Azalais looked around. The Jewish doctors had come back when she had sent for them. They were refugees from Béziers, but had avoided that carnal house. The Viscount Trencavel knew what happened to Jews during Crusades and had taken them with him back to Carcassonne when he left Béziers before the siege. Trencavel thought Béziers could hold out for weeks and that he would have time to come back with reinforcements to lift the siege. No one thought it would end like that - so quickly. In one day, 20,000 dead, the whole city destroyed and on fire with almost no survivors. What Trencavel thought would have been the fate of the Jews became the fate of all the citizens of Béziers.
Azalais walked over to the herb room. A small child sat next to his mother, sobbing and shaking. He appeared to be unhurt, but his mother was obviously dead. She had bled from a head wound and the boy was covered in her blood. Azalais reached down to pick him up, but he started shrieking uncontrollably and attached himself to his mother's skirts with an iron grip. Azalais could do nothing for him now. She picked up the medicines she had came for and left him.
When Azalais came out of the herb room, she saw Constance working on an injured woman. Helping her was the refugee boy who had come to the good women with a head injury. Guillaume, Azalais thought he was called. As she watched, Azalais saw an easy intimacy between the two that she did not like at all. Their heads were bent close together over the woman. Guillaume held the bucking woman, while Constance stitched her face, which was opened by an ugly wound that stretched from her brow to chin.
Constance finished and the woman began to calm down. Guillaume looked up at Constance with a beautiful smile, his right cheek showing a deep dimple that only served to make him more attractive. Azalais could not see Constance's face, but she was sure that her look was not one that was appropriate for a woman who had foresworn the fleshly material world and all its pleasures for a life of spirituality. And Azalais was right. She saw Constance’s hand reach out to his and the young man took it.
Now was the time to put an end to this before anything more troubling developed, thought Azalais. She marched over to where they stood.
“Constance, do you have a reason to linger over this woman?” Azalais asked.
Constance jumped and quickly dropped Guillaume’s hand. Azalais was distressed to see the guilt on her face.
“I was just,” said Constance before Azalais interrupted.
“There is a child bawling over its dead mother in the herb room,” Azalais said. “See to it.”
Azalais turned to Guillaume. He looked her full in the face and though Azalais was quite old and thought herself inured to the attractions of the flesh, she could not help but stare. When the young man had come to the good women, his face had been bloody from his injury. But now Azalais realized how beautiful he was. Guillaume was tall, broad of shoulder and slim of waist. His legs were shapely and his hands were those of a musician - long fingers, but strong. His face was prettier than that of many a woman, but there was something in it - a thickness, a hardness about the jaw and mouth that kept it from being too sweet. He wore his brown hair long and pulled back, but a strand or two always escaped in a way that Azalais thought must make women yearn to raise their finger to his cheek to place the strand back into place.
Azalais had to shake herself. In her former life, she had been a troubairitz, composing chansons of hopeless love. She had left that life, with its concentration on everything that was material, worldly, and evil. Azalais wanted nothing more than to pass her remaining days preparing herself for the eternity that she would spend as pure spirit, forever freed from her body and this earth that gave only misery and woe. But, all Azalais could think of at that moment was which words she would have used to describe this beauty. As if he were my lover, she thought, as if he were one to whom she would be engaged in service forever.
The cry of a soldier, as a doctor ripped a crossbow from his leg startled Azalais out of her reverie.
“Guillaume, go to that doctor,” Azalais said. “He needs your help now.”
The young man obediently went to assist and Azalais realized that he was a great danger. She had to do something. He would ruin Constance. She would gladly betray any vow to be with him. Azalais knew this already.
The afternoon passed too quickly as the wounded continued to arrive, but the deluge finally slowed. Azalais’ bones ached, as she helped to lift yet another lifeless body that the good women and the Jewish doctors could not save. It was always like this in war, thought Azalais. The knights, with all the chain mail and armor that their wealth can buy, almost never died. The soldiers still had their shields and helmets and thick leather tunics to protect them from swords and arrows. The townspeople always had nothing. The strongest had the most protection and the weakest had none. This world is so evil, thought Azalais. She could not wait to escape its injustice and its cruelty.
At that thought, Azalais looked up to see how the woman who had received the consolamentum two days earlier was doing. She was so close to escape. When Azalais had seen her that morning the woman was very weak, her eyes glazed and her breathing labored. Azalais only wished that she could sit with her and pray and watch her as she gloriously slid away, out of the foul body and away from this wicked earth. Guillaume stood beside her and Azalais hoped he was holding her hand for a brief moment. Then she saw what he was doing and ran quickly to stop him.
“Guillaume, stop that!” Azalais screamed and knocked the bowl of broth from his hands.
Guillaume turned to stare at Azalais. The dying woman began again to moan.
“She is very ill and was begging for water,” he said. “I only hoped to ease her suffering.”
“You are only prolonging it, you fool. Do you want to keep Satan's grip on her forever?” Azalais said.
Guillaume looked at Azalais with confusion.
