Almodis

by Tracey Warr

  Arriving at the imposing barbican of the Chateau Narbonnais, I say to Raingarde, ‘Look at the size of this entrance.’ I swing her hand backwards and forwards, staring up at the huge decorated arch and the jagged teeth of the portcullis suspended above our heads.

  ‘Well I would,’ Raingarde laughs good-naturedly, ‘if you’d left us any time to do so, but now we have to hurry past and get to the Great Hall.’

  It is my fault that we are late. I was too long exercising my horse and bird this morning and Bernadette was grumbling and moaning about how impossible it was to get me presentable in time and get the twigs and tangles out of my hair.

  I push open the heavy door and find my place at father’s side ignoring the reproachful stares from the roomful of strangers as our entry disturbs the solemn ceremony. The bishop is young and nervous and his arms are shaking with the weight of the crown raised over the head of the kneeling count. The frown on my father’s face soon disappears at the sight of me, his newly reacquired daughter.

  ‘By the power vested in me,’ the bishop says, ‘I confirm you, Pons, as Count of Toulouse.’ The hovering crown comes down on the grey head. The new Count of Toulouse rises in his heavy robes and turns to face us. He is not a pretty man. He has an enormous, hooked nose and his mouth is all hanging wet red flesh. My own face is scrunching up at the thought of that mouth slobbering near my neck. I feel sorry for the young woman standing there next to him.

  ‘Poor little Majora,’ I whisper to Raingarde, ‘she was only eight when she married him.’

  I look sadly at the small woman holding the hand of that awful man with a mouth like a whiskery old horse and teeth to match. She looks miserable. The door creaks behind me and I am surprised to see that someone else is even later than we were. It is a formidable looking old woman with a face all angles and sharp edges and a tall boy with bright blond hair and a splendid blue tunic, as blue as his eyes.

  ‘Now he’ll make someone a good husband soon don’t you think?’ I whisper again but Raingarde frowns at me to be silent. He is a beautiful, confident-looking boy.

  I see my father nod formally at the pointy old lady. She must be someone very important then for the Count of La Marche to give her a courtesy.

  ‘Who are they, father?’

  He tells me, close to my ear, ‘Ramon Berenger, Count of Barcelona, and his grandmother, Ermessende of Carcassonne, who stands regent for the boy.’

  There is a free hour before the coronation feast and my father sits in the bedchamber holding my hand, gazing into my face. My brother, Audebert, and Raingarde are sitting nearby and the servants have been dismissed from the room.

  ‘I know the contours of your face, of course, darling. I’ve been looking at them every day despite your long absence,’ my father says and we all smile at this. ‘And yet you are a stranger to me my dear daughter. I haven’t watched you grow from grubby imp to beautiful woman, as I did with your sister. I know nothing of what your life has been, the deepest desires and griefs of your heart, the business of your days.’

  I look back into my father’s face. Many strong men might flinch at such a view but I gaze at him with fearless love. He has spent his life on horseback, defending the rights of our family, taking and losing territory, hacking at men and being hacked at. His short hair is iron grey. He has lost one eye and the socket is a red hollow of fearsome scarring. A scar slashes down his face from left eyebrow to right cheek. There is an ugly knob of mangled flesh where his right ear should be. To look at his face is to hear the ring of swords, the screams of horses and men. The bland, good looks of Audebert are an indication of what my father once looked like, before such havoc was wrought on his features.

  I know what the purport of my father’s words are. He means that I should give him and Audebert a thorough debriefing on everything I know about the Aquitaine family that might be of use to them. I have waited for this day, storing up my observations and information, impatient to contribute to the La Marche family strategy, to show that I am mindful of the needs of my kin. At the Aquitaine Court I was treated by my grandfather as a little pet, and by Agnes as an annoying nuisance. I was at the court for so long that everyone forgot that I was a cuckoo in the nest, a La Marche spy. Or perhaps it was because I was a young girl that they paid me no attention. The Aquitaine family conducted their business in my full view and now I will tell my family all about them. Focussing on the undertow of my father’s words, I decide to dive in and give my full report. It is true that father and Audebert do not know me and I want them to see who I am.

