Almodis (8 page)

‘It’s important,’ I tell them (echoing my mother again), ‘to cook for the eyes as much as for the palate.’ Then I tell them what I want for the menu today, to please my husband, to show him what an excellent wife he has.

‘The first course will consist of the Grenache wine from
Banyuls
and green apples to open the stomach. The second course will be pumpkin soup, sautéed mushrooms with spices and chicken with lemon. The third course will be spit-roasted hare with black pepper sauce and parsley-studded lamb with pink garlic sauce. The fourth course – the
entremets
– will be Italian Blancmange from Foreign Parts, cheese fritters and Torta Bolognese. For
desserte
we will have whole pear pie and dariole.’

‘What is dariole?’ asks Mabila, one of the cooks.

‘It’s a custard tart. Watch how Bernadette makes it and then
you will know to instruct your assistants.’ Both Mabila and Bernadette are pleased at the importance I give them.

‘And what is Italian Blancmange from Foreign Parts?’ Mabila asks, her front teeth visible in bewilderment on her bottom lip. Everybody laughs at the funny name.

‘It’s delicious,’ I tell her. ‘We’ll make it from shredded chicken, rice and goat’s milk, topped with sugar and pork fat.’

‘You can tell when it’s cooked right because it quivers like a junket,’ Bernadette says and wobbles comically to underline her point.

We all laugh at her and I continue with my menu. ‘For the
issue de table
we will have Hypocras and marzipan tart and then, Maurice,’ I tell the Seneschal, who looks up, keenly, ‘lay out some cardamon and anise seeds for the
boute-hors
to close the stomach and cleanse the breath.’

‘Yes, Lady,’ Maurice says, pleased with his task and that I have already learnt his name. Armed with their instructions, the
servants
scatter each to their jobs and each with their young helpers. The
potier
and his assistant are fussing with the pots and wooden spoons. Cauldrons, crocks, frying basins and spits are readied. Terrines are set out so that later they can be placed to cook in the embers. The sauce cook is laying out the
étamines
, the bags that he strains the sauces through, and for making almond milk. The
broyeur
is mashing and bruising parsley with her mortar and pestle. The
hateur
is skinning hares and preparing to roast them on the spit and her assistant begins to pluck and bone a chicken that will be set to soak in hot water. Delicious smells and colours are already beginning to assemble in the busy kitchen as Maurice grinds the spices: cinnamon, ginger and galangal.

‘Bernadette,’ I say, ‘go and change the rushes in the Great Hall. Take some basil.’ I load each herb into her basket as I speak. ‘Balm, costmary, cowslip, sweet fennel, hyssop, lavender,
pennyroyal
and tansy. See if you can improve on the old beer, grease, bones, spit and cat shit that I can smell and see poking through at the moment. And when you are done with that ask some of the men to help you lay out the tables and then you can lay the cloths on them.’

‘Yes my Lady.’

‘There’s more when you’ve finished that, Bernadette,’ I say, ‘if you can remember it all.’

Audearde has kept a austere household. She did not allow
jongleurs
and musicians. I am determined to rectify this by sending out an invitation to performers. Audearde believes that we are close to the end of time. Over dinner she talks of the apocalypse brought on by everybody’s wickedness. ‘The human race,’ she says, quoting the Cluniac monk, Ralph Glaber, ‘is like a dog that returns to its own vomit.’ She says there are signs of The End all around us in plagues, eclipses, earthquakes and battles. I am disgusted with her ideas and the sway they hold over my poor husband. I believe in the future and in living life. You don’t wait for destiny to happen to you, you make it and you have to create your own life. I mean to do that for myself and for my Lord. I believe that our lives are narratives we spin ourselves, and then they collide with accidents and the narratives of others and we navigate those collisions. I mean to be a new broom in this cold castle. But then there is Hugh. How am I to manage his apparent repugnance for me? I have no armoury or strategies for this. And how to manage the bitterness of my own disappointment?

Returning to the hall from the kitchen, I notice the arched opening to the stairway that goes up to the battlements and feel an irresistible urge to run up there. The staircase winds round and round, making me giddy as I emerge abruptly into dazzlingly sunshine. I run to the outer wall and lean on it, regaining my
balance
, looking at the distant countryside, breathing the air through my mouth in great fresh gulps. I feel as if I have been
suffocating
the last few weeks. Lusignan Castle is huge, light and airy. I have three generous adjoining chambers to myself as well as the bedroom that in theory I share with Hugh although he has not come there since our wedding night two weeks ago. It is not the castle that is stifling me or my daily routines of instructing servants, giving alms, receiving guests. It is the watchful eyes of Audearde and Rorgon. I suspect that some of the servants report my every move to them. I instructed Bernadette to check all the walls and floors and ceilings of my chambers for squints and
eye-holes
and we have plugged up any suspicious gaps and whorls in the wood. The pressure of maintaining the charade of my
marriage distresses me. What should I do? Should I ride out, leave, go home to my brother? But I would have to prove that the failure of the marriage is Hugh’s fault if I do that and I would become a repudiated wife, a woman with no power at all.