“She received the consolamentum two days ago and if she dies with no sin committed on her soul, she will break free from the cycle of reincarnation. She will break free from this earthly world and fleshly body and become pure spirit and soul. She will be free for all eternity to be with our Lord in the realm of all that is spiritual and good.”
“But you are keeping sustenance from a dying woman!” Guillaume said with incredulity. “Surely, sipping a little broth made from turnips is not a sin.”
“No, it is not,” Azalais said. “But every second that she is alive she may commit some other fleshly sin, even inadvertently. She may let the broth of the meat of an animal slide past her lips, she may tell a lie. She is doing the endura now. Its only purpose is to speed her death and her release. Promise me you will not tempt her again.”
Guillaume looked strangely at Azalais, but he nodded his head and walked away.
Azalais again felt queasy with looking at him and realized she must speak to Constance about the danger he represented as quickly as possible. Azalais found her in the herb room, trying to sweep up broken glass. The dead woman and her screaming child were no longer in the room.
“What happened to the boy?” Azalais asked.
“His grandmother found him,” Constance said. “She took the dead woman as well.”
Azalais nodded and went to help her clean the table.
“Constance, I am going to forbid you to do something that you may not understand, but you must remember that I am doing this for your own good,” Azalais said.
Constance stopped her cleaning and looked at Azalais with a puzzled expression on her face.
“Constance, you are forbidden to speak to the boy Guillaume.”
Constance stared.
“But, why?” she asked.
“It is enough for you to know that he is a danger to your salvation,” Azalais said. “You cannot trust him. I am taking this step to protect you.”
“But what happened?” she asked.
Azalais only looked at her with the face she reserved for those caught breaking a rule of the house of good women. Constance knew better than to question her judgment. That was t
he end of the conversation and Azalais walked away.
Constance
Monday, August 3, 1209, evening
It was early evening as Constance worked in the courtyard garden. The heat of the day was still thick and the air smoky, as the fires burning in the Bourg suburb still pushed their smoke into the air. Constance tore at the weeds choking their herbs and brutally hacked them out of the ground. Her face was sweaty and her dark hair kept escaping from the simple linen covering she wore. She was angry, angry at seeing all the suffering, angry that she could do nothing to stop it, only be there to stitch up the wounded or prepare the dead for burial.
Constance would not admit it to herself, but she was especially angry that Azalais did not trust her. She treats me as a child, Constance thought. What had Guillaume done to cause him to be ostracized like this? Was the house of woman in some danger from him? Constance could put up with Azalais' pedantic discursions on the herbs in the garden, even though Constance believed she could recite each discussion from memory at this point. Sometimes she wanted to throw the basket of herbs at Azalais and scream “I'm not the village idiot!”
But, Constance knew that Azalais had a tremendous knowledge and she was grateful to be taught. She was grateful to Azalais for many things, especially when she thought about what her life might have been like had she never met Azalais and never become a good woman.
Constance remembered when she first heard the good men speak in her village in the mountains. She was standing in front of the fire, stirring the cauldron, when her little brother ran into the kitchen to tell everyone the holy men had come. The little boy would not stop talking. Constance wanted to go as well, but looked at her mother, her distended breasts, blue-veined and heavy, nursing the cloth merchant’s three-month old son. She heard the thin, reedy cry of her baby sister, wrapping in her swaddling on a bed of straw near the fire. Constance picked up the baby and cooed to her. She felt she should stay and help her mother, but her desire to leave the cacophony of noise and odor overwhelmed her and she asked her mother for permission to go hear the preachers. Of course, her mother agreed on the condition that she take most of her siblings with her. The poor woman had been burdened with ten living children, and earned her living by renting the milk of her breasts.
Constance handed her baby sister to her mother and watched as her mother shifted the infant at her breast and took the baby girl, placing her near her other breast. The child’s mouth hungrily searched for the nipple and began suckling loudly. The weary woman looked up through thinning hair and pale cheeks at her twelve year old daughter, and told her to go quickly before she changed her mind.
Constance stood in the market square in the sunshine of early spring. The day was a mild one. The crowd pushed against each other, jostling to hear the three men speak. Constance carried the toddler and held the hand of another small brother. The other dirty boys and girls kept darting through the crowd, playing with a stray black dog. The men were poor men of God, thin and humbly dressed like the crowd listening to them. The oldest one began to speak and the crowd quieted down.
“The flesh is evil and the spirit is good,” said the old preacher. “We must aspire to live a life of perfection and escape from the mantle of sin and earthly matter. Look at the Catholic priests. They take money from the poor and live like the rich. How can they pretend to communicate with all matter of spirit when their flesh is gorged on goose fat and wine and clothed in the finest silks?”
Voices cried out from the crowd: “What must we do to be saved?”
“You must avoid all things of the flesh,” said the preacher. “Eat no meat or any product of the copulation of animals. You must not lie or take oaths. You must be celibate, for to bring more life into this cycle of damnation and evil is truly a sin. You must live as the poor do, without material possessions, passing all your thought and deed into matters of the spirit.”
