The Song of the Troubadour

by Stephanie Cook

  I grunted a yes and he let me down to my feet. I slowly massaged my neck and began to breathe normally again.

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  “Open your letter here and add the following,” he said. “I am to be paid triple by your master tomorrow night and in gold. If I don't receive this amount, I will denounce you to the Viscount and take my reward.”

  I shakily opened the letter and added his demand. I refolded the letter and he poured some candle wax onto the back. I pulled my seal ring out of my innermost pocket and sealed the letter. He took it and placed it again in his pocket.

  “You had better hope your master feels generous, my friend,” he laughed.

  I did not bother to respond to him. He handed me the torch.

  “Go back to the tavern, have a few drinks, and try to pretend you're interested in the whores, you faggot,” he said. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow night. Hopefully, this business will be advantageous to both of us.”

  As I climbed the narrow corridor up to the relative light and air of the tavern, I thought with glee of when my Father Abbot would be master of this city. This city would be swept clean and made a New Jerusalem. These men who were lovers of their own selves, covetous, boasters, proud, blasphemers, unholy, fierce, despisers of those that are good, heady lovers of pleasure more than lovers of God would all be banished. The heretics would burn and the unrighteous would perish. We would create a heaven on earth.

  DAY 3 OF THE SIEGE OF CARCASSONNE

  Monday, August 3, 1209

  Gauda

  Monday, August 3, 1209, dawn

  I rose very early on the morning after we lost the river. I knew we were doomed to lose this siege and I hoped only that the surrender came quickly before we started dying of thirst and disease. The Crusaders were too numerous, too powerful. For surely, if Trencavel quickly surrendered, they would not slaughter us all as they did the people at Béziers. Surely this time calmer, wiser men would restrain the blood lust. Surely, it would be so.

  For strangely, despite my worries, I felt lighter and more at ease than I had in all the time I had been here with Agnes. For once, I did not have to sneak around trying to find out about things about which I really ought to have no interest. I did not have to worry that my letters to the troubadour at the Count of Toulouse's court would be intercepted and that someone would read beyond my pretty words to find the treacherous meanings lying beneath. For during the siege, I could not get my letters out. The city was shut off and so I was free of my obligations.

  This also relieved me. For while I did not mind acting the spy on my dreadful cousin and her husband, who fancied me his plaything and whore, during normal times, I had begun to feel very uncomfortable in my mind about my role. I did not care whether the Count of Toulouse or the Viscount Trencavel triumphed in their games of power and diplomacy. They were as the same to me, rulers who were more or less fair as long as their wealth and influence increased, and I cared only who could further my plans. But these Crusaders who had come from foreign lands to murder us and force their despotic religion down our throats were another thing entirely. I could not sleep if I thought I were to contribute to their gains. I only knew that my master, the Count of Toulouse, was with them now because he had no choice. His allegiance was false and he would stay at their side only as long as the massive army headed by monks remained in these lands. The Count of Toulouse did not want this city destroyed. On the contrary, he wanted it alive and vibrant, so that he could steal it from his nephew. This I could live with. Yet, I feared that the Count of Toulouse was playing with forces more powerful and shrewd than he had ever before encountered. I hoped, for the sake of this city and for my fortunes, that he could prevail.

  After cleaning my face and combing my hair, I entered Agnes’ chamber quietly, not wanting to wake her. She was all alone. Her back was to me and she made small sneaky movements with her hands. I wondered what she could possibly be doing.

  I continued to walk quietly, my slippers finding the worn places in the rugs that would make no noise. Agnes must have sensed my presence anyway because she suddenly turned and gave me a guilty look. I stared. In her greasy hands, she held a bone that was gnawed until the marrow had been sucked out of it. Agnes’ lips had a sheen to them. I stared at her in shock.

  “Meat?” I said.

  Agnes quickly dropped the bone to the floor, where it was snatched by a small dog. He wagged his tail and ran off to a corner to devour his treat. Agnes looked at me haughtily.

