The Song of the Troubadour

by Stephanie Cook

  Constance and Guillaume looked over at their water skins. They sat empty on the ground in a muddy puddle. They grimly looked at each other, picked up the empty skins, and headed back towards the spring.

  Bernard

  Thursday, August 6, noon

  I worried that Satan would tempt my weak young brother, but never knew how devious the evil tyrant could be. For I thought that I would always be able to be at his side as he faced the seductions of the temptress, her flesh like Eve's apple, ripe for the plucking and ready to destroy man. But, Satan had used his whiles to separate us. My brother was right now in the clutches of the witch, ready to succumb to her poisonous charms, while I stood here stirring this infernal mortar, unable to protect him and fend off her approaches. My mind was fixated on his danger and I could not stop thinking about them, walking together by the fountain, her eyes glancing at him coyly, pretending to be the innocent maiden, when all knew her basest desires.

  Suddenly I heard the mason yelling, breaking me from my anxious reverie.

  “What do you mean we have no more base stones?” the mason bellowed.

  I looked up and saw the head of the stone cutters standing up to the mason.

  “There are no more,” said the stone cutter. “We have finished with everything we took from the cathedral.”

  “Well, find some others,” said the mason. “Take down someone’s house. They won’t have it for long anyway unless we fix this wall.”

  “None of the houses in this suburb are made of stones large enough to be the base of this wall,” said the stone cutter. “You are just going to have to make do with what you have.”

  I looked up and saw the reason for the mason’s anger. Over the past few days, I had learned that the strength of a wall was not based on mortar, but on the sheer weight of the stones themselves. The mortar was important, of course. It served to level the uneven faces of stones and worked as a joint between the monstrous cut stones. But, the stones themselves were the force that held a wall together.

  We had been steadily repairing this section of the wall, damaged on the inside. The mason directed the laying of gigantic base stones and then built upwards from these goliaths with slightly smaller stones. Though the mortar between them might not harden for months or even years, the stones themselves would keep out the harshest invader.

  But all around us different teams worked on sections of the Castellar suburb walls. These walls had been allowed to fall into disrepair in recent years. So much work needed to be done that we had simply run out of the largest stones, so critical to providing a solid base. Most of the other masons’ teams were finished laying the largest stones. Their workers had moved on to placing the slightly smaller stones near the top or to filling in the space between the outer and inner parts of the wall with a mix of mortar and small rocks.

  Only our mason’s team still stood in front of a section of inner wall that lacked a base.

  “You’re going to have to use smaller stones salvaged from the houses,” said the stone cutter, pointing to a pile of rubble. “There’s no other option.”

  “If the invaders break through the outer wall here with that cat, an inner wall made from these pieces of crap will crumble,” said the mason.

  “But what chance is there that they will attack just in this spot?” asked the stone cutter.

  He gestured with his arm in a wide circle.

  “They have the entire wall of this suburb open to them. They know we’re working on the walls all over this place, but they don’t know where we ran out of base stones.”

  “I still don’t like it,” said the mason. “I have never been responsible for such shoddy work.”

  “Well, you don’t have much of a choice,” said the stone cutter. “Make it look good and hope they don’t get lucky.”

  I could not believe my ears. This was the chance I had been waiting for- my true opportunity to aid my blessed Crusaders and help them to the victory they justly deserved. But, oh how cruel was my life. Since the scar-faced man from the tavern had been taken by the Viscount’s guards last night, I had no way to get this precious information to my lord, the Abbot.

  We worked all morning, suffering under the bad temper of the mason. We were all careful not to anger him further, but I could not stop thinking about how I could pass this vital information on.

  Finally I had a chance to break free when the master mason called a short break for a noon repast. The other men gathered around as small boys brought bread and cheese, but I slipped away, anxious to head to the spring and protect my brother. If I could do nothing about the information I possessed about the wall, at least I could try to stop the vixen who was trying to steal my brother.

  I headed into the maze of streets of the Castellar, hoping to get to the gate to the spring more quickly. I did not want to be gone for too long. A ragged man came up to me and pulled on my sleeve. I thought he was just another ragged refugee and though the Lord Jesus Christ had consorted with beggars and thieves, I did not have our Lord's patience or his time. I pushed him away, but he would not let go. I began to worry that I would be assaulted when the man began to speak to me in a cultured, educated voice with the accent of the French.

  “Are you Bernard?” said the man softly.

  I glanced around quickly. How did this man know my name? Was this a trap? Had the scar-faced man been taken and talked to the Viscount's guards?

  I began to shake. My hands felt sweaty. I did not know what to do. I was sure this must be a test. They were searching for the spy everywhere and someone must have suspected me. I had to get away from this man.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I do not know who you are.”

  The man looked into my eyes.

  “We share the same father,” he said. “You can trust me. But you must move quickly before we attract any attention.”

