“All the more reason to attack them now while they are still unprepared,” said Bertrand.
“They will collapse when the Crusaders' forty days of service is up,” said Cabaret. “We need only hold out until then.”
“That's still thirty days,” said Trencavel. “If we don't keep access to the spring, we won't last until then. Bertrand, what's your plan to attack?”
Another missile hit the Tower and the room shook.
“We need to destroy their trebuchets and mangonels. I want to lead a small party of knights out tonight to set fire to their machines. Our archers have been trying to fire them all day, they’ve had no luck,” said Bertrand
“It's a stupid plan" said Cabaret. “You'll be caught. What will your ransom be? The surrender of the city? Is that too high a price for the guardian of the Viscount, closer to him than any father?”
“The Viscount knows better than to think I would want him to do that for me,” said Bertrand.
Cabaret looked over at Trencavel.
“These Crusaders may be dogs, but there are knights like us,” said Trencavel. “If Bertrand is caught, he can be ransomed later, after this siege is over. They may slaughter townspeople, but they wouldn’t dare kill one of us. Try tonight, Bertrand, and I wish you all the luck in the world.”
Cabaret said nothing, but his face showed his disapproval.
“What do you plan to do about the spy?” Cabaret finally asked.
“I have my own spies,” said Trencavel. “I plan to find him.”
Constance
Wednesday, August 5, 1209, afternoon
Constance heard the heavy thud of the rock and the shattering of cobblestones behind her and stopped in her tracks. She breathed, realizing she was unhurt and then hurried along the road, freezing every time she heard the crash of another stone missile. She started to feel a little dizzy. Another missile landed on the roof of small shed holding a chicken coop. She glanced away as the rooster squawked in terror, his body impaled with the broken pieces of roof tiles, his flock of hens, broken and bleating on the ground. One escaped, unhurt, but mad with terror, and ran across the road, bleating and flapping its wings. A woman ran out of the house next to the chicken coop, crying and trying to save her livelihood.
Constance hurried through the almost deserted streets of the Castellar to the city walls. She hoped she would find Guillaume there. He and his brother had been working on repairing the walls of the Castellar when Guillaume had been injured. Constance ran to the first group of men working near the walls, but did not see Guillaume. She went up to a stone cutter shaping a large rock to fill a gap in the wall. He did not look up at first, but finally seemed to sense that Constance was waiting to speak to him and turned to her.
“Excuse me, sir,” said Constance. “I am looking for two young men, Guillaume and Bernard. They are refugees from Béziers and they are working on the walls here.”
The man laughed, but without mirth.
“I have lived in this suburb my whole life and I don't know half the people working here today,” he said. “They could be anywhere, you had better keep searching.”
Constance kept looking along the walls, asking anyone who would talk to her. She felt a little safer here in the shadow of the walls. She could hear the stones from the trebuchets hitting the exterior of the walls and others flying overhead to crash onto the roofs of the Castellar, but few fell in this zone right behind the walls. Constance had only left the house of good women a few hours ago, but already she felt both freer and more terrified than she had ever in her life.
Constance hated Azalais. She still did not understand why Azalais had been so angry at her last night. Constance had been washing herself with a clean rag, lightly dipped in the smallest amount of water and rose oil. The heat had settled on the city like a blanket and Constance wanted so badly to remove the sweat and the blood of others covering her skin. She stripped naked and sat in front of the small window in her cell. There was no breeze to rustle the thin piece of cotton hanging in the window, so Azalais could not think that Constance meant to seduce some man with her naked flesh. Constance gently rubbed the cloth down her aching arms and across the back of her neck, lifting her thick hair and wetting the tendrils that escaped. She moved the cloth across her chest and felt the roughness of the rag against her. She reached down and cleaned herself as she did every night, thinking how much pleasure there still was in this life, though she denied herself all meat and the intercourse of men, when Azalais burst into her small chamber. Azalais stared at Constance's nakedness and Constance felt ashamed, though she did not know why. She felt a heat rush into her cheeks and then Azalais grabbed her by the arm and slapped her face.
The old woman ordered her to dress and then brought her to the hospital room downstairs and ordered her to stay awake all night praying. Azalais accused her of wanting to indulge in carnal pleasure. Azalais then stood in front of her and demanded that Constance beg her for forgiveness.
Constance had lied to Azalais last night. She had lowered her eyes when she had asked for Azalais' forgiveness, because she did not want Azalais to see the truth there. For Constance did not want her forgiveness. Constance did not believe she needed any forgiveness, for she had done nothing wrong. It was the first time Constance had ever lied to Azalais, and the first time she had lied since becoming a good woman. With this action, she had betrayed her vows and this first betrayal had opened the door for all the rest. Despite being forced to stay up most of the night praying on her knees, Constance had awoken early this morning and quietly dressed in her two sets of clothes, ignoring the heat. When the old sister who watched the sick in the night had asked where she was going, Constance had lied again. To get eggs, she said and marveled at how easy it was to speak an untruth. She did not know where she was going, but only that she wanted to do something. To stop having things happen to her. She wanted to fight. Now that she had lied and disobeyed, she would also break her vow of nonviolence.
