“You will pay for this sacrilege,” said the monk, trembling with rage. “You try to build your walls with those stones you ripped from their holy foundations and you will make a wall rotten from within, foul and stinking with your heresy. Your foolish human pride will not defend you. Repent now, while you can, for the time is at hand.”
The mason pushed the monk over with his stone and the monk lay stunned on the floor of the refectory. The shouts and laughter of the men echoed over the walls. I had to restrain Guillaume again from rushing to the side of the monk, whose nose bled. He would be fine. We had a more important agenda. I walked over to the mason.
“My brother and I are refugees from the country. We are young and strong. How can we help?”
The mason looked us over.
“You don’t look that accustomed to hard work, boys, but we’ll take what we can get.”
The mason thrust his stone into our hands and we hobbled under the great weight, following the other men as they made their way to the walls of the city just above the Castellar suburb. They did not trust us at first, for no man there would trust any he did not know personally from his own city.
“Where are you boys from?” asked the mason.
Guillaume and I had spent our childhood in a small village not far from Carcassonne, but we knew better than to give the name. There could be refugees from our village here and they would know our family name still and would know of what happened to us.
“We were at Béziers when it fell,” I said, which was not a lie.
The men looked up from their work and glanced at us, before quickly looking down.
“Boys, you are welcome here with us. If we can do anything for you...” said the mason. He looked around.
“Thank you,” I said, looking down because I was certain he would see the disdain in my eyes. These foul traitors. They would abuse a monk, but open their arms to the foul heretics who escaped from God’s justice at Béziers.
We worked all afternoon, our backs aching and sweat pouring off our limbs. The powerful wind blew the dust into our eyes as we carried the stones from the cathedral through the city gates and into the Castellar suburb. Part of the interior of the wall there lay in ruins and the mason led a group of men who were trying to restore the wall’s integrity before the siege began.
“Excuse me, master mason,” I said. “Will we have time to fix all these walls before the siege starts? It does not seem as if there is time.”
“No, there’s not enough time, but they don’t know that,” answered the mason. “This part of the wall is only damaged on the inside. From the exterior it will appear as strong as the rest.”
And I knew immediately what I would include in my letter to the abbot that evening. These heretical dogs would pay for their sacrilege. The very stones that they had ripped from the most holy walls of the cathedral would betray them.
Suddenly I heard a yell followed by a low moan. Men dropped their tools and rushed to the wall, where someone lay moaning on the ground. It was Guillaume. Blood poured from his head. His face was white and his eyes were large. I looked around at the men.
“What happened?” I asked, putting my arm on Guillaume’s shoulder.
One of the apprentices put down a heavy stone that he carried on his shoulder and spoke.
“He walked towards me when my back was turned,” said the apprentice. “I didn’t see him as I turned and he hit his head on the stone I was carrying.”
“What can I do for him?” I asked.
“You,” the mason pointed to one of the youngest apprentices, “bring these boys to the house of the good women.”
The mason turned to me.
“The good women will care for your brother. He will be well taken care of there,” he said.
I started to protest, but realized in time I would ruin our disguise. I merely nodded humbly and followed the apprentice as I supported Guillaume with my arms under his shoulder. We walked out of the Castellar suburb and into the city gates. We followed a narrow street into the center of the city. We turned to our right and came to a large three-story house, built in the shape of a U, two wings surrounding a central courtyard. The building was clean and white, with baked red tiles on the roof. We walked up to the door, and it was opened by a young heretic girl. The apprentices told her quickly about Guillaume’s injury and she beckoned them inside, into a wide room, filled with plenty of light. The floor was covered with makeshift pallets, mostly empty, but soon to be filled with the dying bodies of these heretical dogs if the righteous will of my most Holy Father Abbot came to pass.
The heretic girl directed us to a pallet in the back. My brother groaned deeply. The girl tried to clean the wound on his head with a cloth, her fingers pushing the hair from his face. To allow my brother to be touched by these women was almost more than I could bear. The abbot must truly know the depth of our sacrifice. I would be sure he understood, so that we could be purified of the contamination we would suffer at their hands. For not only were these so-called good women heretics, but they further suborned the natural and good order of all things because they acted as priests in their church of heretical dogs. True, their acts of consecration were pure blasphemy, pure sacrilege. Their laying on of hands was a cruel mimicry of that most holy act of the blessed apostles; their giving of blessings a blasphemous imitation of that act reserved to popes, bishops, and priests. I understand that the evil heresy was the same when propagated by man or woman, yet I could not help feel that the women heretics who performed these satanic mockeries of our most holy Catholic rituals were committing the greater evil. Their foul bodies were cesspools of lust and decay, luring men to their eternal damnation through the sins of fornication, adultery, covetousness. Truly, man would suffer almost no sin were it not for the existence of women. All daughters of Eve, all temptresses, only ever to be tolerated when they strove to live the life of purity and devotion modeled on that of the most Holy Virgin mother of our Lord, Jesus Christ.
