Almodis (6 page)

For our feast before I leave home for my marriage, I am seated next to Hugh and sharing his trencher. He helps me politely to food. My father and then my brother are seated to Hugh’s right. My other brother is away from home, training at the Court of Périgord. My mother is sitting on my other side. Raingarde has been veiled and banished to the children’s table lower down the hall, out of sight. The servants have cleared away the first courses of the meal and now they are parading in with the roasted hare and lamb.

‘Well, here you are my child, the Peaceweaver,’ says father, looking with satisfaction at the bowls of pink and black sauce in front of him. ‘As you know, Lord Hugh, there have been many years of fighting between our three families: Aquitaine, La Marche and Lusignan. First one of us encroached on another’s territory or took another’s castle or killed a kinsman and then there were the needful revenges. Those arguments went on for two generations, back and forth, but now this joining of you and my daughter will put an end to it.’

I have grown familiar with my father’s gesture of leaning back to savour his wine, and his stories of old times. It is expected at a wedding feast, to tell something of the stories of our kin.

‘Your ancestors, Lord Hugh, and mine, were bodyguards to King Charlemagne himself,’ father says, ‘and we hold our lands proudly, independently. Since Charlemagne, there has been no central power and each man has put his trust in his own sword.’

My father is tempering his language for Hugh’s sake.
Usually
he is forcefully abusive about his neighbours but now he is choosing his words carefully in order not to re-open old wounds and revive old arguments. Eye for eye, kin for kin vendettas have been the way for decades between our three families. Peace was ever precarious.

‘My father invaded Aquitaine, intending to dispossess Duke Guillaume V of Aquitaine, old Guillaume the Great, but my father took an arrow after the battle of Gencais and died of his wound at Charroux. The troops captured his brother, Gausbert, and cruelly blinded him for good measure. My mother, Adalmode, held out against the duke for weeks right here in the castle of Roccamolten but when he finally took the fortress she was forced to marry him and abandon me here under the guardianship of my uncle Boson. I was a mere babe at the time.’

I smile at that. It is hard to imagine my burly, battle-scarred father as a baby. He wipes his greasy fingers on the tablecloth and continues his story. ‘My mother willed her inheritance of Limoges to my first-born daughter, Almodis here, in order to
protect
Limoges and La Marche from the ambitions of the Aquitaine family. And then on your side, sire, your family were great castle builders.’ Father pauses politely to let Hugh take up the story.

‘Yes, my great-grandfather, Hugh II, built the castle of Lusignan which is the largest in all Aquitaine, Lady,’ Hugh says addressing me. I nod encouragingly but he says no more.

‘According to some doctors,’ Audebert interrupts, yelling a little too loudly down the table and holding up his brimming beaker, ‘wine will give you good blood, good colour, strengthen your bodily virtues and make you happy, good-natured and
well-spoken
.’ He raises his cup to Hugh who nods politely but makes no rejoinder to Audebert’s humour. Hugh is drinking slowly,
taking
small mouthfuls and, unlike Father and Audebert, he is
mixing
water with his wine. It is a very good wine from Burgundy so it can’t be the taste that is causing him to be so moderate. Perhaps he is being careful in potentially antagonistic company.

‘Your father, Hugh the Brown, now he fought hard for his rights against both Aquitaine and myself.’ Father pauses again to see if Hugh wants to give his own account of his notoriously
bellicose and land-hungry father but he still says nothing so father goes on. ‘He fought for many years with me and had many arguments and resentments with Aquitaine and others too.’

‘Yes,’ says Hugh, ‘but these arguments seem most complex and difficult to unravel, with Fulk Nerra, Count of Anjou, the Vicomtes of Limoges and Geoffrey of Thouars also involved.’

‘Oh they were complex alright,’ yells father, laughing down the table in the direction of Audebert. I shift in my seat, hoping that father will not get carried away with his stories of old battles and say something to offend Hugh.

‘Your father claimed the lands of Thouars as his but Guillaume of Aquitaine, that wily old bastard, he thwarted your father at every turn,’ father says.

‘So I understand,’ says Hugh. ‘My father used to tell me how the Duke of Aquitaine said to him, “If all the world were mine I would not give you what I could lift with my finger”’.

‘Your father threw Thouars’ men from the keep in one of the battles,’ father says, ‘and so Geoffrey of Thouars burned your father’s fortress at Mouzeil, captured his horsemen and cut off their hands.’

A pained expression creases Hugh’s forehead, but he still seems uninterested in giving his own version of his father’s exploits.

‘Then your father was trying to lay claim to Vivonne and to Civray, which were mine, of course,’ father continues. ‘Guillaume forced your father against his will to give me allegiance. The duke said to your father, “You are so dependent on me that if I told you to make a peasant your lord, you ought to have done it”. That’s when Duke Guillaume required four hostages of me as surety for my good behaviour. So I sent my little Almodis here and three others. He demanded her specifically of course because of her inheritance. Your father was incensed when I regained Civray and he demanded my hostages from Guillaume in recompense. Thankfully the old duke did not hand her over.’ He caresses my hand.