I pace around the battlements, looking out over the territory that I now rule with my husband. The Lusignan lands extend for fifteen miles in every direction. The castle stands on the western bank of the River Vonne. It is a brilliantly clear day and to the north I see the road to Poitiers disappearing into dense forest. If I travelled along that road for ten miles I would reach the
formidable
castle of Montreuil-Bonnin, my childhood home, where Eudes now rules as Count of Poitou and Duke of Aquitaine. To the north-west are the mountains of La Gâtine and nestling at their far edge I can just make out the town and abbey of St-Maixent. Looking south, there are fertile fields and meadows. Beyond them, where I cannot see, is La Marche, and far further to the south I imagine Raingarde standing on the battlements of Carcassonne, looking north to me. Raingarde will be feeling my grief. She will know. Keep sending me your news, Raingarde, I think, that I might imagine another life. When I fought with Piers many years ago and hurt my knuckles so badly punching him, Raingarde told me she felt a sharp pain in her own hand. When Raingarde’s leg was scalded by hot water, far away in Aquitaine I had screamed and mystified the doctor with a pain that had no obvious cause. I long to see her, to sit on a shared bed and talk over the problems of my marriage. I gaze back to the fields that lay close to the castle. They are well ordered and I can see the peasants working there with a plough and oxen. What would it be like if I were just a peasant girl, married to a man who loves me? Perhaps not getting the things you want doesn’t matter in itself since you are irrevocably changed by the wanting of them. Self-pity serves no useful function. I will ride out, hunt, fly my falcon, visit the hamlets, distribute largesse. I will get out onto my estate and find some relief in performing my duties as chatelaine. Now that Raingarde has her own clerk to read her letters, I will write and tell her something of my unhappiness and solicit news of how she fares.

What a godforsaken place we are come to, me and my Lady. The days grow at the pace of a flea. Piers hasn’t spoken a word to me since we left Roccamolten, well since that night in the ruins in fact. Not on the journey here, not in Limoges during the wedding when I was wearing my best dress and had white flowers twisted in my black hair, and not here in this vast castle. I have no one to talk to now. I half-expected this from him but that doesn’t make it any easier on my heart. Once I got the message in Limoges that he wasn’t interested anymore I’ve put a brave face on it. I won’t let him see how much he’s hurt me.

Most of the servants here speak Langue d’Oc and treat me coldly as a newcomer. Anyway they are beneath my attention. I am the maid of the chatelaine now and far more important than they. Lord Hugh is fine-looking but a cold fish. He hasn’t spoken a single word to me and speaks few to my Lady either. ‘Perhaps he’s slow to speech and slow to anger,’ I tell her, trying to cheer her up. Lord Hugh’s clothes are black and drab, hardly different from his priest brother’s. He is praying and whispering with his mother and that brother all the time. It’s a castle full of
whispering
corners, most of it against my poor Lady I’d wager. What has she done except be beautiful as a May day and run this household with an assurance that I have to admire and so should they?

But today she got herself a new ally and she seems well pleased with that. At midday a woman arrived on horseback with an escort. I recognised that Spanish poet woman, Dia, that we met
in Toulouse. Almodis was delighted to see her and Hugh made her welcome. After Dia had taken some refreshment in the hall with them she gave us all quite a surprise and I thought that old harridan, Audearde, would die of a fit on the spot which would have been very nice for us all I’m sure.

‘You are very welcome, Dia. Is your Lord well?’ asked Almodis.

‘He is my Lady, yes. Count Ramon sends you both felicitations on your marriage and he sends me to you with a wedding gift.’

‘He is very kind,’ said Hugh.

Dia then passed to Almodis a box and the box itself was a thing of great beauty made from finely carved bone. I craned my neck over my Lady’s shoulder to see what was inside. There were two lovely palm beakers: pink with golden lines dribbled onto them. They were, as my Lady exclaimed: ‘Exquisite!’ and Hugh smiled his agreement. Nestling between them was a small scroll of
parchment
: a wedding poem by Dia perhaps? Almodis unfurled and scanned it quickly. A massive smile spread on her face at once, all the way up to her eyes and she beamed it at Dia. I hadn’t seen her smile like that since she found Lady Raingarde in Toulouse.

