indecision in their eyes. Men wanted beauty, the curvaceous symmetry of satin flesh that beckoned fondling, long, lustrous hair and glowing skin, the vigour to birth a dynasty. Why would this nobleman risk his life for a bony waif like her?
‘Adela?’
Death was stamping impatiently outside the door. The world, the future, had shrunk to now and now would be over for Richart unless she let him go.
‘I … I cannot thank you enough, both of you, but I want you to leave me here, my lord.’ Once more the men exchanged glances. ‘Please save yourselves,’ she pleaded. ‘Mirascon needs you both.’
‘Have you thought it might need you, too?’ she heard Derwent say gently, but she was looking at Richart.
‘Catch!’ A wicked smile from him and a hunk of bread came flying at her. ‘There’s stew here, still warm.’ Then he was ladling some into a bowl. ‘Eat!’ He held it out to her. ‘You must be hungry.’
Her eyes were glassy with tears. His kindness was not an answer, yet it could be a new beginning.
‘Sup it slowly,’ he warned. ‘We’ll leave through the back when you’re ready.’
She watched him while she ate, saw him take up position behind the street door, sword-blade ready to cut down any invader.
The meat, a treat she had not tasted since Mirascon, sent eddies of strength through her body. No, that was sheer fancy, though it helped. Renewal was possible if …
‘I’m ready,’ she said.
Was it imagination? A feeling of blood returning to her face, storming down her limbs, a courage that she could do this. He must have seen it reach her eyes. ‘Come, then,’ he said.
The southern end of the alley proved a cul-de-sac. He had to help her and Derwent over the end fence, then just as they found themselves surrounded by astonished chickens, looters came charging out at them. Only two, thank Heaven, and neither burly. Bombarded by flung fowls, all squawking beak
s and sharpened claws, the wretches cried craven and scrambled over the fence before Richart could belabour them with the flat of his sword.
‘Never used hens before,’ he quipped as they ventured through a weaver’s ransacked storeroom. ‘Maybe we can chainmail a pig or two.’ He edged aside the curtain separating the rooms. The battered front door stood wide. ‘If yonder is the street that leads to the bridge, we need to cross it and leg it through the place opposite and work our way south.’ They skirted the inside wall, keeping out of sight of the street.
But it wasn’t ribauds they faced now. Mounted knights and mercenaries were galloping up the street, their faces open-mouthed roars of fury, their swords scarlet with blood.
‘Wrong clothes after all,’ muttered Richart. ‘I think it’s the chickens again for both of you. Trust me, I’ll be back.’
Adela armed herself with a basin of flour and a poker before she crouched beside Derwent behind the brushwood fence. If Richart never returned …
Don’t even think it!
‘For a lord, he’s not bad company,’ whispered the dwarf, as though he sensed distraction might be helpful.
‘Oh, Derwent, I had given up hope. For him to—’ She shifted her toes away from an inquisitive beak. ‘How did … Did Lisette speak with him?’
‘No, the poor wench is murdered and Mirascon has changed masters.’
‘Then, how—’ She froze, hearing the clink of chainmail. She readied the basin, but Derwent set a hand on her arm and put a finger to his lips. As a metal mitten touched the gate, the dwarf grabbed the corners of his cloak and, batlike, leapt up with the most blood-curdling screech. Yelping, the soldiers fled.
‘Oh, lordy,’ giggled Adela, clutching her ribs with laughter.
‘Being ugly has some advantages,’ muttered Derwent. ‘There’s someone in there again. Could be your Galahad. Wait here.’
Troubadour Page 35