The more Constance thought about it, the more she realized that she was not ready to be a good woman. There was too much life for her to experience, too many forbidden pleasures that she was not ready to renounce. She ran by the marketplace and stole a small piece of sausage while the butcher stood chatting with a pretty woman. The meaty, gamey smell made her mouth fill with juices. She took a delirious delight in ripping a piece of the meat with her teeth and letting the fat dissolve on her tongue.
For what could happen to her? She would enjoy all the material pleasures the world offered and then she would take the consolamentum on her deathbed. And if she died before she could be consoled, her only punishment would be to do this life over again. Maybe she would be reborn as a countess or even a princess! Constance started to feel giddy, despite the heat, despite the stone missiles crashing into the roofs near her head. She decided that there was only one thing to do. She must find Guillaume. Guillaume was defending the city, doing real work. She could help him. She could fight these invaders and save her home. Constance knew Guillaume would help her. She was sure of it. Now she had only to find him.
Gauda
Wednesday, August 5, 1209, night
I did not hate myself for the pleasure I found in Trencavel’s bed. For it was not a sin to couple, if both bodies found pleasure in the coupling. The sin only came when one did not find pleasure but coupled instead for money or position.
However, I did surprise myself at the amount of pleasure I could feel in this purely physical coupling. After all, I had written so of the purity of unrequited love. I tried to believe that I dared not resist the overtures of the lord of the castle, but I could not lie to myself.
However, I worried that I committed incest in sleeping with the husband of my cousin. And adulterers were always punished. When Trencavel first commanded me to come to his bed, I had crept back to sleep in the antechamber of Agnes' rooms late at night, hoping that she smelled only the smoke of the fire and wine on me, as usual, and not the scent of her husband
. But, now I knew that all was lost. How long had she known? She must hate me so. For surely she expected the Viscount to take women to his bed, servants and jogleresas and whores. She could not expect him to live the life of celibacy she had chosen. But she must never have thought her own lady-in-waiting, her own cousin would betray her. If she only knew how great my betrayal was. Sleeping with her husband was only the smallest part of it.
That night Trencavel took me into his bed and then he did not fall asleep, as I expected him to do. Instead he looked at me and ran one hand down the side of my body. I was slick with sweat.
“I think there is a spy in the castle,” he said.
“But, there are always spies,” I said. I hoped that my voice was steady and normal, for my heart began to beat quickly.
Trencavel occasionally spoke to me of his worries. I did not flatter myself that he sought my advice. Rather I felt as if he stared into a reflecting pool when he spoke to me at these times. I think it hardly mattered that I was there at all, only that he did not talk to himself.
“Of course, the usual. Priests, whores, and common thieves,” he said. “No, I believe there is a spy highly placed in my retinue. The Crusaders know too much. They know where to attack.”
“But, it is obvious to take the suburbs first,” I said.
“It is more than that. They seem to know which towers are the weakest and which gates may most easily fall. They know where I am dispatching my forces,” he said.
I was frightened. He must suspect me. But, it could not be me. I had sent reports, surely, but the Count of Toulouse thought I knew nothing of the details of military matters and would expect nothing of the sort from me. I had kept my reports simple and focused on Trencavel and his immediate group and what I overheard of their plans. Besides, I had not been able to send a single report since the siege had begun. It could not be me.
“I think I know who it is, Gauda,” he said.
“Who?” I said. I was sure my voice quaked, but I hoped he had not heard it.
“Cabaret. I would almost believe that he wants me to lose this siege,” he said. “I had always thought him a loyal vassal, loyal to me and loyal to my father before me. But, I do not know whom to trust anymore.”
I swallowed and breathed.
“Do you believe he would betray you?” I said.
“Any man will betray you for enough gold,” he said. “Gauda, I want you to watch him for me. I want to know what he does, where he goes, and who he sees. But do not let him know you watch.”
I could not believe my task. Was I to spy for everyone in this war?
“I will try, my lord. But, he may know that I follow him. What do I do then?” I said.
“You will think of something, Gauda, I am sure. You are a very talented woman. Now, go, before my wife’s spies see you here again. It would seem I am surrounded.”
I pulled my linen tunic over my head before opening the curtains and stepping out of the warm bed. My feet touched the carpet and I searched in the candlelight for the rest of my clothes, looking down to avoid the glare of the Viscount's bodyguard. The bastard. He was always servile when I walked in with Trencavel, but always stared at my breasts through the fine linen as I dressed afterwards. Trencavel was already asleep behind the curtains of the large bed and I was alone.
Bernard
Wednesday, August 5, 1209, night
The streets near the tavern were quiet. I grabbed Guillaume and pulled him into a dark alley as I saw the night watchmen round the corner in front of us. There were many refugees sleeping in the streets of the city, but they did not move at night and the watchmen ignored them. There were more patrols in the streets and I was especially troubled by the appearance of signs, newly tacked up on buildings and on trees in the city:
Spy
This fifth day of August, by the Viscount Trencavel, it is ordered that all men of the city search a spy. A reward is offered for the capture of this traitor. This spy may hide in the disguise of a priest or monk. He may lurk near the city walls at dawn and dusk.
