The Song of the Troubadour

by Stephanie Cook

  Constance walked past the mason, sitting blankly at the table, and walked up the stairs. She entered the stifling and foul-smelling bedroom and stared. There were so many people in the small room. Beatritz' mother sat next to her sick old husband, mopping the sweat from his brow with a dry rag. Beatritz and her sister stood with their backs to the staircase, staring over the cots of the baby. Beatritz' little girl clung to her skirts and Constance could hear Beatritz quietly crying and speaking to her mother.

  “God has made a miracle manifest,” Beatritz said. “I prayed for this and the mightiest Lord delivered a miracle from heaven, a miracle to soothe a poor Christian mother's heart.”

  Constance wondered if the baby had suddenly gotten better. That would have truly been a miracle, for all the signs of death had been on his face when she walked away just ten minutes ago. Constance dropped her straw and quickly walked over to Beatritz. She stopped and stared, for she did not understand. The baby was still dying, the death rattle vibrating his poor chest as he struggled for his last breaths. But now Guillaume stood over him, sprinkling precious drops of water and speaking words in a language Constance did not understand. Constance screamed and tried to leap towards the water, but Guillaume held her back.

  “Guillaume, what are you doing?” said Constance. “How can you waste what we so dearly need?”

  Constance turned to Beatritz, whose face bore an expression of rapturous joy.

  “Beatritz, what is happening?” asked Constance.

  “It is the greatest miracle I have ever heard of,” said Beatritz. “For my baby was dying and I prayed only that he would be baptized before he is delivered back to his Heavenly Father. And, behold, my prayers were answered! All I had to do was renounce the husband who had brought heresy and disaster to this house and my answer came from heaven. And surely this is a sign that I am now under God's grace again and all will improve.”

  Constance still did not understand. She thought that Beatritz must surely have gone mad. Constance looked at Guillaume. He had finished speaking his words and had closed the eyes of the baby, who had finally drawn his last breath. Beatritz fell on the baby, and took his lifeless body into her arms, where she cried and cooed as if she were only rocking him to sleep.

  “Guillaume?” asked Constance.

  Guillaume turned to her with a gentle expression.

  “There has been enough of falsehood,” said Guillaume. “I cannot lie any longer. I never wanted to and I was convinced against my better judgment of this folly. I am a monk, Constance. Bernard and I both. We are here to send information to the Lord Abbot who waits outside this city with the Crusaders to rescue all of you from eternal damnation. I could not allow this soul to die without baptism. I am sorry for my deception. Please come to us, see the error of your ways. You can still be saved.”

  Constance screamed and turned to run away. She ran right into the imposing form of the mason, standing at the top of the stairs. His face was completely red and Constance could see the veins popping from this forehead. He advanced on Guillaume, who did not make a move to defend himself.

  “I am ashamed of our behavior, good mason" said Guillaume. “You must know that we only wanted to help you.”

  The mason answered with his fists, pummeling an unresisting Guillaume until he fell to the ground. Beatritz screamed and tried to pull the mason off of Guillaume, hissing and pulling at her husband's hair. The mason flicked her off like a fly. The little girl screamed in terror. Then Constance heard the pounding of heavy boots on the stairs. Two soldiers spilled into the fetid, crowded room.

  “We have orders to arrest the mason,” said the older. “Who is the mason?”

  Beatritz stood up and pointed at her husband.

  “Take that man, and may he rot in your jails and in hell for all eternity for what he has done.”

  The soldiers finally pulled the mason off of Guillaume, who sat bloody and confused on the floor.

  The mason stopped struggling with the soldiers.

  “I am an innocent man,” he said. “But, I know you must follow orders and take me now. But, take this man as well, for he truly is a spy! I will not go alone to pay for what I did not even do!”

  The soldiers stopped to confer with each other for a second, but then the older nodded his head and the younger went to grab Guillaume. Guillaume did not resist. The soldiers led the two men away. The mason did not look back, but Guillaume turned and spoke to Constance.

  “Please forgive me, for I knew not what I did,” said Guillaume.

  The room seemed strangely quiet after the big men had left. Constance did not know why her heart hurt so much, but she did not think on it, but only went to the side of the little boy and tried to clean his messed cot. She did not know she was crying until she saw hot tears fall on the face of the little boy, who lapped them up eagerly with his parched tongue.

  Azalais

  Wednesday, August 12, early afternoon

  Azalais dropped the pestle she was using to grind mustard seeds. The heavy stone implement fell on the table in the herb drying room with a dull thud. She felt very faint and weak all of a sudden and stepped backward until she found the chair in the corner. Azalais thought that she must have been overexerting herself these last few days, for she was not young anymore. The sick had not stopped coming, more and more sufferers of the bloody flux and fevers, and still the wounded came, for the bombardments had started up again after the failed negotiations. Azalais and her good women had nursed and cared for the sick as best they knew how, but without much water there was little they could do to replenish the bodies of those drained by the flux and sweated out by fever. The dead were piled in the courtyard garden, for there was no one to come and collect them anymore.