‘I will read what it says, Hugh,’ she told him. He had to smile back at her. She was like a young girl in her happiness, with all the heavy weight of her responsibilities lifted off her suddenly. ‘Count Ramon writes: Greetings Lord Hugh of Lusignan and Lady Almodis of La Marche. I hope that this small marriage gift will give you pleasure. The beakers are the finest Catalan glass. Lady Almodis, I venture to make you one more gift for yourself. My messenger is my gift to you. I loan her to you for as long as it should suit you both. I know that you will have much joy of her and I meanwhile, will pace my silent hall in Barcelona having to compose my own poor poetry till you should deign to give her back to me.’

Almodis and Dia both laughed at that and Hugh smiled politely. I was grinning too and immediately turned my eyes on Audearde and Rorgon who, sure enough, were looking far from pleased at being under the same roof with an Andalucian poetess! I would have kissed Ramon’s mouth myself if he’d been there just for the gift of the expressions on their faces!

‘Count Ramon belies himself,’ said Dia in her matter-of-fact way. ‘His poetry is quite good.’

‘You must take food and rest Dia, after your long journey from Barcelona,’ said Almodis. ‘Bernadette, show Mistress Dia to my rooms and find her a place to sleep and stow her belongings. Would you be kind enough to play for us at dinner tomorrow that my Lord might hear what a good gift I have in you?’

‘I would be delighted, my Lord, my Lady,’ Dia said, curtseying low. What a welcome sight she was in our frosty grey hall with her gorgeous, yellow silk dress contrasting with the darkness of her skin and hair. Round the hem of her dress ran an
embroidered
border of orange phoenixes and she was like an exotic bird herself. I held my breath for a beat wondering if Audearde would start up some objection. But Almodis had been quite clear and firm in her acceptance of the ‘gift’ and so the old battle-axe was forced to hold her bitter tongue and I felt triumphant myself as I conducted Dia upstairs.

The next day an hour before we were due to dine in the hall, we were seated in my Lady’s chambers and Dia had been telling Almodis about Barcelona and Count Ramon. ‘Ermessende and Ramon have finished building a new cathedral in Vic. The county of Barcelona is prosperous and its craftsmen are highly skilled. Ramon chaffs at the iron control that his grandmother keeps over his domain though,’ Dia told us. ‘She was the same with his father too. What rightly should have passed directly to Ramon’s father, instead his
grandfather
left in his will to Ermessende, and even when Ramon’s father came of age, she did not relinquish control to him. He was merely her puppet, doing her bidding. She never allowed him to rule fully. Ramon fears that she intends to try the same with him.’

‘I think she might find more difficulty with the grandson than with the son perhaps?’ said Almodis.

‘Yes, I think you are right Lady Almodis,’ said Dia. ‘Even though he is young, it is already clear that Ramon will be a very great ruler, but his first fight will be with his grandmother. I would like to warm up my voice and instrument before I perform before your Lord at dinner. May I sing a song for you and Bernadette?’

‘Of course,’ said Almodis, and I nodded enthusiastically although nobody needed my permission in truth.

Dia sang:

Dia paused. ‘The song does not please you Lady Almodis?’

I looked at Almodis and saw that there was indeed a look of unhappiness on her face. ‘No, no,’ she said, blushing. ‘It isn’t the song. It is excellent, but it’s too sad for my mood today. Will you play us something different?’

Dia nodded her head calmly, although I was quite put out not to know the rest of what the lady had to say to her neglectful lover. It put me in mind of Piers and me, and I thought if Dia had continued the bad lover might have got his come-uppance: died or got a pox that wilted his manhood or developed an unsightly tumour on his nose.

Dia next began to sing us a story about Melusine who was half-human and half-fay. Almodis and I smiled at each other,
settling
down to listen with fascination to this story. Melusine, Dia told us, strumming her instrument all the while, was the eldest daughter of the fairy, Pressine, and King Elinas of Albany.
Melusine
imprisoned her father on a mountain and was cursed by her mother to become a serpent from the navel down every Saturday. Almodis and I gasped.

‘Unless,’ sang Dia smiling at our reactions, ‘she could find a
husband who promised to never see her on those days. Raymond, Count of Lusignan,’ Dia nodded significantly to Almodis when she sang that part, ‘was hunting in the forest and he heard a maiden
singing
beautifully and found her sitting at a fountain. He fell in love with Melusine and she agreed to marry him on condition that he did not see her on Saturdays. She bore Raymond many children but they all had some defect. Her husband violated his oath one
Saturday
and she turned into a winged serpent fifteen feet long. She mounted the window-sill and flew out, leaving the print of her foot in the stone. She flew around the castle three times, uttering a
piercing
cry every time she passed the window of the room where she had been betrayed. She returned daily to visit her children and
supervise
their nurses. Since Raymond had broken his promise, Melusine was cursed now to stay in her serpent shape and she had to appear before the castle that bore her name for three days every time its lord changed or a man died who was descended from her line.’