  ‘My uncle Guillaume has returned from his long and cruel captivity in ill health,’ I say. ‘He and Aunt Eustachie have been kind to me, but I fear that the duchy is likely to pass to Sancha’s son, Eudes, before too long.’

  ‘Guillaume may yet recover his health and his wife may yet conceive an heir,’ says my father with a slight question in his tone.

  I make no response but I see that he has read in my face that these possibilities are no possibilities. As if I had spoken, he nods and taps the back of my hand.

  ‘And was Lady Agnes so kind to you?’ asks Audebert.

  ‘No,’ I reply shortly. ‘She never showed me kindness or care, though father gave me into her care, but her husband, old Guillaume the Great, was always kind to me. I studied at the new cathedral school with Bishop Fulbert, along with the Aquitaine children.’

  ‘Well you know more than me then,’ laughs Audebert. ‘Will you take your learning into a nunnery sister?’ he says provocatively.

  ‘No, I won’t,’ I snap, turning fiercely to him, but then tempering my words as I feel a gentle pressure from my father’s hand. ‘I will use my learning to good account in furthering the fortunes of my kin and my husband.’

  My father smiles and nods at this. ‘Very well child. And Eudes? What sort of man is he?’

  I try not to let a proud smile bloom on my face, as I realise that my father values my opinion, even if my brother sees only opportunity for jokes. ‘Eudes is a good man,’ I say with decision. ‘He is intelligent and brave. He will be well-inclined to us I believe.’

  ‘Well-inclined to you perhaps sister?’ asks Audebert, laughing again.

  Father and I form an alliance in ignoring this remark.

  ‘Well-inclined is one thing,’ says Bernard, ‘but he will not be kin to us as Guillaume is.’ Guillaume is father’s half-brother, sharing as they do the same mother, Adalmode of Limoges.

  ‘No,’ I agree and pause, wondering if I dare venture the real thing that I want to tell my father. ‘Agnes and Geoffrey will not be well-inclined to us, or to anyone else.’ I swallow at my temerity and the stillness that descends on my father in response to my words. ‘They will open the door for the northerners to overrun the South if they have the chance.’

  ‘How is this, little sister?’ asks Audebert slowly. ‘The Duke of Aquitaine is Guillaume VI, our kin, and you already have him and his half-brother, Eudes, dead and buried, Agnes installed and King Henri Capet with his feet under our table?’ Yet I hear a new note of respect replace the previous mockery of Audebert’s tone.

  ‘I learnt a great deal at the Aquitaine Court,’ I say. ‘I read the books in the Duke’s famous library. I listened to all around me and I learnt to play chess … very well.’

  Father smiles broadly at this and says, ‘You are looking for the moves of the red queen, eh?’ he says, meaning Agnes.

  ‘Eudes would do well to get himself a wife and an heir fast and cut Agnes’ spawn out of the succession,’ Audebert says, arching his eyebrow and nodding his head in my direction.

  I shake my head in irritation with my brother. ‘I am already betrothed, and in any case, I am related to Eudes. The church would never sanction such a marriage.’

  ‘You are only related by marriage, not by blood,’ Audebert says stubbornly.

  ‘Even if Eudes did marry right away,’ I say, ‘a child heir would be no deterrent to the vaulting ambition of Agnes and the Hammer.’

/>   ‘No,’ Audebert responds, ‘but a strong Regent would be. She’s wasted on Lusignan, father!’ I am flattered that he thinks I would be a strong regent but his strategy is not sound.

  ‘I gave my oath to Lusignan,’ father says and it is clear that there is an end to any other possibility. My father stands up, pulling me to my feet with him. ‘Very good. We will speak more of this. Now we will eat, drink and rejoice that we are reunited.’ He takes Raingarde’s hand and moves to the door with us, his identical daughters. Audebert steps out to intercept me and kisses my cheek. ‘You have done well sister. Please excuse my jesting.’

