The Song of the Troubadour

by Stephanie Cook

  “Beatritz, listen to me,” said Constance. “I must go search for food and water. We have nothing left. You have to watch the others. Your father and your little girl need you. Beatritz, do you hear me?”

  The woman turned her lifeless gaze towards Constance, but she did not respond.

  Constance turned abruptly and went over to the old man. In the short time Constance had stayed in his home she had already seen what a good man he was, kind and just. She leaned over and spoke into his ear.

  “I have to go search for more supplies,” she said. “I will not be long. If the little girl wakes, tell her where I have gone.”

  The old man nodded his head and clutched Constance's hand tightly, once, before letting go.

  Constance walked to the head of the stairs and headed down. She covered her face with a rag as she descended into the kitchen. It was eerily empty, the door to the street bolted securely. Constance dared not head to the streets, filled with desperate, mad refugees. She thought to hunt again for food in the garden, but did not have the courage to go out into the small space where they had left the dead. The heat was too strong and the stench of decay permeated the kitchen. She headed instead for the cellar. There were no candles in the kitchen, so Constance left the cellar door wide open and descended slowly. The blessed coolness enveloped her as she went down, her hand holding onto the floor of the kitchen and moving delicately forward until she could grasp hold of the post rising from the bottom of the stairs.

  When she got to the last step, Constance sat for a moment to give her eyes time to adjust to the darkness. It was the first rest she had had in days. She placed her hands in the small of her back and stretched like a cat, hearing the small bones in her back crack into place. Unbidden, Guillaume's face popped into her mind. She could almost see him in the darkness. But, no, it was just an old tunic hung in the opposite corner of the cellar.

  Besides, why did she want to see him again? Constance chided herself. He had lied to her and used them all to destroy everything she believed in. A monk! One who lived off the backs of the poor as drunken gluttons laying up treasures of gold on earth. And she thought him a poor boy who had lost everything at Béziers! He was at Béziers, for sure, but on the side of the wicked Abbot and his Crusaders, watching as the city burned and all the hapless souls within were massacred! Azalais had been right. Somehow she had known that Guillaume with his silky ways and his big eyes was not to be trusted. Oh why, oh why had she not listened to Azalais? Her stupid pride had been surely punished this time. For hadn't she allowed herself to imagine even in her deepest daydreams that Guillaume was her knight errant and she a fair lady, never free to receive his love in an earthly way, but desperate to hear his words of devotion and praise. For even Constance, raised in a house of good women, knew the stories and the songs of courtly love. From time to time old troubadour friends of Azalais would pass by the house and stay for a few days, singing in thanks for their bread. Azalais would forbid any song that might incite an earthly passion, but some nights her guard would be lessened. The other good women could see the pleasure on her face as she heard the long notes of the viol or the harp and she would forget to stop the performer as they sang an old song of sweet love, so pure and impossible that it would leave them crying.

  Constance felt her own tears hit the hands she had crossed on her lap and suddenly jumped up. She had a task to complete and people to care for. She pinched herself. She had better to remember that all those true lovers of song were also deceivers, just as was Guillaume. She would not be a fool again.

  Constance felt her way around the cellar in the dim light. There were still some old roots and vegetables that they could eat raw, though almost everything else in the cellar needed to be cooked with water. She gathered what she could find into an old basket at the foot of the stairs. There must be more wine in this cellar, for surely respectable burghers such as this family would have stored many barrels. Constance headed further into the darkness until she finally found what she was looking for. She opened the spigot and felt the cool wetness on her fingers. Constance immediately lay down and placed her mouth under the spigot drinking and choking as the cool wine spilled into her mouth. Constance drank until she could drink no more and then sat up, feeling very light-headed and strange. She dragged a bucket over to the spigot and filled it up, before carefully turning off the spigot, making sure not even a drop escaped. Constance dragged the bucket and her basket of vegetables over to the stairs and began hauling them up, trying to ignore the giddiness in her head as she slowly made her way up the stairs, some of the wine sloshing out of the top of the bucket with each step.

