Read The troubadour's song Online
Authors: Patricia Werner
The tambourine and stringed instruments crescendoed to the climax as Jean spread his arms wide and sang from his heart. "You are my lady, madam."
"Then, Jean de Batute," she replied in the song. "You are my knight."
The court applauded and laughter filled the hall as the tambourines crashed three final beats. Flushed with the stylized performance, Allesandra returned to the dais. Her pulse fluttered with all the excitement, and when she stole a glance at Gaucelm, she saw his disapproving stare. She managed to turn and take her seat while the revelers formed a circle for a dance. When the din covered their conversation, Allesandra summoned the courage to ask after Gaucelm's pleasure.
"Most revealing," he answered somewhat sharply. "To exaggerate the importance of love beyond all limits. According to this poetry, love seems to the lover to be more rewarding than heaven."
She smiled at his understanding of what their poetry was all about.
"It is that, my lord, according to these dictates. Because of being in love with his perfect lady, a knight attains both skill and honor, becomes valiant and brave." She spoke with some feeling.
"I see. Then it is doubtful whether a knight without a lady-love can ever attain such heights of honor, since the lady is his source of inspiration."
"That is true, my lord."
"Ah, then, whether or not the lady reciprocates, the knight's worship produces a state of ecstasy."
"You have understood well, my lord." She caught her breath, waiting for the beating of her heart to slow down.
He had leaned closer as they exchanged these words, causing Allesandra to tremble with the buddings of desire that his nearness did not fail to awaken in her. Indeed, his hand rested on the arm of her chair, and his face was very close to hers as his dark eyes shone into her soul.
"I would be careful of those words, my lady," he said with a note of warning in his sensual voice. "There are those who would perceive this ceremonious worship of a woman of the flesh to be misplaced. Some might call it heresy."
Nine
Allesandra stared at the face hovering near hers and pressed a hand against her damp brow. But Gaucelm continued to speak in a tone meant only for her ears.
"I merely warn you, madam, that when the bishop's inquisitors come to this court, as soon they must, it will be an easy matter to draw attention to such things."
She faced forward angrily, refusing to look at him. "You purposely twist my words, my lord. I supposed you were enjoying the music."
Now he closed his hand easily about her forearm. "So I was. I merely wish to warn you."
His tone was convincing, and she spoke in a low, urgent voice. "You mean to say you are familiar with an inquisitor's methods."
He gazed at the frolicking company before them, their brightly colored costumes mingling against the gray stones and painted wall hangings of the hall. To anyone watching, it would merely seem that they were talking about the festivities at hand. But he answered her question. "I have seen them work."
She sat back in her chair. While still uncertain whether she could trust him, she took his warning to heart. She would have to be more careful in her speech when danger was near.
Gaucelm made no more mention of inquisitors but stood up and offered his hand. "Perhaps you would like to join the dancing while I talk with my men," he said.
She acquiesced and stepped down to join the circle now form-
ing to dance in formalized patterns to the flute, stringed instruments, and tambourine. She forced her mind away from her fright and conversed with her friends. When she turned to execute a step, she saw that Gaucelm had joined a group of his men drinking by the hearth. His profile was illuminated by the flickering fire, and by oil lamps suspended from brackets on the wall. Therein lay the real danger, and she knew it. Not danger from an inquisitor's court, but danger from a man who was waging a private war against her heart. And who would be the loser?
She must be wary even while she enjoyed herself among her friends. By the third dance, her throat was dry and she sought refreshment. Gaucelm broke off from his group at the same time, and they walked together toward a table laden with dried fruits where a servant dispensed wine.
Handing her a silver goblet full of locally harvested wine, Gaucelm smiled. "Perhaps you would care for a breath of fresh air after your exertions."
She nodded, unsure if this were wise, but she followed him to a door leading out of the hall. They took a stairway that led upward and out onto the ramparts. The fresh night air cooled her brow, and the sounds of revelry were now replaced by the soft night breeze.
The land below and forest beyond were still visible in faint outlines. The countryside to the north and east rolled away in dips and folds. Tiny lights burned in nearby cottages and on the westward hills where shepherds roasted their supper. Nearer, the occasional footstep of a guard on duty could be heard from the drawbridge below.
When Gaucelm finally broke the silence, it was to comment on the troubadours and their ways.
"I fail to see how these rules of artificial etiquette can actually lead to feelings of devotion between the lovers in these songs," he said.
Allesandra tried to explain. "It rests with the suitor to convince the lady of his sincerity."
Gaucelm chuckled softly. "But only by a number of artificial
signs. And if the lover takes a misstep, his behavior is reproached in one of these courts of love."
"That does not mean his affections are not sincere."
He chuckled. "Take the case of the gentleman who loved a lady, but had not the opportunity of speaking with her. He arranged that by his steward he and his lady-love could communicate."
"You have been reading our literature," she said, surprised, but still suspicious.
"I must practice my Provencal if I am to live here and hold these lands for France. If I am to dispense justice, I must do so in the native language. How better to understand the southern people than by reading their literature?"
"That is so, my lord."
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if other Frenchmen were so willing to educate themselves in the ways of the Provencals. But she withheld her comment.
Gaucelm went on. "The gentleman's and the lady's love was thus concealed in perfect secrecy. But it seems that the steward, forgetting his duty to his master, pleaded his own suit with the lady, and she gave him her affection."