‘So how did the betrothal come about?’ asks Audebert politely. We all know the answer, but this telling of the story at the
wedding
feast is also expected.

‘Guillaume insisted on a truce between us at the court
assembly
at Blaye. I got word of this truce rather late,’ father says, somewhat fudging the facts. ‘I was besieging your mother, I’m afraid Hugh, in your family’s fortress at Confolens, so Guillaume insisted then that my daughter Almodis, should be betrothed to you, to make the peace. I was obliged to leave Almodis
continuing
as a hostage at the Aquitaine Court after the betrothal, as a surety that I would hold to my promises.’

‘Peace is what we should all wish for,’ says Hugh, finally
speaking
out. ‘I have subscribed my name to
Le Trêve de Dieu
– the Truce of God. There has been too much fighting and bloodshed.’

‘Aye, aye,’ says my father, sitting there with his face a patchwork of livid battle scars. He and Audebert exchange glances.

‘What is the Truce of God?’ I ask.

‘It is the initiative of Bishop Clermont Etienne and Bishop Bégon. It imposes constraints on the private wars between lords, on those
bellatores
whose way of life is war,’ Hugh tells me. ‘The Pope has blessed the truce against these bad customs.’

I regard my husband-to-be. He looks like a warrior and yet he is none. He looks like a strong man and yet he talks like a monk. Peace is good but not if there is reason against it. I would not sign such a pact. There are those who would sign it in hypocrisy, and take advantage of the false security it promised to others.

‘It’s true enough that we have seen plenty of battle with foreign raiders, without continually stoking the battle between ourselves as well,’ says Audebert and Hugh nods his head in agreement.

In the decades before my birth France and Occitania suffered continual and brutal invasions from Muslims in the South, from Hungarian Magyars in the East, and from Viking attacks on
settlements
on the coasts and up rivers. Intensive castle building and fortification of towns and villages has been the result.

‘The country bristles with walls and palisades that are the
visible
symbol of our great anguish,’ I say.

‘Yes,’ says father. ‘The times of order and security that we knew under the Romans and then under Charlemagne are long gone.’

‘But they will come again with the Truce of God,’ says Hugh.

‘Amen to that,’ says my mother.

Father, Audebert and I hold our tongues and avoid looking at
each other. The La Marche family has not succeeded for so long in holding the embattled frontier by succumbing to such feeble wishful thinking. I take a spoonful of quivering custard tart. ‘The dariole is very good,’ I tell Hugh.

‘What of the Capetians, Lusignan?’ Father asks.

‘They seem to have no ambitions to the South and confine themselves to the northern country.’

Henri, the Capetian king rules France, north of the Loire. In the South, in Occitania and Catalonia, we have no king. Instead we have the independent dukes and counts: Gascogne, Provence, Auvergne, Aquitaine, La Marche, Toulouse, Barcelona and
Carcassonne
amongst them.

‘My father met Hugh Capet and his son, Robert,’ father announces and Hugh turns to him with interest.

‘They expected him to bow down to them: Audebert, Count of La Marche!’ Father guffaws. ‘They were mightily surprised when he just said to them, “And who made you kings?”’ Father,
Audebert
and I laugh heartily at our ancestor’s famous quip. ‘Who made you kings?’ Father repeats, louder.

Hugh is not laughing. ‘But might not a unification of north and south under the Capetian king bring us peace,’ he says, ‘and put an end to this constant rivalry between the southern lords?’

Father stops laughing.

‘Unification!’ splutters Audebert, too infuriated to be polite. ‘Don’t be stupid, man. The North is another country with its own tongue and culture. There is no possibility of unification. That would only be the death and the end of us: the South, Langue d’Oc, Occitania! When the Moors captured Barcelona, Hugh Capet showed his colours and refused to give the city any
assistance
. The counts of Barcelona and Auvergne have refused to acknowledge the authority of the Capetians and rightly so.’

Hugh is silent again, and mother skilfully turns the talk towards less controversial topics. The rest of the feast passes in friendly but dull talk of the foundation of new abbeys and monasteries in the region. Hugh is more animated on this topic. What need of a peaceweaver if my husband is already such a man of peace?

I am stepping into the Abbey of Saint Martial in Limoges and a sudden silence descends on the crowd of large men clad in dark leather that I see ahead of me, looking incongruous against the loops of fragile May flowers adorning the church. My usual
confidence
deserts me. I feel tiny in this soaring stone vault. I imagine that I am sitting on one of the huge beams far overhead looking down on my miniscule, distant self, weighed down in this heavy wedding dress, stared at by strangers.

If I had to speak right now nothing would emerge from my mouth. I try to swallow down the gag that seems to be filling my throat. Goosebumps rise on my arms and legs as I contemplate the necessity of walking alone up this long aisle to be wed. I scan the faces of these men looking for the one I know: my brother, Audebert.