  Constance's back ached, but she finally made it to the top of the stairs. She closed the cellar door to keep it cool and took a deep breath before beginning her next climb. Suddenly, she heard a crash of timbers from next door. The Crusaders had started the bombardment again. She heard the little girl Aude shrieking and quickly made her way up the stairs.

  The old man had managed to get out of his bed and was trying to comfort his little granddaughter. Beatritz sat by the window, still moaning. When she saw Constance, she suddenly jumped up and began shrieking.

  “Heretic!” she screamed. “Now I recognize you, you fool blasphemer! You are one of the girls in the house of heretic women. I knew I had seen your face before. You are no refugee. It was you who brought this misery upon my family! Murderer!”

  Beatritz jumped forward and grabbed Constance by her shoulders, shaking her so that Constance dropped the wine. It pooled out in blot of red, spreading quickly over the floor and dripping down the stairs.

  “See, how the blood of Christ was spilled and yet you mock him! This is all your fault!” shrieked Beatritz. “And you, you slut, you tried to corrupt one of our Lord's own holy priests. Don't deny it. I saw the way you looked at him, you little hussy! You wanted to ensnare in him your heretic rites! How come you are not sick when so many who are true Christians have died? It is because you are in league with Satan!”

  Beatritz kept pushing Constance closer to the top of the stairs. Constance tried to push against her, but lost her footing in the spilled wine and started to lose her balance. Suddenly, Constance felt the pressure release on her arms and watched as Beatritz slowly dropped to the ground. Her father stood behind her, clasping a wine bottle in his hands.

  “She will be fine, but this should keep her from waking for a few hours,” said the old man. “Hopefully, she will have calmed down by then.”

  Constance knelt to touch Beatritz' face. She was still breathing deeply and did not appear to be hurt. Constance dragged her up to the nearest bed and then helped the old man back to his bed. His face had turned deathly pale. Constance ran back to the cellar for more wine and gave some to him. He fell into a deep sleep as did the little girl after Constance gave her wine and assured her that her mother would be fine.

  Constance listened to the crash of the stones in the buildings around her and heard chanting from the monks across the river again. She looked at the three sleeping forms surrounding her in the stifling heat and poured herself another mug of the wine. She sipped it slowly.

  DAY 13 OF THE SIEGE OF CARCASSONNE

  Thursday, August 13, 1209

  Bernard

  Thursday, August 13, morning

  As I suffered, I tried to remember the trials of all the apostles and all the saints and of our Lord Jesus Christ himself. I knew that I would be blessed with eternal life and that I should be joyous that I was given this chalice to bear, but my being was consumed not with forgiveness for those who had wronged me, but with hate for my foolish, proud brother who thought himself higher even than the Abbot himself.

  Guillaume groveled at the feet of the mason, who spat on him and tried to kick him with his shackled feet and beat him with his shackled arms. Imagine that Guillaume, who was only doing the bidding of God's representatives here on earth, should want to beg forgiveness of that foul blasphemous sinner! It was as if the last days are come
and the world was turned upside down and Satan ruled here on earth.

  At least we were no longer in the cell with all the other prisoners. The three of us were in a tiny cell deep in the earth, where the walls sweated moisture. This was fortunate because I feared that the Viscount and his guards had forgotten us. I tried to quench my thirst by licking the walls, and blessed the most Holy Lord for his infinite mercy in providing for his faithful servant, as the cool wetness passed my lips. The water tasted of the earth and plants, but it was wet and that was all that mattered.

  We had been alone for what seemed like days and I did not know what to fear more - the return of the guards to torture us or have us drawn and quartered or to die here, forgotten for however long it took to die. I turned back again to the great fear I harbored for my soul, for I did not want to go to my death without confession. My sins had been legion, though they had all been for the greater good of these ungrateful people. How horrid if I would have to endure the pains of purgatory when all I wanted to do was save those who had in danger of hell fire. Guillaume would have to be called. I was not likely to see another priest before my death, which could come at any time. I looked at my brother, who sat next to the mason, his head bent in prayer.

