The Song of the Troubadour

by Stephanie Cook

  Bertrand turned away to watch the scene in the Castellar below.

  “You must prepare your defenses for an even fiercer attack because now they will have the houses of the Castellar to use as cover,” said Bertrand.

  Trencavel looked down at the Castellar. The houses in the suburb sat huddled under the city walls. The roofs of one house were just under the windows of a tower in the wall.

  “You can always pray for a miracle, Trencavel,” said Bertrand with a bitter smile. “After all, they seem to be happening quite regularly in the Crusader camp.”

  Trencavel did not smile. Rumors were everywhere. Already some people in the city itself were speaking of the latest miracle that was supposed to show that God favored the crusaders. Trencavel had ordered all the crops burnt or taken in from the land around Carcassonne and all the livestock slaughtered. The mills on the River Aude were destroyed, so the Crusaders could not have milled any grain they managed to bring with them. Yet, the crusaders were not hungry or weak. The foolish and nervous people whispered that the Abbot leading the Crusaders was a wizard and had conjured up demons to fight, instead of real men who needed food and water. However, one could easily see the bread baking in their ovens down by the river banks. The Crusaders had simply managed to go far upriver and steal milled grain from the peasants.

  “I don't plan on waiting for heavenly miracles,” said Trencavel. “This victory was too easy for them and they will be made to pay for it.”

  “Do you suspect treason?” asked Bertrand.

  “I do not know what to suspect,” said Trencavel. “Our enemies seem to know too much about our weaknesses. They know where to attack and when. They know too much.”

  Bertrand said nothing.

  “Have you seen Cabaret?” asked Trencavel.

  “He went back to his quarters last night or so my men tell me,” said Bertrand. “He did not fight with you this morning?”

  “No,” said Trencavel. “I fought alone.”

  Bertrand turned away quickly.

  “I did not mean you, old man,” Trencavel said. “I want you well again and at my side. Do not play the brave fool.”

  “I hate growing old,” said Bertrand. “I would not have caught this wound as a younger man and I would not have let it keep me from battle at the side of my lord. I am useless now. An old lion that can only roar, but whose claws are no longer sharp and whose teeth have all rotted and fallen out.”

  Trencavel turned to look at Bertrand and saw for the first time the gray in his beard. It had happened so gradually that Trencavel had never noticed, but the man he thought of as something timeless and unchanging, like the mountains where he made his home, was growing old.

  “There is something you can do for me,” said Trencavel. “I want to know who is helping the Crusaders. There must be a spy, someone in my inner circle, for they know too much. Find him for me. Find him and kill him.”

  “I will perform this service for you, my Lord,” said Bertrand. “I will always be your faithful vassal.”

  Trencavel and Bertrand continued to watch the Castellar. The sun rose in the sky and the heat started to press down. There was no wind and oppressive warmth lay over the city. The dust did not move, unless stirred by men or dogs. The air itself felt parched. As the day went on, most of the knights and soldiers left the Castellar, realizing that there was little left to take from the suburb. They wandered back to their camp and even the monks gave up their eternal wail, preferring to retreat to the shade under the trees on the bank of the Aude.

  In the hottest part of the day when the dogs were sleeping in the streets, Trencavel gestured to his squire to dress him again for battle. He left Bertrand on the ramparts and ordered his fifty youngest and fastest knights to follow him. The gate of the main city opened into the Castellar, quietly and slowly. Trencavel tore into the suburb, leading his men, and massacring the Crusaders left behind to guard the suburb, indolent in the afternoon, lying with their armor off to avoid the heat. They galloped round the suburb, lighting fires to wooden roofs and thatch roofs, destroying the few mangonels left behind. By the time the Crusaders on the bank of the Aude realized what was happening, most of the Castellar was destroyed and all their men lay dead. Trencavel saw the Crusaders putting on their armor and remounting their horses, and ordered the retreat. The defenders were safe inside the city gates before the Crusaders even galloped up the hill.