  I made to quickly away from the man, but then I remembered that I had been sent here for a divine purpose. If this man was truly a link to my father Abbot, I had to take the risk. For what was the price I paid here on earth for this risk when my heavenly reward would be so great? And if he were truly from the Abbot then this would be a great miracle, the miracle I had prayed for only hours before. How swiftly work the ways of the Lord!

  “Tell me what you know,” he said. “Our father needs to know. We know what happened to your messenger and we know the danger you are in, but you must know that your work is vital and must continue.”

  I looked into the man’s eyes and decided that I must trust, trust and obey. I quickly told him of the problems at the wall of the Castellar and where exactly he must tell the Abbot to attack.

  He placed his hand on mine and made the sign of the Cross. Then he disappeared into from the Castellar, heading into the city. I did not know whether he was angel or man, but I knew that my prayers had been answered.

  Gauda

  Thursday, August 6, 1209, afternoon

  Agnes slept on her couch, the heat of the day rendering her listless and pale. I thought I would have a few moments to steal to write, but I could not bring my stylus to my wax tablet. I could not stop thinking of the dream that woke me from my bed early this morning, sweat drenching my linen.

  In my dream, a young woman walked naked down the street, trying to hide herself in her long hair. Small boys jeered and threw pebbles at her skin. Grown men spat at her feet. Her hands were bound and she followed the steps of the soldiers, for though they were her punishers, they were also her protectors. The young woman walked slowly, careful to listen for any cries of distress from behind her. Behind the woman walked a man. He was chained to her by a light iron tightly placed around his manhood and then wound about the woman’s hips.

  “Adulterous whore!” screamed a man from the crowd.

  “Harlot!” a thin woman yelled.

  The young woman stumbled and fell. The man behind her groaned and dropped to his knees. She began to cry, but she stopped for she would not let these people see her weakness. She turn
ed to look at the man behind her and he gazed at her with hatred.

  “Bitch,” he mouthed.

  And then the woman did begin to cry. She stood up slowly and gently and, after turning to make sure the man was standing, she continued onward.

  Though I had been awake for hours I could not shake the image of the woman's tear-strewn face from my mind. For this was not just a dream, but also a memory. As a girl, I walked the streets of a town, I remembered not which, with Azalais, my old teacher who raised me when my mother died. We saw this woman, jeered at and despised, linked so cruelly to her lover. For as much as our society raised the ideal of the lover chasing his married lady, it punished the adulterous couples who actually perpetrated the act. Though this was an old punishment, passing out of favor even in my youth, it still troubled me to remember it. And what troubled more was what Azalais had said after she quickly led me away from the spectacle.

  “Gauda, always remember what price there is to pay for love. The songs all lie,” she said. Her face became hard and we never talked of it again.

  It was days like this that I wished I still had a mother, even though I should have been a mother myself by my advanced age, if God had not seen fit to blight me with a barren womb. I could remember very little of my mother, except what I thought was her face, though by this time I am sure that my tangled memories had contrived to make it more beautiful and kind than it was in real life. I treasured one memory of her high forehead and steady eyes, warm brown and speckled with honey, as she leaned over me as I lay sick with fever.

  It was my teacher Azalais who had been the mother to me I never had. It was she who had taken care of me at my first bleeding. I remembered handing her the rag stained a light rust in furrows, warm from being pressed to my body.

  “I will save this blood and use it to find for you a good husband - noble and gentle,” she said.

  And it was Azalais who comforted me when these dreams did not come true. I should have married well and richly, but I foolishly married my first husband for love. I could not give him children, and so he gave me away to my second husband, a man with weak knees and weaker will, whose only redeeming feature, in my eyes, was his quite remarkable attachment to me. And while I hated my first husband for his betrayal, I found that I hated the second for his love. Fortunately, he was now dead, though my greedy stepsons had managed to steal my family's lands in the short time since his death. I sued, but my money was all taken by lawyers and the courts, with no end in sight for the case. My case would next come before the Count of Toulouse and, this time, I would win. I had worked hard enough to regain what was rightfully mine. Unless, of course, I died.

  But, I would not think of that. I could not die. I had too much waiting for me.

  Agnes awoke. She stretched her arms and stood up suddenly. Her right cheek was imprinted with the cross weave of her bed linens. She walked over to her mirror and sat down in front of it, idly playing with her hair.

  “Gauda,” she said. “Come brush my hair.”

  I came over to her, but found it difficult to approach closely. Agnes smelled horribly of decay and the marsh rushes. She must be ill. She saw my face and blushed.

  “Cousin,” I said. “Are you ill? Can I get you medicines?”

  “Yes, I think I must be suffering from an excess of bile,” she said. “Go to the old Good Woman and get me medicines.”

  “And shall I pick up some rose petals and jasmine?” I asked. And, I thought to myself, the strongest perfumes Azalais had. For I could not stand her stench much longer.

  Agnes colored bright red.

  “Yes, that will do, cousin,” she said. “And don't take too long. I need you back here quickly.”