My anxiety worsened as I watched my brother look at the heretic girl. I could tell already, despite his pain, that he was being seduced by her lustfulness. For it was almost as if the devil himself had decided to create a perfect vessel for all lust and desire and corrupt yearnings. She was probably my brother’s age and one who ought to have been safely married or put in a nunnery for several years already. Her eyes were dark with thick lashes and surely Satan himself must have made her hair so that it shone in the light from the window. It was dark, but the light brought out only a deeper luster. I supposed that those men who are weaker and would be attracted to a whore such as herself, so bold and free, would find her figure comely. Though I, of course, felt nothing but contempt for her cheap charms. My whole being felt desire for only one woman, the most holy blessed Virgin, mother of our Lord, and this desire was of a heavenly, pure variety.
Yet Guillaume was weaker than I. He needed to be saved from this witch before she could cast her spells upon him. I realized that I must remove him from her clutches as soon as the apprentice left. I would not leave him there, his tender young soul ready to be plucked by their wickedness. But, then I saw the heretic girl call out to another woman, an older woman, probably also a whore, but probably one of their priests. And I realized that I had the perfect opportunity to see inside their sick and depraved rituals. No one would have trusted me if I had tried to join a group of heretical men, but, here in this home turned hospital, I would be able to observe quietly as my brother’s head mended. I could ask questions, for surely this foolish girl would be easily manipulated. For when this Crusade was over, and these lands won for our most holy Pope, there would remain these sinners, these apostates. We would need to root them out, to learn their ways so we could trap them and expose them and burn them to cleanse the rot of heresy from this land. Oh, I would let Guillaume stay. I would watch him closely, but I would learn. And these whores of Babylon would pay for their sins.
Gauda
Friday, July 31, 1209, evening
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I walked into the Viscountess Agnes’ private chamber and past her bed. Two servants from the kitchen were filling a large wooden tub with steaming hot water and I thought how much I would like a bath. The Viscount had ordered the court to restrict the use of water to only the essentials: drinking, cooking, and watering the horses. Agnes had, as usual, done what she had wanted.
Agnes was sitting in her tub, her face a mask of annoyance. I only knew that, if it were me in that hot bath smelling of rose petals, my face would show only bliss.
“Gauda, come scrub me,” Agnes said.
Attending to Agnes’ bath was a new and unwelcome chore for me. Usually, I kept her company at whatever idle amusement she chose- playing chess, gossiping, or reading romances in the long winter nights, for she craved them, but could not decipher the letters. I tried to teach her once, but it frightened her and she preferred that I do it. Agnes always had other maids to care for her clothes and toilet, but she dispensed with them regularly, sending the poor girls off crying to their villages once every few months.
The last girl had been packed off this morning, so I reluctantly sat down on a wooden bench near to the tub. I picked up a sponge and dipped it in a bowl filled with milk and the sap of melon seeds to whiten the skin. The steam rose in the hot August air and I began to sweat. I gently moved the sponge over Agnes’ arm and then lifted it to massage the delicate raw skin underneath.
“Viscountess, why do you do this? Your skin is raw. It may fester in this heat,” I asked.
“It is what is done,” she said. “I would not want to be an embarrassment to my husband. I am sure those sluts who hang about him do no less.”
Agnes grimaced as I examined her underarms. They were bright red and raw. The apothecaries mixed a horrid slew of quicklime, goat urine, and arsenic sulfur and sold it to all who followed slavishly the new style of removing all their hair from their bodies except that which grew on their heads. The men brought back the style from the Holy Land and the women quickly followed. I had never understood the lengths some would go to be considered beautiful, but I especially did not understand it of Agnes for she had sworn herself to a life of celibacy two years ago.
After I finished rubbing her body with the soothing melon sponge, I picked up an ivory comb and began to work through her long hair, looking for lice. Agnes’ hair was truly lovely, the color of wheat fields and not even from an apothecary’s bottle. I pulled the comb through a section of hair and picked at the little creatures I found, neatly splitting them with my thumbnail.
“Stop pulling. You’re hurting me, Gauda,” Agnes whined. She reached over and pinched my wrist.
I placed my hand in my lap.
“I am sorry for my clumsiness, Viscountess,” I said.
“Well, why did you stop?” Agnes said. “I can still feel them, they disgust me. Get them all.”
I moved the comb through her hair again, trying to be as gentle as possible. I did not understand what had happened to this girl to make her such a bitter and mean-spirited shrew. I remembered visiting Agnes’ mother, who was my cousin and dear friend, when Agnes was only a girl. Then she had been a dear child, so pretty and always laughing, the joy of her both her mother and father. How had that sweet child turned into this nasty young woman, so beautiful on the outside, yet rotten in her core?
I worked quietly for a while, and allowed myself to dream of having my father’s old lands back and being mistress of my own home. Maids would pick the lice from my hair, but I would never slap their face or pinch their wrists. Agnes’ harsh voice woke me from my reverie. She was yelling at the kitchen servants, who had shrunk into a corner.
“You foolish girls have let my bath grow cold. If I catch sick, you will be whipped for your laziness,” Agnes said. She paused for a second. “Come here, you little fools,” she said to the girls.
Cautiously, they came closer to the bath.
Agnes placed her hand on the cheek of the prettier one.