  “I was giving a bone to my dog,” she said.

  “And that's why there's fat on your lips and marrow on your chin?” I said. “I am not a fool, Agnes. You were eating meat. What I cannot understand is why.”

  “Lower your voice,” Agnes whispered. She tried to clean her hands on her skirt, but only succeeded in staining it. Her hands were still greasy and she looked around, finally grabbing some fresh straw from the floor and trying to remove the fat.

  I was did not lead a particularly exemplary life myself, but I followed the beliefs of the good men and good women. My childhood teacher Azalais had left her life as a troubairitz many years ago to take the consolamentum and become a good woman herself. She now headed a house of good women here in Carcassonne and I tried to visit her as often as I could. I knew that I would make a good end eventually but also knew that I did not have the purity of spirit to become a good woman before I was close to my death. However, I knew enough to know that Agnes had broken a vow that was absolute – the good men and women were never to allow the flesh of animal to pass their lips. I had often wondered at her behavior. Her nastiness was so different from the kindness I associated with the good women I knew such as Azalais. But this was different – this was the breaking of a vow that would render Agnes no more a good woman. I had to say something.

  “Agnes, you are a good woman. You have received the consolamentum. What are you doing?” I said.

  “Don’t tell anyone, please,” Agnes said. “I risk only damnation for myself. I have never given the consolamentum to anyone.”

  “Why do you persist in this if you are not able to keep your vows? Why are you playing at being a good woman?” I said.

  Agnes drew herself up and pointed her finger at my chest.

  “You have no right to ask me my reasons. How dare you,” she said. “I command you to remain silent.”

  Agnes stared at me, but I stared back.

  “I will remain silent, but do not think that my silence will be free,” I said. “You will pay for it, every day. And if you are tempted to punish me, remember that I can talk to the Viscount and tell him everything. I do not know why you want this charade to continue, but it will end. The Viscount will be irate that you have kept from him another heir by your false vow of chastity. You will be the one who is punished.”

  Agnes' face turned red and she lifted her hand to strike my cheek, but she did not let the blow fall. She slowly moved her hand back to her side and sat down.

  “Very well,” she said. “If that is the way it is to be, then it will be so. You will pay, though, for your ungrateful behavior. I regret the day I took you in, penniless and homeless. I thought I was performing an act of Christian charity, but I see now that I let the snake into the Garden of Eden.”

  “Go now and see if you can find some water for me to at least wash my face,” said Agnes. “I have been forbidden baths, but I will not abandon my toilet entirely.”

  “Yes, Viscountess,” I said.

  I went to get her water, but I did not hurry. I had feeling that my life as Agnes' lady-in-waiting was about to dramatically improve.

  Bernard

  Monday, August 3, 1209, morning

  I was dreaming a wonderful dream. I was back in the abbey with our Father Abbot celebrating mass. The candle light illuminated the faces of the chanting monks and the smell of incense permeated the air. I could hear the beautiful tones of my favorite hymn, Veni Sancte Spiritus, written by our most Holy Father Pope
Innocent. How I longed for the moment when I felt the Holy Spirit come to me, when I tangibly felt the spirit enter me, the deep, chanting voices of the other monks bringing me the greatest peace I have ever known.

  I woke suddenly to the shouting of the other three men in the room. They were rough men, uncouth and amoral drunks, and I loathed sharing this small room in the boarding house with them. But, I had no choice, as the city filled with refugees, the tavern keeper planned to pack as many into his rooms as possible for the duration of the siege. There was money to be made.

  I quickly left the tavern and joined the crowds rushing about in the city. The northern suburb, the Bourg, was under attack by our most Holy Crusaders. I could hear the pounding of the horses' hooves as they swept up the hill and the battle cries of the men, but, wonder of wonders, I could also hear the Veni Sancte Spiritus. I had not dreamed that sound. The rumble of the bass voices of thousands of monks reverberated across the valley. Oh, how I had to discipline myself not to open my mouth and join them! One could not escape the beautiful sound of the chanting. I watched in joy as I saw the terror on the faces of the heretic citizens of this town. They knew that God was on the side of the Crusaders. They knew they would lose and they knew that they would burn in hell for all eternity if they did not right the errors of their ways. They knew they would receive the reward of the unrighteous.