  Trencavel went back up to the ramparts and saw Bertrand, who gave him a grim smile.

  “Well done,” Bertrand said. “I could not have done it better myself, my young Lord,”

  Trencavel smiled at the grizzled old man. Then he turned to look at what he had wrought. All that remained of the Castellar was burning buildings and the moans of the dying. Trencavel wondered if he would have any city or lands left to govern, even if he were to win this siege. He turned his back on the Castellar and strode back into his city.

  Gauda

  Saturday, August 8, evening

  I picked up the harp, placed it on my lap, and put my fingers to the strings. Trencavel sat in the large chair in his bedchamber and I sat on a small stool in front of him, my legs curled beneath me under my tunic. Trencavel absently picked at the gold threads of the brocaded chair cover with his right hand. His head rested in the left hand and his legs were splayed out in front of him. His young face had the look of weariness of an old man. I could not force cheer on him with a foolish pastorelle and I had no stomach for the stirring Crusade songs of old, nor did he, I imagined. But I could play a sad song of love, anything to take the mind of my Lord away from the miserable place where he dwelt, even if it were to think of the misery of another.

  I played a song by Guirat ed Bornelh, he who is called the master of the troubadours. Trencavel always loved it, and I hoped to soothe him with its sad, but sweet melody. The music was rich and the poetic images clear, if a bit trite, but I grew tired of yet again singing of the suitor pining hopelessly away for his Lady, who dabbles with his affections, always spurning his advances. Why did these men never cease of writing and listening to this same tale? I felt foolish as a lady singing these words, but no one ever seemed to notice how strange it was, such is the power of a good song I suppose. My teacher Azalais had written some songs in this style, but had changed the suitor for a Lady and the Lady for a Lord. They were beautiful songs and I liked to sing them whenever I could, but they did not feel true to me upon my lips. For I did not know any ladies who hunted their men with falcons and dogs, open in their pursuit and proud of it. No, for us, we had only the weapons of subterfuge and subtlety. We had to give cryptic signs and hope that the man we must have, the one we would die for, would notice.

  I watched Trencavel. He seemed far away from this place, but at least his restless fingers had stopped their wandering and pulling. I thought how strange it was that I pitied him only two nights ago when I realized he still loved the fair Agnes. For he did not deserve pity, but, was instead, the luckiest of men! For he loved his fair Lady as a hopeless suitor. He had his desperate passion and he was fortunate enough to be married to the object of his longings. No dangerous adulterous affairs to rock his feudal ties. And, of course, there was no need to deny his base, physical needs. There was always a shepherdess around, or a trobairitz. Most men hated their wives, lusted after some other man's wife, and spent all their money on whores. Trencavel could love his wife, lust after her as well, and never have to actually touch her!

  Just once, I wanted to be the hunter. I did not want to be locked in a fortress, under siege, fighting against the thing I most wanted. I did not want to sit quietly, drawing all my resources unto myself to resist the onslaught of a passion that I must deny for convention's sake, though I wanted more than anything to throw myself to it. I had been this object before, many a time, and I hated it. But, what was I now? Plunder, I thought. My castle had been taken, with little or no resistance, and I was a prisoner. I had no force on my side, my capital was spent and I could not even ransom mys
elf.

  I forced myself to continue, though the song was starting to enrage me. I forced the anger into my voice and turned into the desperation required of the end of the song when the suitor begs for protection from love itself. When I finished, Trencavel sat in silence a long time, staring at the fire. I said nothing, only waited. Finally, he turned to me.

  “Pons tells me that you found nothing in Cabaret's letters,” said Trencavel.

  “I could see nothing that was not as it should be,” I said. “Though I do not know if I have eyes to see.”

  “True. Betrayal is easy to spot, but true loyalty can never be proved,” said Trencavel. “It is always a supposition from day to day, always believed until it is one day broken in a way that can never be repaired.”

