The noose of mercenaries behind Jaufré was slackening, widening, encircling. Adela’s breathing quickened, guessing they were going to seize her, use her to demand Richart surrender. She shouldn’t have intervened, but surely the crowd—
‘Sweetheart,’ Richart commanded tensely, urging his horse behind her. Swiftly she stepped away, one hand warding him off, her other palm defiant towards the mercenaries. ‘God sent me back!’ she shouted fiercely so all might hear.
‘A miracle!’ With a shriek, a young woman flung herself through the cordon. Fabrisse! ‘Ma domna Alys!’ the demoiselle exclaimed, falling to her knees and carrying Adela’s hand to her lips. ‘Ai, a blessed miracle!’
‘Alys?’ The name was a loud whisper, washing back like a great wave through the listening crowd. ‘Alys!’ The people surged forward. Richart’s chamberlain was loudly demanding an explanation. Matthieu drew his sword and others from the garrison did, too.
‘Let God decide,’ shouted Richart, tossing the banner to Matthieu. ‘Single combat! You or me, Jaufré?’
‘Start the fire!’ thundered Seguinus, hastening down the steps, and the executioners, torches already lit, instantly obeyed, hastening round the kindling. The young girl, bound behind Marie, started screaming piteously, and a woman burst through the broken line of guards. ‘That’s my daughter there,’ she cried to Adela. ‘In Christ’s name, save her, bona domna.’
Others rushed forward, tumbling to their knees in anguish, beseeching mercy for their loved ones.
‘People of Mirascon, set them free!’ Richart roared.
‘What do I pay you for, you dolts?’ snarled Jaufré, coming back to life as smoke began to fill the square. ‘There are no miracles and I don’t fight lunatics!’
Richart’s horse reared as the mercenaries attacked. Matthieu was shouting. Adela felt Fabrisse’s hug drawing her out of the melee when suddenly a fist knocked the girl aside and a man’s arm grabbed Adela around the waist and started hauling her towards the bonfire.
‘Filth! Meddling whore!’ Seguinus snarled. His other hand clawed into her hair as she writhed to break free.
‘Richart! A moi! A moi!’ Jesu! Her lover was beset on all sides, fighting for his life. This was the end for both of them. Desperate, she made herself a dead weight, yet Seguinus, panting now, did not give up as he backed closer and closer to the fire. The crackle of the wood filled her hearing, the smoke her breathing. Jesu, Jesu!
Cursing, he gave one last heave. Adela struggled, screaming as he flung her, expecting flames to devour her hair. Her shoulder hit the cobbles, the fire inches from her face. Gasping for breath, she rolled back. A fierce kick from him and she’d be in the flames, except the arrogance had vanished from the bishop’s face. He was staring behind him, down. With a squeal, Adela jerked her heels away from the burning wood and saw the edge of Seguinus’s great cape was smouldering.
Cursing, he began to beat at it with his gloves, but the very air begat a flame. Tearing his gloves off, he fumbled to free himself. ‘Help me!’ he cried, casting around for one of his minions. ‘Water, someone! Get me to a horse trough! Jaufré! Jaufré!’
‘Ma domna, no!’ Fabrisse was beside her, pulling her away from him.
Desperate, his elbows propping the cope away from his body, the bishop started running towards the marketplace. As though he was a monstrous flapping bird, the citizens sprang aside, pressing themselves against the doorways. The flames were up Seguinus’s back now, catching the lappets of his mitre. He thrust it off, slapped at his shoulders and threw himself to the ground, rolling and screaming for help. One of the young monks ran to his aid, but the crowd stood as frozen as stone.
‘Oh, Fabrisse.’ Adela slowly lowered her fingers from her lips as the bishop’s body spasmed.
‘The will of God,’ muttered the girl, crossing herself. ‘Him being a bishop. They may have a care to him but he’ll not endure.’
‘My darling, are you harmed?’ Richart was on foot behind them, his sword bloody, and Miró and his former household officers were at his elbow.
‘No, my lord.’ Adela surrendered to the blessed comfort of her beloved lord’s embrace. Around them, men were kicking the timbers asunder, stamping out the flames, the prisoners were being released from their chains and those with ambiguous loyalties were weighing the odds.