  Azalais started to sweat and when she lifted her apron to sweep her brow, it came away soaked. It was this heat, thought Azalais. This day had seemed to Azalais the hottest yet of the siege, with the sun baking this city full of the dead, the stench rising to encompass them all in its unhealthy vapors. Azalais stood up very slowly. She just needed some water - that was all that was the problem. The tail end of the supplies that Gauda had obtained from the Viscount still stood in the good women's storerooms underground. Azalais had carefully rationed them, with a bit extra each day for the good women, who needed to keep their strength to care for the sick. Of course, so many did not need the water, for they had taken the endura, the better to speed their release from this carnal hell. If there could be any one blessing from this siege, it was this - facing death focused many a man's mind on his eternal soul. Azalais had performed the consolamentum countless times over the last two days and each time she watched the blissful relief on the believer's face as they knew they were to spend eternity free of this earthly yoke.

  Azalais felt lightheaded and tried to grasp the table as she suddenly fell to the floor. When she awoke, several good women were standing over her.

  “The flux must have taken her,” said one. “The smell of rot is everywhere. The miasma was too strong for an old woman to bear.”

  Azalais felt the wetness of the flux on her clothes and cringed in shame, though she knew from caring for the sick that they could not control themselves as the flux passed through them, expelling all the foul humors with cramps that caused the sufferer to double in pain.

  “She needs to be cleaned and moved to her bed,” said Eleanor.

  Two of the stronger good women picked up Azalais and bore her gently to her small room. Azalais felt her whole body burning and was glad to feel the women's hands strip her of her filthy tunic. They cleaned her as best they could and then lay her in her own bed, covered by a light blanket for, though Azalais burned with fever, she felt a sudden coldness deep in the core of her body. Eleanor stepped closer to Azalais and laid her delicate little hand on Azalais' forehead.

  “My dear sister,” said Eleanor. “Will you want to start the endura? I know how you yearn for freedom.”

  Azalais remained quite for a minute. What joy
would await her if she just let go! All the bliss of heaven, forever free from pain and hunger and the ache of her all too human heart. Azalais turned to Eleanor, ready to give her assent, when a small, dark face entered her thoughts. Constance. What would happen to her? How could Azalais think of her own bliss when the one she loved as a daughter was lost, maybe sick and terrified, thinking she was all alone? Azalais had passed the last few days so sure that Constance would turn up at their door, begging to be taken back. All would be as before, but Constance would have learned her lessons. She would not be so haughty or so sure of herself. Azalais always believed she would see Constance again in this world. And, if not in this world, then surely in the world to come for Constance was one of the chosen, those who knew young that their salvation was assured. But, who knew what could befall Constance out in the world? When one of the chosen fell, their path back to salvation is surely much longer and rocky than that of a simple believer. Constance needed to be here, surrounded by her sisters.

  Azalais looked up at Eleanor.

  “I must see Constance before I leave this world,” said Azalais. “Please send someone to find her. My pride kept me from taking care of her as I would any wayward sister. Forgive me, Eleanor, I hope it is not too late.”

  Eleanor took Azalais' hand and placed it on her heart.

  “We will do everything we can, both to find Constance and to keep you alive to see her and take her back to us.”

  Azalais breathed deeply and closed her eyes.

  Trencavel

  Wednesday, August 12, afternoon

  Trencavel sat in the interrogation room, Pons at his side. The three men in front of him disgusted him. He hated nothing more than a spy, those cowards who refused to fight in the plain air like honorable men. Holding himself as if he had nothing to be ashamed of, the insolent mason stood tall and proud. Trencavel would see that false pride beaten out of him before the day was through. The other two men were much younger than the mason. They were obviously brothers, though one had the fine bearing of a young knight and the other the mien of a furtive clerk caught tipping his hand in the accounts. Who were these men and, more importantly, who did they all work for?

  “Shall we begin the questioning, my Lord?” asked Pons.

  “Yes, start with the mason,” said Trencavel.

  The brutish guard moved the mason forward. His face was bruised and it was obvious he had put up a fight when he was taken.

  “Who do you work for, spy?” asked Pons.

  “I am no spy,” spat the mason.

  Trencavel signaled to the guard and he began to twist the mason's arm. The mason deftly pulled his arm loose and gripped the guard's wrist in his strong hand. The guard whimpered. Pons ordered the other two guards to hold the mason back and free the red-faced guard.

  “I am no spy, but I can tell you who is,” said the mason, struggling against the two guards who held him back. “These two double-crossing Papist scum!”

  The two brothers stood still, their faces drained of color.

  “Very well,” said Trencavel. “Tell me your accusations and then we will hear what these two have to say of you.”

  It was always like this, Trencavel thought to himself. Thieves and spies have no honor. It took only to bring them together under the threat of death and they all began blaming the others to save their own skins. Usually, Trencavel could sift out the truth from the lies and learn enough to condemn them all. It was more effective than torture which did give many answers, if one was not bothered to look for the truth.

  The guards loosened their grip on the mason, but stayed warily close to their prisoner.