  I left her room and smiled to myself. I would get to see Azalais today. And, I did not care if Agnes screamed at me and threw things when I returned and pinched my cheeks until I cried, I would see Azalais and stay as long I cared to.

  Azalais

  Thursday, August 6, 1209, evening

  Azalais paid the grave diggers who had come for the bodies of those who had died unclaimed in the hospital. The sturdy men carried the shrouded figures out to their wagon, placing them atop a mound of corpses en route to the overfilling church yard. So many dead already and the siege less than one week old, thought Azalais.

  In the distance, Azalais could hear the siege machines of the Crusaders shelling the Castellar suburb, but at least it was quieter in this part of the city today. Azalais said a prayer for all the souls trapped still on this earth in their misery and blessed the grave diggers. She turned to head back inside the hospital, but took one last look around, as she had done every time she ventured outside since she had realized that Constance was gone yesterday afternoon. At first, she thought the girl had only taken a quick trip to the market. Then, she assumed she must be sulking in her chamber, but when Azalais went there to search for her, hoping to find her meditating on her impure actions, Constance was gone, as were her only change of clothes. Azalais felt her stomach drop, as if heavy with lead, and knew the girl was gone.

  They did not speak of it among themselves, the good women. For occasionally they had lost others. Women who were not ready, who could not live the life of purity required of those who had chosen to forsake this world. These women went away, quietly, and the others pretended that they had never existed. Fortunately, it was almost always the young who went, those who were new to the life and who would never perform the consolamentum. That duty was left to the most senior and committed of the good women or good men, the ones who were iron sure in their conviction. If ever they lapsed into a life of sin not only would they lose their own salvation, but all who had been consoled by them would lose theirs as well. One break in the chain condemned all those down the line back to the agony of an endless cycle of rebirth in this world. No one wanted to think about those who left. No one wanted to think that it could happen to them or, even worse, to the ones who had consoled them. There was always a particular joy, far beyond the normal contentment, when an ancient good woman or good man, who had consoled many souls, had passed from this earth, still sinless and pure.

  Azalais had never thought it would be Constance who would have gone. There were others, feckless young girls, placed by their parents, who Azalais worried about, but she never once doubted Constance's faith. It was too strong, too present, since the day she came to live with them. Azalais took one last look around, hoping to see Constance's dark head, hoping to hear that it was all a mistake. Azalais did not see Constance, but she did see another most welcome sight. Azalais' face broke into a broad smile as she embraced the woman who came across the courtyard to greet her.

  “Gauda, my daughter,” said Azalais. “It is so good to see you.”

  “My dear teacher,” said Gauda. “It is a blessing to be in your presence.”

  “We do not see each other often enough,” said Azalais. “I take it she finally let you out of her sight for a few hours.”

  “Yes, but only to get some medicines for her,” said Gauda.

  Both women laughed and Azalais placed her arm around Gauda's waist as they walked into the house together. Gauda followed Azalais through the large room they were using as a hospital and into Azalais' herb storeroom. Gauda sat in a corner of the room under a small window. Sunlight poured into the room, though it was late in the day. It was still hot, but the massive heat of noon had lightened a bit. Azalais prepared some peppermint tea for them with some precious water. They sipped the steaming, pungent brew.

  “This refreshes me,” said Gauda. “Though I would have thought the heat of the tea would have enervated me instead.”

  “Like heals like,” said Azalais. “The heat of the tea chases away the heat of your body. And the peppermint soothes away headaches, like those the heat can bring on.”

  The two women sat in contented silence and sipped their tea for a while.

  “So, tell me, my dear,” said Azalais. “What did you want to ask me? I can see on your face that al
l is not well.”

  “I am ashamed to tell you,” said Gauda. “My life has become too much like a sad troubadour's chanson.”

  “So you are an adulterer,” said Azalais.

  Gauda blushed and tried to stammer a denial.

  “Don't. You forget that I was once a young trobairitz myself,” said Azalais. “I may live a life of denial of the flesh now, but I remember all too well the pleasures and punishments the flesh can bring. Who is it?”

  “It is my cousin's husband,” said Gauda.

  “And does she know?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not good. And do you love him?” asked Azalais.

  “No, it is only the weakness of my flesh,” Gauda said. “And besides how dare I resist the commands of my liege lord, when I am a poor, landless relative, living at his mercy?”

  Azalais patted Gauda’s hand. They sat quietly for a time. Finally, Azalais stood up and refilled their bowls with tea. The smell of peppermint wafted through the heavy summer air.

  “What do you mean to do?” asked Azalais.

  “There is nothing to be done,” said Gauda. “I could not deny the Viscount my favors, even if I wanted to. And since my cousin has discovered the betrayal, she is doing all she can to make my life miserable.”

  “I thought that she did that already,” said Azalais.

  “So I thought,” said Gauda. “I did not realize that she could be even more vicious than normal. I do not understand. She was sweet as a girl, always laughing and joyful. I can hardly recognize her as the same person. I think she must be very ill.”