‘He tried to throw me in the fire,’ Adela whispered, her throat hurting to swallow. ‘Your … uncle.’ She pointed to the blackened figure lying on the ground further up the street. ‘There, see, his clothes caught fire …’
‘Per Crist!’ He crossed himself and, stripping off his cloak, called to Gaspard, ‘Pray you, see he is tended!’
‘Is it over?’ Adela whispered, tears threatening to overwhelm her. ‘Is it really over?’
‘For now, yes, my brave one.’ He carried her hand to his lips.
‘Jaufré, is he … did you …?’
‘No. Fled on horseback and his hirelings with him. Now he’ll probably join the crusade and kiss Arnaud Amaury’s toecaps.’ Adela heard the dismissive tone, but in the depths of his eyes lurked the pain of betrayal.
‘As well,’ she said, her hand upon his cheek. ‘You would not have wished to kill him.’
‘You’re wrong. I did want to.’
‘My lord, my lady!’ Free of shackles and with someone’s pelisse restoring her dignity, Marie flung herself, weeping, into Adela’s arms, and then drew back, her hands touching Adela’s cheek and hair as if to ascertain she was real.
* * *
Richart left the women happily crying in a huddle as Fabrisse and València joined them. He needed to consolidate the anarchy of the square into a God-approved victory.
‘Did you like the excrement?’ Derwent and Gaspard, with a wake of Miró’s servants, bowed before him.
‘Well done! The excrement was impeccable and it halved the force.’
‘Thanks to these stout fellows.’ Derwent was as high as a kite with success. ‘I sat on Gaspard’s shoulders with a cloak hiding his face as the routiers charged in and I swear one of them swooned. Anyway, I just wished I could have showered your uncle as well. It was tempting to climb onto the cathedral roof, but …’
‘Enough, Derwent! Seguinus is severely burned by his own bonfire.’ He watched the ebullience fade, the small man’s cheeks undimple in astonishment. ‘And if that hasn’t confirmed in the people’s minds that Heaven is on our side, Derwent, I don’t know what will.’ He turned to Miró. ‘We need a thanksgiving. Good friend, would you herd the consuls into the cathedral, and you, Matthieu, send men to all the city gates. No one is to enter or leave without my permission.’ Then he clapped a hand on his chamberlain’s shoulder. ‘Pray you send the bellringers up the stairs again. Let the people be summoned to mass. Find Père Arbert, Fabrisse! He shall lead the liturgy. As for you, fols, take these good fellows with you and release Henri from the tower.’
The dwarf did not prance but a wicked gleam rekindled in his eyes. ‘I think I shall enjoy that.’
Richart returned to Adela, who was now surrounded by the prisoners and their joyful families. He hoped they would not turn her to heresy. ‘Come!’ he requested, formally offering his wrist. ‘And I require your presence,’ he ordered the Cathars. ‘We shall gather in the cathedral straightway. All of us. I know you do not hold with churches and many of our sacraments, but today is different. Today we all assemble, in tolerance, in thanksgiving.’
Adela smiled. ‘Commanding them is hardly showing tolerance, my lord,’ she said behind her hand.
‘True.’ But the Lord of Mirascon was back on the comfortable saddle of authority. ‘I give you a choice, good people, but I would appreciate your presence. Marie?’
‘My lord, we thank you and we shall come.’
His hand was beneath Adela’s elbow as they crossed the square. ‘I feel like I’ve just come off the battlefield.’
‘You have.’
He looked over his shoulder. ‘Bèl, most of the people are following.
No doubt, Seguinus’s disciples will not support us, but they will be encouraged to leave. A pity that Seguinus and I could not have worked together, but he made the people afraid, and I need to make them brave. Alas, why is fear so much easier to instil than courage, my darling?’
‘Because it plays upon our weaknesses, the risk of losing everything that matters to us.’
‘Hmm, I try to believe we all are decent human beings,’ he said, halting to stare up at the Heaven and Hell portico of the cathedral as they mounted the steps, ‘but Béziers … It mustn’t happen here, Adela. I won’t let it. We may starve to death, but those butchers will not slaughter us like swine.’
