The Song of the Troubadour

by Stephanie Cook

  Trencavel

  Monday, August 10, afternoon

  Trencavel sat again under his tent in the palace courtyard in the midday sun. All was exactly as it had been yesterday. The soldiers were standing to attention on each side of the courtyard. The flags whipped in the breeze. Cabaret and Bertrand stood to either side of Trencavel. The three of them watched the approach of the three lone horsemen. The only thing changed was Trencavel himself. Yesterday he had watched the King of Aragon approach with hope and even joy. Today he waited with resignation. Trencavel was about to hand over his city and lands to these foreign invaders. At least he would be able to keep his people from dying of hunger and disease and negotiate for their safety. And Trencavel was young. He could escape to the mountains with Bertrand. They would retake this land and this city when the time was ripe. All was not lost, thought Trencavel, except his honor.

  The King of Aragon arrived and stepped off his horse, as before. He solemnly walked over to Trencavel. Trencavel stood up, kneeled, and kissed the ring of the King.

  “I have spoken to this Abbot laying siege to your city, my son,” said the King. “He offered to let you live and let you leave the city with ten of your men, but without any arms or baggage. He offered no more.”

  Trencavel felt as if he had been slammed in the stomach. Did they think so little of him that he would leave his people to this fate? Did they think him so weak so as to be toyed with in this manner?

  “I would rather see my nearest flayed alive in front of me, after which I would embrace their corpses and then die myself, the last,” said Trencavel. “On my life, my sire, know that I will never abandon my people here.”

  The King of Aragon looked Trencavel squarely in the eyes.

  “I told him that you would accept such an infamous offer when donkeys learn how to fly,” said the King. “I knew that you would not abandon your city to this fate.”

  Trencavel looked again at his king, hoping for some sign that his lord would know realize the injustice of his position and come to his aid. But, even as he looked, Trencavel realized the truth. The King of Aragon had not risen to his lofty position by backing the losing side. Trencavel was alone and there was no hope of rescue.

  “Go back to your lands, my sire,” said Trencavel. “And let me fight.”

  The King of Aragon made as if to place his hand on the younger man's shoulder, but seemed to think better of it. He inclined his head slightly toward Trencavel and turned away. The King and his two attendants mounted their horses and rode out of the courtyard without looking back.

  Trencavel sat on his chair under the tent and stared after the retreating figures, not saying a word. The knights and soldiers standing at attention in the searing sun began to fidget, wiping the sweat from their brows and beginning to talk softly among themselves. Cabaret and Bertrand stood on either side of Trencavel, waiting for a word or sign from the Viscount, but Trencavel just stared woodenly ahead. Knights and lords from the mountains began to break away with their knights, milling about.

  “My lord,” said Cabaret, leaning over to speak into Trencavel's ear. “You must say something. The men are waiting for their orders.”

  Still Trencavel said nothing, staring ahead and watching as the drawbridge closed behind the retreating figure of the King of Aragon and his men.

  Bertrand placed his big shaggy hand on Trencavel's shoulder.

  “We don't need him,” said Bertrand. “We have the best fighting men in the mountains and now they are fighting for their lives as well as their lands. This city has never been taken. We can defeat those bastards or at least hold out until they all get tired and go back to their damned homes, may the pox follow them always. Your father would not have let these dogs defeat him and I know that you will not let them take the Trencavel lands from you. You have too much pride and honor and courage. Stand up, my lord. Fight.”

  Trencavel did not say anything for a minute, but then he slowly stood up. He raised his right hand and the soldiers fell silent and stood to watch him.

  “So, we are on our own,” said Trencavel. “I hoped for more, as did you all, but that was not to be our lot. The siege will continue. It will be a hot, thirsty, merciless siege, but we will outlast them, they who come merely to steal and pillage. Know this, that while I am yet alive I will fight for my city. I will never abandon it. I call on you all to continue this fight. Make these invaders pay in blood and pain for their assault on our fortress, our lands, and our people. Make them dream of their homes at night and cry in their death agonies knowing their corpses will rot far from their native soil. We will drive these invaders from our lands. We will persevere. We will never surrender.”