“What were thinking about that made you forget your duties, you little slut? Some handsome lying troubadour has convinced you to spread your legs for him in return for a pretty song?” Agnes said.
“No, my lady,” stammered the girl. “I was not thinking of that, I swear.”
Agnes slapped her face. The girl cried out and started crying.
“Do not contradict me, you little whore,” she said. “Both of you, go, you have ruined my bath.”
Agnes waved them away and stood in her bath.
“Gauda, bring me my towel from the fire.”
I walked over to the fireplace and picked up a warm piece of cotton that hung from a rack in front of the flames. I draped the cloth around Agnes and dried her body and then placed a second warm cloth around her hair, which smelled of honey. We walked over to chair and Agnes sat down. I brought her a silver mirror and she held it in front of her face. I started to pluck the hair from her brows, making them slim and arched. Then, I plucked the hairs from her forehead, for some were starting to grow in. Agnes had beautiful hair, but her brow was low and she was forever battling to create a fashionable high brow. I saw her look at my face as she winced and knew that she was jealous of my brow. I never needed to pluck a hair from it, for it was naturally high. I anticipated a pinch or slap, but none came. Agnes looked away from my face and stared again at hers in the mirror.
“Do you think my husband still desires me?” she said.
I tried not to show my surprise at her question.
“Viscountess, you are a very beautiful woman. Just think of the many songs written about your beauty by so many troubadours,” I said.
“All to gain favor with my husband,” Agnes said.
“Well, troubadours often write to please their listener and to keep a warm bed by a fire and rich meals and wine,” I admitted. “But, in your case, those were not lies.”
“And my husband, do you think he agrees with them?”
“I think he must find you as beautiful as they, but that he respects the vows you have taken. I am sure that he is proud that his wife has received the consolamentum and has become a good woman. He would not want to let lustful thoughts contaminate your purity and the path you have chosen,” I said.
Agnes looked as if she were about to cry and then she slapped me.
“How do you know what he thinks, cousin? Do you think you know him better than I, his wife? What do you do with him when he calls you to play for him in the night? I hope, for your sake, that playing your harp and singing your songs is all you do. Leave me, now. I desire to be alone.”
I walked out of Agnes’ chamber. I had time to deliver one final message to the troubadour at the court of the Count of Toulouse before the city began to close up for the siege. I walked into the great hall and found the young joglar that I had been using for several months to carry my letters to the court of the Count of Toulouse. He was packing his bags, probably one of the few people trying to leave the city as the throngs from the countryside streamed in. I looked into his eyes, which were large and violet and I wondered as I always did if he knew how handsome he would have been had the pox not scarred his young features, leaving his face a mess of pits. Yes, he knew, I was sure, staring into his sad eyes.
“Do you have room in that sack for a letter?” I asked.
“I have room for whatever pleases you, my fine lady troubairitz,” he replied, with a slight bow and a sweep of his hand towards the floor. “And I thank you for all you have done for me. I will never forget it, no matter what happens.”
I had not much time at my own convenience, but when a banquet ran on for hours, I would sometimes sit with the violet-eyed joglar. I would try to teach him all that I learned from my teacher, the famous troubairitz Azalais de Porcairagues. He would soak up all that I knew about rhyme and meter and would sing me his latest poems, for he wanted more than anything to leave behind his juggling and tumbling and playing of dance tunes for drunkards and become an honored troubadour, one whose songs would be sung across many
lands.
I took the letter from the satchel at my belt and gave it to him. He placed it in his sack and then I took both his hands in mine.
“God go with you, and protect you.”
“And God protect you here, my lady.”
I kissed him on the cheek once and then turned and walked out of the great hall. In the letter I had given to the joglar I had written of the latest musical styles coming from Gascony and included several new songs, but the Count of Toulouse would be able to understand and read what I had really written- everything I knew about the state of the castle and the city. It was difficult to escape from the constant demands of the Viscountess Agnes to do the spying I had been sent here to do, but I found my moments. I would be sent on an errand and linger just a little too long. Agnes never suspected anything other than that I was poorly behaved and the joy she got from pettily punishing me kept her giving me more errands. I spent nights in the hall with the Viscount Raymond-Roger and his knights and troubadours. I kept my ears open and learned much. Men think so little of the intelligence of women that they will spill the most alarming secrets, thinking the woman too dull to understand. I was sure the Count of Toulouse would be pleased with my information. Perhaps by the time this siege was over, my father's lands would be restored to me and I would be free.
Later that night, I sat down with the rest of the court to a dinner in the great hall. The mood was somber. The meal finished quickly, without the usual singing and dancing. Afterwards a servant summoned me to the Viscount’s chambers. Raymond-Roger waited for me beside his bed as I walked in with my harp. I sat down and prepared to play, but he waved his hand.
“Not tonight, your foolish songs of love and romance will only annoy me. Just get into my bed and make me forget so I can sleep, woman.”
I did as he said.
There were some days I felt guilty for my spying, but this was not one of them.
DAY 1 OF THE SIEGE OF CARCASSONNE
The Song of the Troubadour Page 2