‘No, you must bar the gates and stand fast.’ She withdrew her hand from his. ‘My dearest lord, I do not think I should come in with you.’
‘Adela?’ Tenderly, he put a finger under her chin and gave her a smile that told her she was the most beautiful woman in his world.
She shook her head, her blue eyes sad and downcast. ‘I am not sorry I interfered, my lord, but I am sorry it made matters awkward for you.’
‘Am I missing something in the translation, ma mie? Your courage just changed the fortune of Mirascon.’
‘I mean in resurrecting Alys.’
‘Yes?’
‘But that’s it, I should leave now and then everyone will believe it was a miracle, a visitation, and they will tell the story to their grandchildren in the middle of winter and you can choose a proper bride of noble birth.’
‘Ah, so that is your logic. You can leave, I suppose, if that is what you want, my love. I’m sure Maud will find use for another pair of hands.’
Her lovely eyes were awash with tears but her body tensed in anger. ‘No, Richart, you know it’s not what I want.’
What she wanted, needed, in his opinion, was more flesh on her and his babe cosy inside her.
‘Richart, I know I promised I would stay until you found a worthy bride, but—it was wrong to deceive. It still is. I am not Alys.’
No, but she had all the attributes of a perfect noblewoman. Graciousness, courage, virtue, compassion … No, he could not let her go. It was not just because he loved her but because his people loved her.
‘Sometimes it’s not a matter of words but feeling the truth with your heart. I find that I love you and if you love me, come with me now.’
‘But, Richart, there must be no more lies.’
‘Agreed. Yet I think there is an answer to our dilemma if you will trust me.’ In case she was still trying to be a martyr, he took firm hold of her hand.
‘Of course, I trust you, but—’
‘Hush, then.’
* * *
Adela felt like a fraudster as they entered God’s house; a charlatan as the people made obeisance. How could Richart make it right? She was just a priest’s daughter; Adela the hairbraider from a little faraway village.
Before the rood screen, Richart turned and held up a hand for silence. ‘People of Mirascon, today is the Feast of Saint-Lazarus, who Our Lord Jesu raised from the dead. In the shrine behind me, as you know well, is the saint’s hand that was given to my grandsire in the Holy Land. Whether it is a true relic, I do not know, but it is the understanding behind our reverence that matters. It resurrects our love of the Blessed Christ.
‘Today sees the safe return of my bride, who was abducted on the day of our wedding and made to suffer great hardship and imprisonment in Béziers. It is by the grace of God that she is restored to us.’ Holding her by the hand, he demanded loudly, ‘Will you accept this woman as your liege lady?’
There were individual shouts of ‘aye’ and then the entire cathedral answered with one voice that reverberated among the great pillars. ‘Aye!’
‘Curtsey!’ The shake on her wrist compelled obedience. Her mind reeling at his cleverness, Adela spread her skirts and received their cheers. Her heart was overwhelmed with happiness, this moment would repeat in her mind a hundredfold.
‘Père Arbert!’ commanded Richart, and the priest stepped forward. ‘Before you conduct the mass, will you agree to marry us now at the church door?’
Adela gasped; this was impossible, against the order of things.
For several heartbeats, the chaplain did not answer. She felt as though he was looking straight into her heart, weighing her sins against her good deeds. Richart’s fingers grew tight upon her arm. She could sense the power of mind he was hurling at his confessor. And then the priest spoke at last, ‘If that is your wish, my son.’
Beside her, her beloved lord let out a breath. ‘Back we go to the church door, then.’ He signalled to Miró and his chamberlain to follow.
‘No, please, you cannot do this,’ Adela protested as he led her towards the daylight.
‘You are married already?’
‘No, but the truth …’
‘We need you. I need you. Is Heaven arguing? Thunderbolts?’
‘I haven’t any lands to bring you.’
He frowned good-humouredly. ‘But nor had I for over a week. If it will reassure you, I promise to send Tib to Gascony to inquire into Alys’s lineage. Maybe you are kin to her since you so resemble her.’
‘I am a nobody.’
‘My love, you are now the Lady of Mirascon.’
He was mad to do this, but ‘mad’ was one word she dared not chide him with.
‘Wait, my dearest lord,’ she pleaded, holding back. ‘I have to know before I make my vows. Which of us—of me—are you marrying, Alys or Adela?’