  “But what choice have you other than to trust?” I said. “Otherwise you will be isolated and just as broken as a man betrayed.”

  Trencavel sat quietly. He looked young again, despite his exhaustion, and somehow fragile even though he was a big man, strong through the chest and shoulders.

  “I want to keep fighting,” he said. “This city has been in Trencavel hands for hundreds of year. I have already lost Béziers for my family and at what a price. I do not want to be remembered as the Trencavel who lost all the lands in the Viscounty. What will be left for my son? He will have no lands, no pride.”

  “I grew up hearing stories of how Charlemagne himself laid siege to this city for seven years without taking it,” said Trencavel. “I know I could hold out against these invaders until the winter winds forced them home, if only I were commanding a fortress city filled with knights and soldiers instead of a city teeming with refugees. And, I am left with a choice that I would like to see Solomon make. Either the people die from thirst while the siege continues or they are slaughtered if the Crusaders take the city in battle. But to surrender means that all is lost for the Trencavel name and how do I know that these vile bandits will not slaughter all of us anyway? They have already shown that they cannot control the bloodlust of their rabble.”

  “Play again for me, Gauda,” he said. “Just the harp. I do not want to hear about castles under siege or broken hearts. I do not want to hear or think of anything at all.”

  I played for him for a long time until the candles in the room guttered and finally blew out. Trencavel sat quietly for a while as I continued to play in the darkness, my hands feeling for the strings, knowing them as well as a blind woman knows the face of her husband. I finally stopped.

  “Go, Gauda,” said Trencavel. “Check on my wife, for she has not appeared in the great hall for a day now, and I worry after her.”

  “Yes, my lord,” I said and I left him there, sitting quietly in the dark.

  I walked the halls of the castle, lit by flickering torches. It was very late and the castle was quiet. I made my way back to Agnes' chambers. I quietly unrolled my mat in the antechamber and placed my harp beside me. I could hear the soft breathing of the two maids and the gentle rhythm lulled me to sleep. I did not dream at all and it seemed only minutes later when I heard loud voices and slowly lifted my sleep-numbed head from the mat. One of the maids stood at the entrance to Agnes' bedchamber, a pile of linens in her arms. I recognized Agnes' voice shouting from the bedroom.

  “Don't you dare enter,” screamed Agnes. “I gave you orders. No one is to enter this room.”

  A bone comb came flying out of the room and struck the maid on the face. She began to cry and ran off. The other maid ran after her. I stood up and rubbed my eyes. The early morning light fell on my face and hurt my eyes. I walked to the entrance to the chamber and looked in.

  Agnes lay in her bed, covers up to her chin, despite the heat. She looked pallid and was sweating.

  “I am coming in, cousin,” I said. “You have nothing left to throw at me, so don't bother.”

  Agnes madly looked around for something at her side, but she could find nothing and seemed to give up suddenly, falling back on her pillows with a sigh.

  I walked slowly into the room. It was dark and, despite the incense burning everywhere, I could still smell the sick odor of decay. I overcame my revulsion and walked up to her bed. I laid my hand on her forehead. It was sweaty and burning hot. Her face was completely white, but a red spot burned in each of her cheeks. Her beautiful hair lay on the pillow, stringy and dirty. I looked for a cloth to dry her skin, but all the ones at the side of the bed were soaked.

  “Agnes, you are very ill,” I said. “We must call for a doctor.”

  Agnes' eyes shot open and her hand clenched mine in an iron grip. On her face was a look of pure terror.

  “No, no doctor,” she said. “I would rather die.”

  I gently unclenched her fingers from my hand and took her palm into mine, stroking it gently. I remembered seeing Agnes as a young girl in her father's palace in Montpellier, when I went to visit her mother, my cousin. How had Agnes become so bitter, so mad at such a young age? What had changed her from that sweet little girl, laughing as her mother combed her pretty blond locks?

  “But what of your son?” I asked. “Would you prefer that he be raised without his mother?”