  5

  The Mews

  I slip out of bed without waking Raingarde or Bernadette and slide my feet into thin leather shoes, pulling a fur wrap around my nightshift. I rake my fingers through my hair and step out into the chill dawn air. The courtyard that had been so frantic yesterday is now deserted and silent. An old black cat sits by the well eyeing me. I take a tin cup from its hook and dip it into the well bucket. The cold water revives me and I am hungry but first I need to check on my falcon. I walk towards the arch in the far corner of the bailey and find my way to the falconry mews, adjacent to the stables. Passing the stables I hear the horses chomping softly on hay, shifting their positions.

  I duck inside the dark mews and exchange a morning greeting with Piers who is already here about his work, cleaning harnesses and leather straps. He and I have an easy relationship now. He does his work very well and I try to forget our fight in the stables in Aquitaine when we were newly arrived as child-hostages. I was dressed up in all my best clothes and jewellery and playing queen. It was a game I played at home with Raingarde. He came in and sniggered at me. ‘You won’t ever be a queen,’ he said. ‘All you’ll be doing is laying on your back with your legs open being fucked and having babies.’ That was when I punched him and his nose bled, and I got the scars on my knuckles and a thrashing from Agnes.

  I pick out my peregrine falcon in the dark rows of birds on perches and begin talking gently to her and feeding her a few titbits of quail that Piers has prepared for me. The dim light of the mews dims further as someone else enters behind me. The new occupant murmurs a greeting: ‘My Lady.’ I hear the Catalan lilt in his accent. Like me he is attending to his falcon, ensuring that she feels secure with her owner’s voice in this strange mews. I sneak a glance at the newcomer as he talks to his own bird, a magnificent gyrfalcon. He is the tall blond boy who entered the investiture behind us yesterday with his grandmother: Ramon, Count of Barcelona.

  He turns suddenly to me, deliberately catching me in the act of studying him and we both laugh. He makes me an elaborate bow and I can see that he is also in his nightshift beneath a very resplendent blue cloak with a border of elaborate silk embroidery. Even in the gloom of the mews I can see the blue of his eyes. I am suddenly conscious that my hair is hanging loose and uncovered down my back and that my own white undergown is visible below my fur cloak. But what does it matter. He is only a boy after all.

  ‘May I take the liberty, my Lady, of introducing myself and asking your name? I am Ramon, Count of Barcelona.’

  ‘I am pleased to meet you. I am Almodis of La Marche.’

  ‘Ah! Were you not recently at the Court of Aquitaine?’

  He is very well-informed for a boy! ‘Yes I was there for the last twelve years and am only just returned to my father.’

  ‘My felicitations on your reunion with your family, and with your honoured father, Count Bernard. At the Court of Aquitaine you must have known the two dukes, the old Guillaume V, The Great, and now his son, Guillaume VI?’

  ‘Yes, the old duke was my guardian all through my childhood. I was privileged to have access to his Great Library and share his passion for music and poetry.’

  Ramon shows no surprise at my implication that I can read. ‘Ah! Won’t you tell me something of that library?’ he asks, inviting me to sit on a bench behind us.

  I picture the shelves of the duke’s library in my mind. I count off the books I can remember on my fingers. ‘He had many bibles. And Augustine’s City of God, Orosius’ History of the Ancient World and Eusebius’ Church History.’

  ‘And did you read all these heavy tomes, Lady?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. I am about to carry on with my catalogue of the library but realise that I have heard a tone of humour in Ramon’s question. I look up quickly at his smiling face. ‘Are you laughing at me?’ I say abruptly.

  ‘Indeed no.’ His expression sobers. ‘I am simply delighted to find someone who shares my passion for books. Parchment and gold are so costly. Even more so than months and months of a scribe’s time!’

  I nod and carry on with my list, although wary now that he is perhaps laughing at me after all, despite his assurances. ‘He also had Saint Gregory of Tours’ History of the Franks. Oh yes, and Apicius’ treatise on cookery. He paid 200 sheep, and an enormous pile of rye, wheat and millet for that one.’

  ‘We have a few books in Barcelona,’ Ramon says, ‘but I would like many more. And to build a library would be a fine thing.’