‘I’m marrying you.’ Mind, he could see it troubled her. ‘It is a custom among the nobility here for people to have two names. Take the vow as Alys-Adela.’
‘Wait—’
‘Per Crist, madame, must you—’
‘Let these be two more witnesses, please. Look!’
He turned and his face softened at the unbelievable. Henri was riding towards them with Derwent perched behind him.
‘It may not last,’ Richart remarked dryly, lifting his hand in greeting.
‘But this will,’ Adela promised, and holding hands, they knelt before the chaplain.
* * *
The roads of the fiefdom next day carried messengers to every village bidding the people to take refuge in the city or flee into the woods. From the castle tower, the pigeons that Richart had brought from Bordeaux in the previous year winged westwards, each carrying the same plea to Sir Reginald to uphold the alliance and dispatch a Gascon force to Mirascon. Trusted huntsmen, who knew the skills of stalking invisibly, were sent to spy upon the progress of the crusader army.
Uncertainty was a torment to all except Richart; if he wagered King John’s Gascons might never come, he knew for certain that L’Aiguille would. He knew because he had seen her in Béziers, spurring towards the cathedral with a bloody sword in her hand and a troop of mercenaries at her heels. Had he encountered her face to face, he might have tried to slay her, except it went against the chivalry in his soul to kill a woman, even in combat. Now he did not doubt that she and maybe Jaufré would bring a force against him. Not the whole crusade—Carcassonne was a more strategic prize—but the abbot could be relied upon to help; Arnaud Amaury had not enjoyed preaching in Mirascon.
‘Richart, you’ve been standing up here on the ramparts for hours.’ Adela held out a leather jack of ale and he received it gratefully. Not to disclose that L’Aiguille had been in Béziers made him feel deceitful, but he could at least spare her that. ‘And you’ve been busy,’ he commented, noting her turned-back sleeves.
‘We all have. There’s now a goodly supply of clean cloths and strips for bandages, and I’ve asked the apothecaries to make up plenty of salves. Better now than at the last instant.’
He put an arm about her shoulders and hugged her to him with a kiss. ‘Thank you.’
‘Derwent is desirous to speak with you. He’s waiting down there in the bailey. Will you hear him now?’
Richart nodded, took another draught and beckoned the small man up. ‘I have
been trying to think of a different position for him in the household, my love. I wondered about making him your chamberlain if that would please you.’ While God still spares us, his gaze told her.
‘Yes, it would please me.’ Adela watched the soberly dressed man approach them. ‘He’s as gentle as a sheep since our handfasting. Did you teach him kinder manners in your travels with him?’
‘No, I think it was him who scholared me. Derwent, good day to you.’ His greeting received a serious bow with no fulsome flourishes.
‘My lord, I have something important I need to tell you, providing you make me two promises.’
‘Only two?’ Richart laughed. ‘Speak, then.’
‘Firstly, that you do not send me to Aragon to mate with this she-dwarf.’
‘Not unless you wish it, and …?’
‘And you promise not to put me on top of a cupboard for what I am about to say.’
‘Hmm, you ask much of me.’ Richart managed a grave expression and appearing to consider, added, with a raised eyebrow at Adela, ‘Very well, agreed.’
‘It’s about L’Aiguille.’
That slapped all humour from him. ‘Are you about to confess you had a hand in her escape after all?’
‘No!’ Indignant, insulted, the small man’s chest puffed out.
‘Stop bristling, then.’ Richart lifted his hands in surrender. ‘Very well, I’ll interrupt no more.’
‘My lord, I never told you that L’Aiguille was in the camp at Béziers.’ The gasp from Adela was predictable. ‘I’m afraid so, domna. It was just by chance I saw her that afternoon as she returned, so I took a risk and I followed her. She dismissed her men, wiped her sword and sat down outside her tent. It was then de Montfort came to speak with her and I heard her snarl, “The abbot promised my company should have the ruling of Béziers since I seeded the garrison with my men, but did he keep his word? He’d better let me have Mirascon or, by the Devil’s balls, I’ll run the lying bastard through. See to it!”’ And she spat on the ground and went into her tent alone.
Troubadour Page 39