  The soldiers lifted their shields and screamed their loyalty. Trencavel stood grimly, but surely over them, forcing his rage into a finely honed sword of desire - desire to make these invaders pay. There would be no more talk of surrender.

  “Now, go, all of you, back to your stations,” said Trencavel. “We have a city to defend and a siege to win.”

  Bernard

  Monday, August 10, evening

  Did Paul of Tarsis grow to fear the stomp of the guards' feet along the corridor, as I did? Or did he hope for that sound as a deliverance from the hell of a crowded prison cell? I did not know where the guards would bring me, or to what new hell, as they hoisted me up from the crowded floor and dragged me down the corridor. I feared what would be done to me and wished only to be left unnoticed in a corner of that nasty, putrid cell. For I had seen the men brought back by the guards in twisted, bloody heaps, moaning softly as they lay in their own blood in the darkest corner of the cell.

  But, yet part of me longed to escape this confinement, no matter what hell would come next. I did not know how long I had been kept in that cell, crawling with cutthroats, thieves, and murderers, but it felt as I had been consigned for an eternity already. I prayed constantly for my deliverance. I had done nothing wrong and, yet, here I was consigned to a cell with these base criminals. I, who had done nothing but work in the most Holy name of the Father, following the dictates of my Father Abbot. I had been obedient and brave and righteous. And what was my reward? I was crammed into a cell filled with monsters who had already stolen my shoes and bag, their leering faces laughing in mine as they cuffed me on the side of the head. I itched everywhere for I had been contaminated by the vermin thriving in this hell hole. I tried mightily to pray for the souls and deliverance of even these basest of creatures, for the Lord Jesus Christ even deigned to save the soul of the thief, but I was not worthy of the magnificent mercy of our Lord and I wanted nothing more than to consign these rotten creatures to the basest ranks of Hell.

  I wondered if I would see them again, as the guards pulled me from the cell and, for that matter, if I would ever seen anyone again who mattered to me - my Holy Father Abbot, my brother Guillaume. I prayed fervently that the siege would end soon - that the rumors I heard of surrender were true. But, no one knew anything in that wretched cell. Even when a new prisoner was thrown in, bloody and broken, his news would contradict the news of the one thrown in just previously. I spent however long I had been in that cell of damnation swinging between joy as a rumor of surrender arrived and desperation as the next newly arrived prisoner contradicted that news.

  I marched down the long corridor, the guards flanking me on either side. I assumed that we were deep in the bowels of the palace for I could see no natural light and everywhere torches flickered on walls. I could hear screams coming from the closed doors of rooms we passed and I felt my body begin to sweat and my bowels clench. We stopped in front of a door and one of the guards produced a key. He turned it slowly in the lock and then pushed the heavy wooden door, reinforced with leather and nails, open. I felt weak and my legs buckled under me.

  “Finally scared are you?” said the heavier guard. He laughed. “Well, you've every right to be.”

  I quickly stood tall. I refused to let these heretics see any weakness in my bearing. I had the rig
hteousness of the Lord on my side and I would not give these Satanic dogs the pleasure of watching my fear - they who had everything to fear from my Lord Abbot. I would see them smoking in the ruins, writhing in agony on the day of judgment. Those proud and foolish heretics in Béziers had paid with their lives for their arrogance and so would these vermin.

  The taller, slimmer guard kicked me in the back of the legs and pushed me into the room. It was a small room, lit by torches with soot staining the walls. I choked with the force of the bad air - smoke and sweat and another smell I could not define, but knew was the smell of human fear. A thick slab of a man stood by the wall, naked from the waist up. His chest and arms were a knotty mass of muscle and his face was hard, a cruel smile playing on his lips. Another man, richly dressed and quite young, sat in a chair raised on a platform against the wall. A thin, bald servant stood by his side.

  I was thrown in the room. I fell to the hard stone floor, but was quickly raised to my feet by the muscled man. I could feel the man's fingers clench around my upper arm like a vise. The bald man to the right of the richly dressed man spoke.