  ‘I have a few books of my own,’ I say, ‘and I intend to collect more and be a patroness to writers and book-makers.’

  Ramon arches his eyebrows at that. He has a mobile, expressive face. ‘Excellent,’ he says.

  ‘My grandmother, Adalmode of Limoges, left some books to me and my father has just given me Adhémar of Chabannes’ Chronique. I could show it to you if you like.’

  ‘I would like that very much. I can bring you a literary surprise in return that I think will please you.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Ramon, ‘but then it won’t be a surprise will it?’ He rises to his feet, bowing. ‘I must go now, Lady Almodis, or my grandmother will think I have been kidnapped by Moors!’

  We laugh again and he takes his leave. I remain seated on the bench for a moment. I know that his grandmother, Ermessende, is famed for her military and political stratagems and no doubt she has schooled Ramon well. My empty stomach rumbles and I move to leave, passing Piers who is still standing in the semi-darkness polishing leather.

  Back in the chamber, Bernadette fusses, scolding me for being absent so long and now being late to get dressed again, until I snap at her. ‘Mind your tongue, girl. I’ll do as I please and you will like it or you can find employment elsewhere.’

  I am sitting alone in the chamber in the afternoon as my sister, father and brother have gone to meet Pierre and his mother to seal the details of Raingarde’s betrothal. I sigh heavily at the thought that I will only be reunited with my sister for a few brief months before we each marry and are separated again. There will be a great distance between us once more.

  ‘Sighing my Lady?’ Ramon asks quietly. He has come in so silently that I am startled. Bernadette, is standing next to him with her mouth open. He has pre-empted her attempt to announce him properly. Ramon is, of course, considerably more formally dressed than when I encountered him in the mews in the morning. He is wearing a short brown tunic and a jewelled sword under his blue cloak. Now that I am meeting him in daylight, I see that his blond hair is bright and short and his eyelashes and brows are brown. A pink blush is visible under the tanned skin of his cheeks, almost as if they have been delicately brushed with paint. His nose and mouth are shapely. A slim black-haired woman with olive skin, wearing a yellow tunic, stands behind him holding a musical instrument. I force a smile onto my face as Ramon bends to kiss my hand.

  ‘I am thinking how I must soon be parted from my sister.’ I gesture to two stools for Ramon and the woman to take. ‘She is to be wed to Pierre of Carcassonne and I to Hugh of Lusignan in a few short months when we are both of age. So our reunion is very short but sweet.’ The woman has taken out a wax tablet and stylus and is writing something down.

  Ramon notices my glance and introduces his companion and her activity. ‘This is Mistress Dia,’ he tells me. ‘She is my surprise for you. She is a troubadour and one o
f great skill.’

  Dia laughs at his words without looking up from her scribbling. I like the sound of her laugh. She sounds as if she acknowledges her own worth and is appreciative, but not obsequious, about Count Ramon’s assessment of her. A female troubadour!

  ‘And no doubt,’ continues Ramon, ‘she is scribbling about you already. The dolour of two beautiful twin sisters sadly parted is excellent fodder for poetry.’

  ‘Forgive me, my Lady,’ Dia says, putting aside her tablet and stylus and standing to give me a formal curtsey. ‘I am remiss. I am honoured to meet you. Count Ramon has told me about your great learning and love of poetry.’

  I blush at that. ‘Great learning seems some flattery, Count,’ I say to Ramon, ‘but yes, love of books and poetry I will admit to. So I am pleased to meet you, Dia. You are the first female troubadour I have met!’

  ‘We female troubadours are called trobairitz, my Lady. I am from Andalucia where there are many trobairitz and troubadours.’

  ‘Will you let us hear some of your work?’

  Dia places the harp on her lap. It is a golden boat-shaped instrument with a long handle bending back towards the body of the harp like a crook. She begins her razo, her introductory summary of the songs she will sing. ‘Troubadour means finder and inventor,’ she says in a melodious voice, strumming the harp. ‘How much I have found and how much I have invented I must leave you to decide.’