Constance heard a man next to her, drunk and unsteady on his feet.
“I already live the life of the poor, but to be celibate as well, now that’s asking a bit much.”
“All are not ready in this life to take on the mantle of perfection,” continued the preacher. “There are those who are only ready to believe. The believers support the good men and women, giving them shelter and a bit of bread and water to break their fasts. If a believer is strong, he may receive the consolamentum just before death and ascend to Paradise. If a believer is not ready to endure the deprivation of all material things and succor only on the spirit, then he will die to be reborn again into this world of evil, misery and pain.”
The toddler in Constance’s arms began to bawl. Constance checked his ragged shirt. He was wet and cold. Constance grabbed the hand of the small boy by her side.
“We must go now,” she whispered.
The little boy began to cry as well, his shrieks rising and falling in a harmony of misery with the babe in Constance’s arms. She turned to go, when she heard the deep, calm voice of the old preacher focused directly on her.
“Young girl, think of what you do. For each one of these little souls that has been born into this world must endure its misery, its pain, and suffer through the cycle again and again until it reaches salvation and achieves perfection. It does not have to be this way.”
Constance looked directly into the old man’s eyes and saw kindness tinged with a great sadness for all the pain he had witnessed. She bowed her head slightly and turned, pushing her way through the crowd. She walked slowly on the way home, ignoring the screaming of the toddler and the little boy’s tugging hand.
When Constance crossed the threshold, she saw that her father had joined them at home for the midday meal. His hands, calloused from field work, ripped the simple bread and dipped it into the vegetable stew. Constance stripped the toddler of his wet clothes and hung them in front of the fire to dry. She held the small body close to her to keep him warm. Her father looked up from his meal and looked at Constance. Constance noticed that her mother was softly crying by the fire.
“It is time you had your own household and were blessed with your own children. Your sister did not live long enough to provide her husband with heirs, but I have now betrothed you to him. You will be married in a fortnight.”
Constance felt sick with fear. Her sister had died after only nine months married to her husband, the miller. Constance had seen her come home only twice in that time, a hood covering her battered and blue face. Both times her father had sent her back to the miller. Constance did not understand, but knew that there was a deal involving land and an orchard behind the marriage. Constance's father felt he had profited from the deal and figured he had plenty of daughters to spare, even if took a few of them to cement the alliance.
Constance ran to her older brother that night. Having little chance of any land from a family with so many children, he made his living as a shepherd in the mountains around the village. Constance’s brother took her to see the good men that night, before they left the village, and told them her story. They did not want to travel with a young woman, but agreed to bring Constance to a house of good women in Carcassonne, as long as her brother accompanied her on the journey. There Constance could live a life of spiritual purity.
Constance never saw her family again.
As she looked up from her work in the garden and saw the house of good women, Constance knew that her family was now here. Azalais was her mother, a mother who protected her and loved her, as her own mother had never been able to do. Constance resolved to be a better daughter, more obedient and less questioning. She began to gather more herbs to replenish their stocks. She hoped there would not be more wounded tomorrow, but knew that she wished for something she could not control.
Suddenly, she felt herself in the shade. The coolness was almost refreshing, but she felt uneasy and looked up. Guillaume stood looking down at her.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
Constance wanted so badly to say yes. Most of the good women were much ol
der or much younger than Constance and she had truly enjoyed having a companion of her own age over the last few days. Guillaume seemed so kind. He did not speak much, but when he did it was always something that made Constance think. Constance could not possibly imagine what he had done to make Azalais not trust him, but she remembered her new conviction to be a more obedient daughter to Azalais.
Constance said nothing, only kept picking the rosemary. She plucked the flowery white heads and placed them in her basket. Guillaume said nothing, but only squatted beside her and started to pick the flowers and place them quietly in her basket. They worked in the hot afternoon sun for half an hour. When the rosemary was harvested, Guillaume followed Constance to the poppies. They picked the brilliant orange petals, one by one, dropping them into a second basket. Constance thought of how good it felt to just be by his side. Guillaume had such a calming nature - surely, he could not be wicked. But Constance stayed obedient and said not a word.
Finally Guillaume spoke. He turned to Constance and placed his hand on her arm. Constance felt warmth where he touched, even stronger than the heat of the August day.
“I do not know what I have done to offend you, but I wanted only to thank you for all the care you have given me. I have learned much in your company, but I am now well. I must return to my brother. He is helping a mason repair walls and I will be needed. I will pray for your soul, Constance.”
With that, Guillaume stood quietly and left the garden. Constance felt a strange emptiness, but only shook her head and continued to harvest the poppies.
Suddenly, a shadow again covered her and Constance looked up expectantly, hoping oddly that Guillaume had returned. She looked instead into the wrathful face of Azalais.
“So you do not trust my judgment,” said Azalais in a tight whisper. “You have chosen to directly disobey me.”
Constance jumped up, angry and hurt.
“I did not disobey you, I did not speak to him,” said Constance.
The Song of the Troubadour Page 7