  “Viscount, this is the man that was seen speaking to the spy in the tavern out by the Davejean tower. We have been searching for him for many days, but he was only found by the guards late last night. We kept him for you, as you requested,” said the servant.

  I stared. I recognized the viscount from his visit to the wall in the Castellar suburb, but I prayed that he did not recognize me.

  “The Viscount has some questions for you, spy,” said the servant. “And I suggest you answer them quickly and truthfully. The man who is holding you down likes to hurt people. The Viscount finds him useful to keep around, but he would so prefer not to see him do his work.”

  The Viscount stared at me, but then shook his head.

  “Spy who are you working for?” said the Viscount.

  “I am not a spy,” I said. “I am a poor refugee come to this city to escape the fires of Béziers.”

  The bald servant nodded at the muscled ape that held me. I felt my arm almost twisted out of the socket as the brute deftly grabbed my elbow and pushed upwards. I gritted my teeth, but would not scream. The servant nodded and I felt the pressure relax, though ebbs of pain wafted through my body from my shoulder.

  “Let's try again, shall we?” said the servant. “We know you are a spy. We have witnesses. You went to that tavern and you disappeared with the spy, several nights in a row. Spare me your stories and spare yourself a lot of pain. You can tell us what we want and we will give you a quick death or you can choose to take a lot longer to die.”

  I felt myself wet with sweat. My stomach was pinched in tight knots.

  “Who are you working for?” asked the Viscount. “It's a simple question.”

  “I am simple refugee. I work for no one,” I said.

  Even as my words came out, the thin servant again nodded and I felt my arm wrenched out of the shoulder socket. I screamed and felt bile rise up from my guts.

  “Wait,” said Trencavel. “I knew I had seen this man before. He worked on the section of the wall that collapsed in the Castellar. He must work for the mason. That is the man we must find. This fool is no more than a go-between.”

  Trencavel stood up.

  “Pons, order your men to search everywhere for that mason. We thought him an incompetent fool, but he is a brilliant spy and saboteur,” said Trencavel.

  The thin servant nodded and left the room. The two guards who had brought me from the prison cell entered and grabbed me by my arms. I screamed again and jumped quickly to my feet. I looked into the face of the brute that had injured me and the blasphemer gave me a deep smile and blessed me as would a priest. I spat into his face, immediately regretting it as a powerful fist tore into my guts.

  Blessedly, I fell to the floor and remembered nothing else.

  Gauda

  Monday, August 10, night

  Agnes slept fitfully, her body wracked with fever and dreams torturing her liar's soul. I doused a rag in the lavender water Azalais had prepared and wiped the sweat from her pale face. Suddenly, Agnes reached up and grabbed my arm with a claw-like hand.

  “Does he know?” she asked. Her voice was low and raspy.

  I slowly removed her hand from my arm and placed it gently on the covers.

  “I had to tell him,” I said. “We needed water to care for you and he forbade any water to be sent here. I had no choice.”

  Agnes' eyes filled with tears as she blinked.

  “He will repudiate me,” said Agnes. “He will realize what I have done and he will repudiate me. I should have died that day my son was born. I should have died.”

  I placed the covers more closely around Agnes, who shivered, though the day was the hottest yet of this cursed siege. I left Agnes in the care of her maid, for I had been called to play this night for the Viscount. I picked up my harp and walked into the corridor. I had not walked five steps when I became aware of something, a presence behind me. My skin prickled and I stopped to turn and look, sure that I was hearing ghosts.

  “Do not turn around,” said a voice, muffled and low. “Keep walking, but slowly.”

  Something in the voice was familiar, but I could not place it. I wanted to turn around with all my will, but something in the tone of the voice made me sure I would regret it if I did. I continued to walk along the corridor, my hand clenched tightly around my harp.

  “Gauda, we know what you have been up to,” said the voice.

  I froze and stumbled, but a sharp prod in my back from my shadow got me moving again.

  “I don't know what you are saying,” I said.