  “Guillaume,” I whispered, for I did not want to wake the mason. He had finally fallen into a deep slumber, breathing raggedly through his broken nose. I did not want him to hear my confession.

  “Guillaume,” I said, a bit louder.

  Guillaume moved his head and looked at me.

  “What do you want, brother?” he asked.

  “Guillaume, we must prepare for our deaths,” I said.

  “That is what I am doing,” said Guillaume. “I am trying to make my peace with God.”

  “No, we must confess each other,” I said. “Quickly, before the guards return.”

  “I have already confessed my sins,” said Guillaume. “I am trying to do penance and ask forgiveness of those I have grievously wounded.”

  “But, you did not confess in the formal manner of the sacrament,” I said. “We need to do this so we do not suffer the fires of purgatory.”

  “I am sure that is the least of what I will suffer, my brother,” said Guillaume.

  “If you do not care for your own soul, at least think of mine, brother,” I said. “Please hear my confession.”

  “Very well,” said Guillaume.

  I crossed myself and kneeled in front of Guillaume. I was beginning to mistrust his state of grace, but blessedly the Lord allows even those priests who have sinned to perform the sacraments. His power is so great that their sins mean nothing and his mercy is all.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” I began. “It is one month since my last Confession. I accuse myself of the following sins. I have lied and deceived, but only for your greater power.”

  “And what else?” said Guillaume.

  “And I have given in to the sin of gluttony. Though I have eaten nothing for days, I can think only of banqueting halls and rich wines, when I should be thinking only of your glory and the rewards of heaven.”

  “And what else?” said Guillaume.

  I searched my soul, for surely I wanted to be clean of all sin before my execution.

  “Lust,” I said quietly. “I have lusted in my heart after that foul heretic girl. She is Satan's seducer, a siren to lure men to their destruction, Eve's foul, diseased daughter. But, I was too weak to withstand her wiles and have corrupted the temple of my mind with wretched desire.”

  I felt great shame, but also anger that this witch had robbed me of my dignity. Guillaume merely smiled and I wanted to hit him.

  “And I have felt anger towards my brother for his actions,” I said.

  “And is that all?” asked Guillaume.

  “That is all,” I said. “For these and all the sins of my past life, I ask pardon of God, penance, and absolution from you, Father.”

  Guillaume smiled.

  “Oh brother, I think you forget your must constant sin of all,” he said.

  “I have done nothing else,” I choked. “And all I did was for the glory of our Lord, himself.”

  “For do you not remember your Proverbs: Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall,” asked Guillaume.

  I wanted to smack Guillaume for his insolence, but remembered that sometimes wisdom can come from the mouths of fools.

  “If I have been guilty of the vice of pride, it is only because I remember what I represent- our most holy order of Cistercians, our lord Abbot, and our Lord's representative on earth, Pope Innocent,” I said.

  “After what I have seen on this Crusade,” said Guillaume. “I wonder truly who is innocent.”

  I gasped. Guillaume had gone too far, but I needed his absolution.

  “Give me my penance and absolve me, father,” I said. “For I cannot rest and I am weary.”

  “Very well,” said Guillaume. “You have only one penance. You must ask and receive the forgiveness of the mason before I give you final absolution.”

  I moaned and leaned back against the cell wall. I would spend an eternity in Purgatory before I asked the forgiveness of that foul fiend of Satan. Guillaume had gone mad and I could do nothing to save him. I felt engulfed by despair, but tried to remember the words of the apostle, “We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.”

  I said to myself the comforting words of the psalms: “Deliver me from my enemies, O God; protect me from those who rise up against me. Deliver me from evildoers and save me from bloodthirsty men.”