‘Ah, and here is the bride,’ my brother’s voice identifies his position.

I swallow down the fear in my throat and look in his direction. Eudes, the new Duke of Aquitaine, stands next to Audebert
smiling
at me. Both my father and my uncle Guillaume died a few months ago so that everything familiar is now strange. I feel angry with myself for this sudden and ridiculous timidity. Why should I, Almodis of La Marche, feel timid and small. What can I be afraid of? When I spoke of my coming marriage at home, when my father was still alive, it seemed like a good game and I was in control of it but now it is a concrete reality. I must have this man,
Hugh, in my bed, in my body. I will have to render my marriage debt to him and I will have to give birth to his children. I know that in time I will make a fine new game of all this too but for now I am miserable at the loss of my mountain home and, above all, the loss of my sister, like a limb hacked off, a raw absence at my side.

Audebert and Eudes, these young untried men are the rulers now. I know that my marriage will make important bonds in this new regime between La Marche, Aquitaine and Lusignan. I know that by marrying this man, Hugh, I will seem to please them all but I will please myself. I will make my family safe in La Marche. How far away home is. How strange and cold is this vast church. I see boys swinging censors on long chains. I hear the burr of a bird’s wings high up in the roof.

I find a way to force myself forward. I focus on Eudes, holding his gaze, lift my stiff skirts with one hand and walk straight ahead to stand in front of him, not thinking about or looking at the
others
. I know that if I glance to either side or do anything other than fixate on the duke I will turn and bolt back out of the door behind me, that I will run to the stables, leap onto my horse and ride out of this place at a gallop. I am wondering if I can do it. Could I? I watch my feet in their white slippers stepping on the jewels of red-and blue-coloured light that play on the floor as the sun filters through the stained glass windows. I am arrived already in front of Eudes. I feel a smile curving my lips that only seconds before had trembled as I crossed the threshold. ‘My Lord Eudes,’ I say, standing before him, lowering my eyes demurely.

‘Ah, lovely cousin, Almodis,’ he takes my hand and strokes it as if he might be my new husband instead. Then I feel him place my hand into another hand, a large, cold hand and the panic begins to rise again. I am suddenly conscious that I have not looked at Lusignan at all yet.

I look up at Eudes, then at Audebert, who is smiling
encouragement
to me. Our two tow heads stand out in a sea of dark brown hair and beards. I try to keep the panic out of my eyes. I am glad of the thick white veil covering my face and hair. I find myself rolling my lips inwards on themselves and stop and pout them out again. I swivel my neck to look straight at him. I am
not afraid. I am not. Hugh is looking directly at me through my veil. I register the startling solid black of his eyes. I look at my hand in his. I am pleased to find there is no trembling in my loyal hand. I cannot say the same for my knees but nobody can see them.

I will not be afraid of him, not I, but I do wish that my sister were here. My brother has judged that Raingarde must stay at home with my mother who is unwell. Raingarde will be travelling soon to her own marriage, affording Audebert another
opportunity
to strengthen his alliances as the new Count of La Marche. My mother told Audebert that he must avoid reminding Hugh of his superstitions about two girls who look the same, who do everything together – except this. Raingarde! I say in my mind, and fear that I might have said it aloud.

The bishop blesses us and begins the words of the marriage ceremony. I can’t focus on the words that the bishop and then the man holding my hand are starting to say because I am still trying to decide whether or not to flee. Would I trip in this enormous gold and white dress with its stiff layers of dense embroidery? Could I extract my hand quickly enough to take them by surprise? Will they catch me before I reach the door, or before the stable, before I am struggling to rise into the saddle? Would it be best to shrug off the dress at the door and make my escape in my linen? Images of escape and possible captures flash in my mind and I see nothing with my eyes. The sound of the bishop speaking my name recalls me to the scene in front of me.

‘Almodis of La Marche, do you consent to marry Hugh, Lord of Lusignan?’

A silence descends on the abbey. I smell damp. I hear a chink of metal on metal as someone shifts their position. I notice that the speaking has stopped and that the duke and Lusignan are looking at me expectantly. My brother’s boot nudges the tip of my slipper quite hard.

‘Oh, I do,’ I say. Why did I say that! Tears of frustration and confusion spill off the edge of one of my eyelids and trickle down my cheek. Just a few. They reach the bottom of my chin and hang there, getting unpleasantly cold. I feel a strong need to sniff but I know that my brother would be mortified if I did such a thing in
the middle of my wedding in front of all these nobles and rivals. The bishop is sprinkling Hugh and myself with holy water.

The question of my bolting is still hovering in my head, like a loose thread, a name I can’t quite remember that is on the tip of my tongue and then, so quickly, the ceremony is over and Hugh lifts up my veil. His big hand holds my wet chin and tilts my face up towards him and he kisses me. He moves his mouth and face away from mine and I find myself smiling at him. His mouth is soft and red in his dark beard. I lift my eyebrows and open my mouth a little in surprise to find myself married.