  “I know everything that is going on in this palace,” said the voice. “Very clever of you, sending letters to your fellow troubadour, but not clever enough.”

  I felt a sick coldness in my bowels and I began to sweat.

  “I am sure that the Lord Trencavel would find it quite interesting that you had so much information to report to his beloved uncle,” said the voice. “You know how fond he is of spies. But, of course, a spy that betrayed him from his bed, I am sure he would want to think of a special punishment for this kind of betrayal.”

  I kept walking slowly, trying to keep my wits together.

  “What do you want of me?” I said. “For surely, if you cared for the Viscount, you would go directly to him and let him take his revenge on me. What is it you want? Gold? Influence? Just tell me and I will make sure it is yours when this cursed siege is over.”

  The voice laughed, but so softly that it sent chills down my spine.

  “You think I need gold or influence? You are a very foolish woman. And I had estimated your talents at such a higher level. You cannot deal for my favor, for you are the pawn now. You will do as I say or I will tell the Viscount Trencavel of your activities.”

  I kept walking silently, my legs shaking.

  “For now, continue as always,” said the voice. “You will be watched, so do not try anything. Though what you could possibly do, I couldn't imagine. You are certainly not going to complain to the Viscount about me.”

  Again the voice laughed, ever so lightly.

  “I will come to you again when I need you,” said the voice. “Be waiting.”

  I kept walking slowly, forcing one trembling foot in front of the next. I sensed that the creature with the horrid, quiet voice had walked away in the direction we had come from, but I dared not turn to be sure. Finally, I reached the threshold of the Viscount's chambers. I walked in, forcing my hands to stop shaking.

  Trencavel sat in his chair in front of the empty fireplace, his hunting dogs at his feet. He looked up at me blearily, a goblet of wine in his hand. It was tilted at an angle and some wine dribbled to the carpet at his feet. Trencavel was drunk, his eyes bloodshot.

  “Gauda, my sweet Gauda,” he said, none too clearly. “Come sit here and play for me.”

  I took my harp and walked across the rushes to the fireplace. I sat on the co
ld stone and tucked my feet beneath my skirts.

  “What would you like me to play, my Lord?” I asked.

  His head swayed on his neck a bit, like a baby's before it gains control of its muscles. He leaned forward and exhaled and I could smell the wine, almost turned to vinegar, on his breath. He reached out and pulled the cap off my head. My hair fell forward onto my shoulders and he started playing clumsily with the loose strands.

  “Oh Gauda, my Gauda,” he said. “You are the only one I can trust. My wife is a lying fraud and I am surrounded by spies. My uncle betrays me, my liege lord deserts me in my hour of need, and my counselors are incompetent old men who think only of themselves. Why am I treated so?”

  I could say nothing. I only thought of how young Trencavel seemed, consumed by pity for himself.

  Trencavel stood up suddenly and threw his goblet into the fireplace.

  “Why am I treated so?” he yelled.

  We heard the metal goblet ricochet around the stone of the empty fireplace and then the room fell eerily quiet. Trencavel turned to the young servant at the door.

  “Don't be a fool, get me some wine,” he yelled.

  The servant dashed off down the corridor.

  “And what are you staring at?” Trencavel said to me. “Play for me, or get out of here.”

  I placed my harp in my hands and began to quietly pluck the string. I sang, the softest, sweetest song I knew for to calm us both.

  DAY 11 OF THE SIEGE OF CARCASSONNE

  Tuesday, August 11, 1209

  Constance

  Tuesday, August 11, noon

  “He's burning up,” said Beatritz.

  Constance walked over and placed her hand on the cheek of the baby boy. They were all hot, stuck in this stuffy attic as the sun rose over the city. But this baby’s cheek made Constance's hand feel cool in comparison.

  “What is going to happen to my little boy?” asked Beatritz. Her eyes were wild and red-rimmed, her hair escaping from her kerchief in untidy clumps. Constance could not believe she was the same woman who had warmly welcomed them into her cheerful, orderly home only a few days ago.