  I longed to watch the glorious assault, but I could not raise my hand against our most Holy Crusaders and I knew that, if I went to the walls, I would be pressed into action. I felt blessed just to hear the chanting of my brother monks, and to know that we would be victorious and that I had done my earthly part to further our heavenly agenda.

  There were other ways in which I must serve the Lord and, even if I were not to be part of the Glory of this day.

  Trencavel

  Monday, August 3, 1209, morning

  Trencavel's body still ached from the battle yesterday when he heard the chanting early in the morning. He quickly dressed and had his squire put on his armor. Now he stood on the Tower of the Marquiere on the City walls, overlooking the Bourg and its walls, currently under attack by the Crusader knights. Cabaret and Bertrand de Saissac stood by his side.

  “So we are not the only ones who thought of a surprise attack,” said Cabaret.

  “Wasn't much of a surprise with the racket all those sodomizing monks were making,” said Bertrand.

  “It was enough of a surprise,” said Trencavel.

  They watched as the Crusaders dragged ladders up the hill and placed them in the trenches around the Bourg's walls. On some ladders two knights, on others three, would climb up to level of the top of the wall. Arrows rained down from the defenders on the walls, but many only glanced off their armor. More effective were the stones that the women dropped from the walls, splitting open helmets and crushing skulls. Other defenders used long wooden forks to push the ladders from the walls, always waiting until the Crusaders were almost to the top, so their fall would be hardest. The dull thud that an armored body made when falling from 20 feet punctuated the constant drone of screams, swords clashing, and splintering ladders. And always, underneath it all, the infernal chanting of the monks. Trencavel could see them by the river, hundreds of monks, abbots, and bishops, their black robes fluttering in the hot, dry winds.

  The bodies of Crusaders, mostly the less well-armored sergeants and foot-soldiers, kept piling up in the trenches around the city wall, but still they kept coming. For every knight the defenders threw off the walls, two more arrived in his place. Trencavel spoke to a sergeant at his side and ordered more defenders off the city walls into the Bourg.

  “And when you have moved all the city wall defenders into the Bourg? What will you do then?” said Bertrand. “They will just keep coming. The only way to defeat these kinds of numbers is with bold strikes. Let's attack now. They are weakened by the strong resistance of the Bourg. We can drive them off.”

  “And perhaps our attack will be as successful as yesterday's sortie?” said Trencavel.

  Bertrand did not reply.

  They watched as more defenders streamed into the Bourg, coming to the aid of the exhausted archers and soldiers. More of the defenders were falling as the Crusaders continued to breach the walls and used their swords to fell the defenders. A few Crusaders had made it into the Bourg itself and were advancing under the protection of houses towards the open gate to the city itself.

  “I am going to stop them,” said Bertrand. “I cannot sit and watch any longer like an old woman. I'll show those fornicators of their mothers what a real knight can do.”

  Bertrand yelled for his sergeant and knights as he ran down the steps of the tower.

  Trencavel and Cabaret watched as Bertrand led his men out of the city gates. The Crusaders were now much closer to the city gates. They were ten men, strong and well-armed, and were cutting down the Bourg citizens quickly. All of a sudden, they saw Bertrand leading his men, one large hand holding a shield with red and white stripes, the other wielding a heavy sword. His mane of hair streamed from his helmet and he shrieked like a mad man. His chosen men, all mad as him, shrieked behind him. For a second, they drowned out the chanting of the monks. Bertrand dropped his shield and launched himself at the leader, grasping his sword in two hands and plunging it directly into the chest of the knight, puncturing his chain mail and leaving the man to die. Bertrand bellowed again and his men returned the call. The other knights turned and ran back to the walls, but were cut down by Bertrand's men or by crossbow bolts from the archers on the walls.