  Gauda

  Thursday, August 13, night

  I sat by the bed of Agnes, softly playing for her on my harp. She looked as if she were gazing out the window to the far hills, though her small window was dark, and she could only see the blackness of the night. I shifted and felt the small vial of poison dig into my hip and knew that my time was rapidly running out. I had been spared my task last night for Trencavel had never called for me, either too filled with grief over Agnes' illness or too consumed with the details of the siege to waste time with me. All I knew was that my final trial had been put off for at least another night. Perhaps I would be spared it yet again tonight.

  A shadow crossed the threshold of Agnes' room and I did not need to look up to recognize the gait of the servant always sent for me by Trencavel. I stopped playing and looked up.

  “The Viscount calls for you to play for him,” said the servant.

  “Please tell the Viscount I will be there as soon as I have finished caring for his wife,” I said.

  The servant looked shocked, but dared not argue with me. He quietly left the room.

  Agnes woke up from her reverie and looked at me with a sad smile.

  “I forgive you, cousin,” she said.

  Agnes grasped for my hand and I held it tight. Finally she pressed my hand one last time and let go.

  “You must not keep him waiting,” Agnes said. I could see the tears forming at the corners of her eyes and as she turned her head away I knew that she loved him as much as he loved her. Probably the only pair of true lovers actually married in all Christendom and even they could not be together. Fate is cruel. I knew that better than anyone.

  I stood up with my harp in one hand and walked slowly to the door. I turned one last time, but Agnes was facing away from me. I walked into the hall and down the corridor. As I did I felt the all too familiar sensation of someone silently walking along behind me. This time I did not even start, for I had been expecting him for so many hours. I stopped, still facing ahead though I longed to turn and face my tormenter.

  “You know what to do,” said the voice. “I will be waiting for you afterwards.”

  He silently glided away and I continued on my way to the Viscount's chambers. I entered and saw Trencavel sprawled on his chair, his wine goblet in his bejeweled hand. Despite the heat of the night, some breezes seemed to
enter the room from the high, small windows.

  “How is she?” he asked.

  “As well as can be expected,” I said. “She regrets very much all that has happened.”

  “Oh, Gauda, play for me,” he said. “They loved her all - every troubadour that came to this castle would fall for her and I loved to watch them as they tried every subterfuge, every form of flattery, but nothing ever worked. I knew that she would never love any one but I. We were the happiest of lovers in all the land. Who would have ever thought our parents could have chosen so well? But it must have been something else - fate, divine intervention. But we were too happy and proud and scoffed at all the poor fools who did not have our good fortune. Beautiful young ladies married to ogres three times their age trying to steal moments with their young lovers. We had to deal with none of that. We must have tempted the fates with our joy. But the saddest is that I love her even more now that I can not have her, ever again.”

  “Oh Gauda, I want to remember,” said Trencavel. “Play for me all the songs that have been written for her, of her beauty, her youth, her nobility, her gentleness.”

  And I knew them all, for Agnes had made sure that I learned of every canso ever written for her, every stanza that glorified her beauty and her grace. I was forced to sing them night after night, while Agnes corrected my words in one line or my melody in another in her flat nasal voice that could not hold a tune and would make even the deaf cringe. To be honest, the vast majority of these chansons were dribble. Mediocre poetry set to mediocre melodies by itinerant troubadours who never made a name for themselves and rightly so. But, never had Trencavel asked me to play these horrid pieces for him when I played for him alone. For Trencavel knew music and poetry and had a preference only for the most refined of troubadours - Jaufre Rudel, Bernart de Ventadorn, and Raimon de Miraval.

  And Trencavel had asked me to play my own songs, the cansos I had composed over the years, the tensos I used to sing with Raimon de Miraval. If he had enough to drink, he would even take the part of the male troubadour, in his untrained but solid voice, and we would sing into late in the night. For two years I had shared his bed and shared my music with him, songs I had played for no one else, songs I thought he would understand. Even I was no fool as to think our physical couplings meant anything more to him than a release, but still my heart had fallen for him, for his youth and beauty and strength. And for the way he looked at me and listened when I played my harp and sang to him. More fool I to think it had only been lust on my part. I couldn’t even fool myself anymore.