We clapped enthusiastically at the end of this song.

‘Did you make this story up for Lusignan?’ asked Almodis looking a little perplexed as well she might. It was a strange and disquieting tale.

‘No Lady. It is a song well known amongst the troubadours and it is no story but truth,’ said Dia.

We both looked at her in astonishment.

‘Truth?’ echoed Almodis in disbelief. I pulled a face to show that I agreed with her.

‘Yes. I’m sure if you ask your Lord and his family they will know of it and perhaps they saw or heard Melusine when Hugh’s father died. Her footprint will be somewhere on a window-sill in this castle,’ she said, moving over to Almodis’ window to
examine
the smooth stone there.

‘You are joking with us, Dia,’ Almodis said with certainty after another pause.

‘No Lady. I assure you that Melusine is no joke. You will hear her yourself when you give your Lord an heir.’

‘If that ever happens,’ said Almodis, her face immediately falling.

I exchanged a glance with Dia. I had noticed my Lady’s
depression
on this topic before now.

‘But Lady Almodis, you have barely been married three months,’ Dia told her. ‘There is plenty of time yet before you need worry.’

‘Yes,’ said Almodis but her eyes glistened with tears. I will speak with Dia later, I thought, about my concerns for my Lady. It would be wrong for me to speak to her myself on this subject but perhaps Dia can. She is no servant and she is a woman who has seen the world. I know herbs that can help my Lady conceive. I will tell Dia. She doesn’t talk much outside of her songs, but she listens eloquently, my Lady says. Dia has songs for every
occasion
:
alba
for the dawn, sewing songs,
planhs
or laments, debates, May songs,
balada
for dancing, battle stories and, of course, love songs, especially
winileodas
– the unhappy love songs.

I was working in the hall a few days later on my sewing when I heard a great racket of horses and shouts out in the bailey.
Visitors
! And many of them by the sounds of it. I stowed my needle, picked up my skirts and ran to the door that I might take the news quickly to my Lady. There was a great melée of horses and people and two carts. I saw the arms of Aquitaine on the soldiers and then I saw the hawk-like features of Geoffrey of Anjou and beside him was Agnes with strands of her flaming hair escaping her headveil like fiery banners. I ran to my Lady’s chambers with all haste.

‘Did I hear visitors, Bernadette?’

‘Yes,’ I gulped some air. ‘It’s Lady Agnes and the Hammer,’ I said. ‘Pardon me, Geoffrey of Anjou.’

‘Are you sure?’ she asked frowning and rising from her seat.

‘For certain,’ I tell her.

Dia had risen too with a look of interest on her face.

‘Go and find Hugh, Bernadette. He is probably on the practice field. Tell him I will conduct Agnes and Geoffrey to the hall. Be quick about it. Please come with me Dia.’

I admired her self-possession. I felt flustered and anxious. The sight of those two could never auger well. Was it war? Did they come to bring us all grief of some kind? I ran to tell Lord Hugh and then ran back fast as I could to make sure I didn’t miss anything.

‘Welcome Lady Agnes and Lord Geoffrey. My husband will join us shortly.’ Almodis gestured to the seats on her right. I
hovered
with a bowl of water and an aquamanile to wash their hands. When they were seated I poured the water from the awkward brass pourer shaped like a knight on his horse, doing my best to stay out of range of the nasty red squirrel Lady Agnes had on a leash, seated on her lap. Another maid set wine and bread on the table before them. Almodis gave them time to settle and then asked, ‘Have you ridden far today?’

‘No,’ said Agnes turning her red-brown eyes and the self-
satisfied
line of her smile onto my Lady. ‘Only from Poitiers.’

My Lady must have been surprised and curious when she heard the word ‘Poitiers’ but she concealed it and waited for more information to come.

‘We find you in new circumstances, Almodis,’ said Geoffrey in a pleasant voice. ‘Not the pretty little girl at the court now, but an
uxores
presiding over the splendid castle of Lusignan and carrying its heir.’

Lady Almodis smiled in acknowledgement but continued to wait silently. I saw her run her hand over the great round of her belly. Thank God she is so fertile and it only took those two awful nights with Hugh to get her with child. First we had tried
lacing
his food with the herbs my mother had told me about but that had only made him violently sick and we were afraid that we would be taken up as murderesses.

‘Once children have been conceived, my Lord,’ I heard her say to him, when they thought I was full out of the room, ‘we might live in a state of spiritual fraternity as your priests suggest if that is what you wish.’ When he did not respond she added bitterly, ‘It will mean only a few brief descents into hell.’

I saw through the crack of the door that he touched her arm gently at that. ‘I am sorry wife. It is not your fault.’