  “I want nothing to do with him,” she said. “Let my mother keep him until his father wants him, when he's ready to be the next Trencavel.”

  She must surely be mad with the fever. For no mother would want to die instead of living to watch her child grow and assume his place in the world. My nurse told me that my own mother cried as she died, knowing that her infant would never know any mother at all. But, maybe she cursed as well. Maybe she cursed me.

  “I will go to the house of good women. Azalais will come to see you and you must let her care for you,” I said. “We may hate each other, but you are my blood and I will not see you die, if there be something I can do to fight it.”

  I stood up to go, but waited as Agnes spoke one last quiet word.

  “You think you know that living is always worth the toil, but I but know better.”

  DAY 9 OF THE SIEGE OF CARCASSONNE

  Sunday, August 9, 1209

  Azalais

  Sunday, August 9, morning

  The tiny, old woman approached Azalais, her skin wrinkled like a baby bird. She looked as if she weighed no more than one as well. The oldest woman in the house of good women, Eleanor was respected by all the others.

  “Sister, if I could speak with you for a moment in private,” said Eleanor, clasping her gnarled old hands in front of her skirts.

  Azalais nodded and led Eleanor into her herb drying room. Azalais sat at the stool in front of the table and gestured to Eleanor to sit across from her, but Eleanor declined with a nod of her head and remained standing. Only her shoulders and head were visible above the table. Azalais sat quietly and waited.

  “The other women and I are concerned about Constance. It has been five days and we have had no sign of her,” said Eleanor.

  “We are all concerned about the soul of Constance,” said Azalais. “I pray for her constantly, hoping she will see the error in what she has done and come back to us, asking for forgiveness.”

  Eleanor folded her arms in front of her.

  “Yes, of course, we are all praying for Constance's soul,” said Eleanor. “But the other women and I believe that more should be done to find her earthly shell. She could be sick, injured. She may not be able to come to us. We want to send some to look for her.”

  Azalais stood up from her stool quickly and it fell to floor with a clatter.

  “You speak of her earthly body as if it were more important than her everlasting soul,” said Azalais. “Azalais has betrayed everything our community holds valuable. It is a blessing that she is so young and has never given the consolamentum or she would have taken others with her in her fall from grace. How could we take her back now, knowing she has fallen once? We would never be able to trust her again.”

  Eleanor stared straight at Azalais before turning to go.

  “Do not leave yet,” said Azalais
. “Make it known that I forbid any women in this house to go searching for Constance or to send others to search for her.”

  Eleanor nodded her delicate little head once, but her mouth was set in a line of grim determination. She said nothing and left the room.

  Azalais sat back on her stool and began to idly crush a few rose petals left on the worktable, watching the papery pieces turn to dust under her fingers. Her back ached and her mouth felt dry and scratchy from the thirst. Azalais looked around her. There were so few medicines left and they were running out of everything- food, linens, water, of course, always water. The good women were already on strict rations and, fortunately, the very sick or injured did not need much to eat. Azalais always thought it best to balance the humors with fasting and soups and herbal tisanes. But they did not have much water for the soups and teas. The cistern in the courtyard was full, but their well only produced brackish, dirty water and rains in August were a rare occurrence. Azalais did not know how much longer they would last. And now that there would be no more fresh water from the spring by the Castellar, the sick would start to multiply. Azalais did not know why that was so, but it was true. Maybe when the people drank more water they flushed the evil humors of fever from their bodies? Or maybe the miasma from which came all plague was the antithesis of the force of water and the two kept each other in balance until one was pulled away and the other triumphed?

  Azalais sighed and stood up. There was no sense in wasting her time philosophizing. She must use her wits and energy to find a way to feed and care for all the sick that would soon flood their home. Azalais walked into the main room. The other good women were respectful, but Azalais felt their anger directed at her. So these women thought she was too harsh with Constance, thought Azalais. Let them. Constance deserved to be cut off from their community after her betrayal.