Guillaume and I hardly breathed as the patrol passed within a few feet of us. But, the Lord protected his noble servants in their righteous mission, and we were not seen. For surely, these men watch, but do not know what hour of watch the thief will come. They are as blind men.
We waited another few minutes in the alley and then quietly left. We stepped over the bodies of sleeping men, women, and children and made our way towards the tavern. Here the streets were emptier. Suddenly, an old woman, her face swollen and bruised, came out of the shadows. She clutched her skinny hand around Guillaume's arm. He managed to stifle a shout of alarm, but jumped back out of her grasp.
“You must not go there,” she said, again grabbing Guillaume's arm. “They are looking for you.”
Though her face was too battered to recognize, I could see the tattered clothes of the old whore who served wine at the tavern.
“Run away, my handsome boy,” she said. “Don't let them get you.”
Guillaume stood and stared as she slinked back into the shadows. I understood all too quickly what had happened. I tried to pull Guillaume, but he seemed rooted to the spot. I could hear the clank of the watchmen's pikes as they returned from where they had just disappeared. They must have heard the old woman's voice and come to investigate. We could not go back the way we had come. I finally managed to jolt Guillaume out of his reverie.
“Her face,” he said. “Who did that to her? We must help her.”
“Guillaume, we have no time,” I said. “We have to get away.”
I dragged him down the street towards the tavern. As we approached the end of the street, I pulled him into the shadows and slowed down. No soldiers appeared to guard the tavern. The street was almost invitingly empty. This alarmed me more than anything we had seen so far. To step towards that tavern would invite capture. But, we could not go back. I could hear the watchmen advancing up the street, their heavy feet in an uneven rhythm.
Quickly, I grabbed Guillaume and pulled him down beside me in the shadows. The street was filthy and as my body sunk into the foul mud I tried not to think of housemaids emptying chamber pots from the overhanging windows.
“Pretend to sleep, Guillaume,” I said. “And, for once, just keep your many illuminating comments to yourself.”
Guillaume simply nodded, his eyes wide open. I curled on my side, my body tense, willing my breaths into an approximation of the steady, deep cadence of sleep, trying to ignore the odor of decay. Guillaume looked at me. It was too dark to see anything but the flash of the whites of his eyes. I lifted my hand quietly and gently closed his eyes and patted his cheek. Poor Guillaume, he had seen so much in these last few months. He had lived his whole life from early childhood in the confines of a monastery. There was violence even there, but only the blessed blows of self-discipline from those monks who practiced it and the occasional wounded traveler. Guillaume had seen much in these weeks, and had remained strong, but somehow the face of the old whore (and maybe his fears for the preservation of his earthly body- oh he of little faith!) had unhinged him. I could hear him softly crying and when I went to pat his cheek again, my hand came away wet. I pulled my hand away again as I heard the night watchmen getting closer. Hopefully, they would not even see us huddled here.
I was wrong.
The big watchman kicked me with his boot. I feigned deep sleep. The watchmen, unimpressed, kicked me again.
“Get up, you laggards,” said the watchman. “Are you drunk?”
“No, sir,” I said, in my most servile voice. I would not have to lower myself to these illiterate louts when the Abbot ruled over this city. “We are refugees. We have nowhere to sleep.”
“No refugees allowed on this street,” he said. “You'll have to move back to the center of the city or the market square.”
I stood up and pulled Guillaume up beside me. We started shuffling along towards the center of the city, when we heard a voice ordering us to stop. It was the
smaller of the two watchmen. We stopped and turned to face them.
“Why were they here now?” said the smaller watchman to the other. “We cleared this street of refugees around dusk.”
“Why were you still here, boys?” said the big watchman.
I cleared my throat.
“We started out the night nearer the walls of the Castellar, but we were chased from there,” I said. “We tried to find a spot to rest near the market place, but the crowds were too great. Rough youths from the mountains threatened to beat us, so we ran off. This spot was the only quiet place we could find.”
The smaller night watchman turned to his partner.
“How do we know that one of them is not the spy we are looking for?” he asked.
“No, the spy is disguised as a priest,” said the big watchman. “One of these two is only a boy. Let them go.”
The smaller one stared at his partner, but did not say anything. They turned to continue their patrol and I thought it prudent to leave quickly. Guillaume followed. We did not say anything until we had put several blocks between us. I turned to Guillaume.
“Brother, surely you can doubt no longer,” I said. “The Lord is our strength and our refuge, a very present help in trouble. Even as Daniel was saved from the lion's den and Jonah saved from the belly of the whale, were we saved from discovery.”
“Thou shalt not lie,” said Guillaume and continued walking.
Finally, we reached the chaos of the central market place. Refugee families huddled over their meager possessions, trading anything for food and water. Guards patrolled the edges of the market place. I was afraid to go back to our boarding house that night for fear that we would raise suspicions. We smelled of latrines and the dirt of the street and looked much the worse for wear. Suddenly, I felt a hand grab the back of my arm. I turned around quickly, ready to strike the offending interloper, but it was no more than a girl.
“I knew I would find you,” she said.
The Song of the Troubadour Page 11