  The tide seemed to be turning. Bertrand's attack energized the defenders who fought back with renewed force. More Crusaders dropped to the trenches, screaming in agony. The defenders dropped more stones, trapping the wounded and disabling the fit.

  All of a sudden, Trencavel and Cabaret watched as a large group of horse-mounted knights galloped towards the Bourg sweeping past the main area of the battle and attacking the sparsely defended eastern walls of the Bourg. The defenders did not notice the fresh attack. They were still gleefully defending the western wall, sure that they were winning. These attackers did not bother with ladders, but climbed up over the walls quickly with ropes. The few defenders left on the eastern wall tried to cut the ropes, but they were quickly overwhelmed. Still, the defenders on the western wall did not see the attack.

  “You can spare no more defenders from the city,” said Cabaret.

  “No,” said Trencavel. “If they cannot defend the Bourg with the soldiers there now, it is lost.”

  Finally, the defenders on the western wall noticed the breach on the east, but it was too late. Many rushed to the eastern wall, but this just allowed the Crusaders on the western wall to sweep over unimpeded. A few of the houses in the Bourg were now on fire, and their occupants streamed out screaming. They started to make their way to the city gates, but many were cut down by Crusaders who now marched freely on the streets of the Bourg. The citizens of the Bourg who had not fled to the City yet, now did so. They knew all was lost. The unholy shrieking of the wind and the unholy chants of the monks continued, almost drowning out the sounds of the dying and the fighting.

  Bertrand and his men continued to fight, but they now defended the gates to the City of Carcassonne, trying to keep them open as the citizens and soldiers tried to retreat to the safety of the City. The Crusader knights were followed by archers and foot-soldiers, who walked through the Bourg, securing the streets and killing off the dying in the streets, stripping their arms and shields for themselves. A section of the Bourg wall fell under battering rams and sappers' shovels and cheering broke out in the Crusader forces as they streamed through the opening. The monks began to sing even more loudly.

  “You are going to have to order the gates closed,” said Cabaret.

  “I cannot leave Bertrand outside,” said Trencavel.

  “You have no choice,” said Cabaret. “He is a shrewd fighter, he will know when to retreat.”

  Trencavel orde
red the City gates lowered and watched as Bertrand and his men kept fighting. The defenders saw the gates going down and dropped their swords and shields, running for the safety of the city. Finally, when it seemed that the gate could go almost no lower, Bertrand and his men rolled under the gate to safety.

  Trencavel breathed. They watched as the Crusaders brought in men to destroy the Bourg walls and used the rubble to fill in the trenches. The Crusaders put out the fires in the suburb and left the houses intact to use as protection as they approached the City walls. The screams of the citizens left behind in the suburb echoed as the Crusaders cut down everyone left in their path.

  “So the Bourg too is lost,” said Trencavel. “Bertrand was right. We should have attacked earlier.”

  “Then, we would have ended as did those in Béziers,” said Cabaret. “There are simply too many of them. Our best approach is to wait them out. They will grow hungry. They cannot feed so many for so long.”

  “And, if we run out of water before they run out of food?” said Trencavel. “The fools in Béziers perished because they were not soldiers; they were boys rushing out to play in a game. We must attack and weaken them, or else we sit here passively and die.”

  “You are young, Trencavel,” said Cabaret. “There is sometimes great honor in waiting.”

  Azalais

  Monday, August 3, 1209, midday

  The wounded from the defeat of the Bourg began to arrive. The good women were already running out of beds, medicines, and herbs, for many of the wounded from yesterday's battle were still feverish and weak. And today's wounded were not soldiers - they were women, children, and old men. They had had no battle protection, no armor, and their wounds were vicious and deep. There was no choice. Azalais directed the good women to pile the injured on the floors and even in the courtyard.