  “I took in these two bastards, who claimed to be refugees from Béziers,” said the mason. “I pitied them and fed them and taught them skills I usually only give to an apprentice whose parents have paid dear for the privilege. I welcomed them into my home and how am I thanked? They told their masters where to attack our walls and my wall fell under the assault. Now I have nothing - not even my good name! I didn't want to think it true, but I saw the younger one with my own eyes baptizing my infant son with his Latin gibberish! This one is a popish priest and probably his brother too, damn them all to hell!”

  The mason lunged towards the brothers, but the guards quickly moved to hold him back.

  Trencavel thought for a moment. Priests were always used as spies. That was nothing new, but who had sent them? That was what he needed to know and he was no closer to the truth. Plus, he doubted that the mason was innocent. How could he shelter spies for a week and not know? It was all too easy.

  “What do you have to say for yourselves to this accusation?” asked Pons.

  The older brother stepped forward. His face was sweating and his eyes moved wildly from side to side.

  “We are just innocent refugees, who have lost our whole family,” said the older brother. “This mason took us in and cared for us, this much is true. But, I know nothing of masonry or walls. How could I do anything to sabotage the wall when I am ignorant? I did everything exactly as the mason directed. I believe he took us in only to have a scapegoat were his perfidy to be discovered. It is too easy to blame a poor refugee with no family or friends to defend him. As soon as he was taken by the guards he began to make up all manner of lies to confuse you! But he is to blame, my merciful lord, not us!”

  The mason jumped away from his guards and began to choke his accuser.

  “You lying, scheming popish fiend!” screamed the mason. “I will kill you for your lies!”

  The older brother began to turn blue in the face.

  “Enough,” yelled Trencavel.

  Pons opened the door and the two guards from the hall came into the cell. Along with the other guards, they managed to subdue the mason with kicks to his kidneys and groin. He finally sat moaning against the wall and the guards placed shackles on his legs and wrists.

  “It is true,” said the younger brother, in a quiet, calm voice.

  Trencavel looked up at this boy, who had not yet said a word.

  “What is true?” asked Pons.

  “It is true what the mason said,” said the younger brother.

  The older brother leaped to his brother's side.

  “He is mad from heat and thirst,” said the older brother, “Do not listen to him.”

  “Guards, restrain that man,” said Trencavel. “I want to hear what this younger brother has to say.”

  The guards led the older brother to the wall and began to shackle his wrists as well, as he begged his younger brother to be quiet.

  “Continue,” said Trencavel, thinking that he might actually hear the truth in this room, for a change.

  “I have betrayed all my beliefs in my God,” said the younger brother, in a calm voice. “I can no longer live as a liar and so I must tell the truth. My name is Guillaume and my brother is Bernard. We are Cistercian monks and have been sent here by Abbot Arnald to further the cause of our most holy father in heaven. We are here to save you from the heresy that will make you burn for all eternity and we only meant for good to come from our actions. But I am ashamed that I did not trust to preaching and openness to convert the wicked and save souls. For surely, when those who have been blinded by the ways of the devil hear the most blessed words of our lord Jesus Christ, they will come back to the fold. There is no need for subterfuge or force, the most blessed words of our father will suffice. I beg the forgiveness of the mason and all whom we have deceived, but mostly I beg the forgiveness of my Lord Jesus Christ for not trusting the power of his truth.”

  Trencavel watched in astonishment as the brother called Guillaume dropped to his knees and began to pray. The older brother called Bernard sat with his head in his hands, softly moaning. And the mason glared at both with hatred in his eyes.

  So, it was the Abbot, after all, thought Trencavel. The bastard. This was good information, but how to use it? And how to use the men who sat in front of him? Trencavel needed time to think.

  “Pons,” said Trenc
avel to his servant. “Keep these men detained, for I do not want them executed yet. There is more I may need to learn from them.”

  Trencavel stood to leave the room.

  “My Lord,” said the mason. “You have heard this man. I am innocent. Will you order me freed?”

  “Just because they are guilty does not mean you are innocent,” said Trencavel. Trencavel turned to Pons. “Make sure the mason is held with the others, but keep him shackled. I don't want him killing these other priestly spies before I am ready to do it myself.”

  Constance

  Wednesday, August 12, evening

  Constance cursed herself for her foolishness. Why had she ever left the side of Azalais and the comfort of the home for good women? Constance wanted to return with all her soul, but knew she must stay here and care for these people until this was over, one way or the other. Constance had watched as the little boy and Beatritz' mother and sister had all succumbed, so quickly in the hours after the baby’s death. Beatritz and Constance were the only ones unaffected by the flux. Perhaps Beatritz' madness protected her, for she had descended into an even deeper lunacy, leaving Constance to care for the old man and the little girl.

  Constance despaired. She had no herbs or clean clothes and very little water. How could one heal the sick in such a situation? Constance knew she had to search for stores one more time in this house. There had to be something. She turned to Beatritz, who sat on the floor, counting the beads on her rosary and softly moaning. Constance put her arms on the shoulders of the shaking woman.