"Ah, yes, I know the case," replied Allesandra.
Gaucelm described the story just as poetically as if he'd been a troubadour himself. But he needed neither music nor instrument to weave the tale about her, his voice low and beckoning.
"The gentleman was naturally indignant with the steward, so the story goes, and denounced the intrigue to a court of love."
"And do you recall the verdict?" asked Allesandra as they strolled farther along the ramparts.
"According to the story I studied in your books, the crafty knave was allowed to enjoy his stolen pleasure. But the court of love decreed that both of them be excluded from the love of everyone in future. That the lady never be invited to an assembly of ladies since she violated the precepts of womanly modesty in stooping to love one so low. And the steward be forbidden to
be seen near an assembly of gentlemen since he broke the laws of honor."
All this talk of love and Gaucelm's nearness quickened Alle-sandra's heartbeat in a most disquieting way. He moved to lift a hand to her cheek, and her face tingled at his touch.
"I would not want any harm to come to you, my lady, should the wrong ears interpret your love games. There is still much in your friends' poetry that sounds like heresy." His voice was very low, almost a whisper. "Take heed."
She felt her throat go dry and the blood rush through her limbs. "Is it inevitable that there will be an inquisition here?"
His hand slid round her head and along her back, and he gently pressed her toward him in a protective gesture. "I am afraid that cannot be stopped. It might be better to tell me the truth about your friends than to wait for the bishop's court."
Her feelings teetered between remembering what Gaucelm stood for and gratefulness for the mercy he had shown thus far.
He tucked her shoulders against his chest and gazed outward at the land that was the bone of contention between the king of France and the nobles of the South.
"I fight for the unity of France," he reminded her. "And the king fights for the pope. One needs to take care in these dangerous times."
"We are in your hands now, my lord," she said, trembling against him. "You are our protector."
He reached to turn her in his arms, his voice and look suddenly intent. "Would you have me as your protector? I believe we do not have to be enemies, if you would be truthful with me."
She opened her mouth to speak, but the words choked in her throat. Gaucelm did not resist the temptation of lowering his lips for a kiss.
The joy at having a man's strong arms about her swallowed Allesandra, and she could not help but respond to his embrace. In her confusion, she tried to think of how he might be right. If he were on their side, he would be able to protect them from the
evils of the French inquisition. But there was no time for plotting, for Gaucelm's embrace became more urgent.
She trembled as they stood close. His arm wrapped around her waist, and she felt the reckless desire to want to stay thus, forever.
"Allesandra, my lady," he whispered in a hushed voice. "Come with me now. Let not this night keep us apart. Let me show you that I am not your enemy."
Her heart thundered against her chest, and she said nothing. Instead, she allowed him to slide his hand up her arm and hold her shoulder as he kissed her temple. Then his other arm slid about her and he held her in a warm embrace. Their kiss was natural, as if she'd known him forever. And she could not deny that she wanted more of him. How had he wormed himself into her heart and mind thus? Was he one of Lucifer's angels then? Tempting her beyond her own control?
Somehow her feet moved as he wrapped one arm about her waist and led her the short distance to a doorway. He escorted her down the steps to the door to the great chamber.
The evening of celebration and the intimate discussion of the ways of love had drawn them undeniably together. Alone now in his chamber, the effects of the evening fanned their desire. The look of passion he had thrown her way now feasted on her own flushed face as he gathered her into his arms again. Her body throbbed with a desire stronger than any she had ever felt, as strong as the sinful ones sung about in the poems. And she knew she was not going to fight him anymore.
"Madam," he said in his sensuous tone. "I am no poet, and I do not waste time on words. I would show you my feelings. With my actions, I would prove myself."
All thought was gone now, except for those of this man. She pressed her lips eagerly against him, and her hands could not help nesting in his thick, black hair. Only the light from the fire in the fireplace cast the burnished outlines of his chiseled face. She caught a breath as his hands began to caress her through the folds of her robes.
Then he pushed aside her surcoat, threw offhis own and deftly untied the girdle at her waist. His lips found her ears and throat, while his hands flamed the desire in every part of her body and her own hands eagerly explored the muscular prowess of his powerful frame, traitorous as it was. She was hungry for this man and no longer cared to resist him.
It did not seem to matter that only hours ago she had told her friends that Gaucelm Deluc was her enemy. That she vowed to work to overthrow him and reclaim her castle. For now all she wanted was for him to claim her for his own. The need her body had felt ever since she'd been thrown together with him in this castle now cried out for fulfillment.
He led her to the bed and then knelt to lift the hem of her garment as reverently as any troubadour would do. He kissed her ankles and then her calves, making her gasp as he pulled the garment upward and then over her head until she stood before him in her thin, form-revealing smock, slit up the sides to reveal calf and thigh as she trembled where she stood.
Now he relished gazing at her feminine form, only temptingly covered by the flimsy smock.
And she could only stand and gasp in wonderment as he removed his own tunic and shirt, untied girdle to drop braies and hose, and stood at last before her in naked masculine magnificence.
She was no virgin and did not turn in shyness, but gazed in heated passion at the male display before her. She could barely breathe, so great was her excitement as he stepped up to her, gently grasped her shoulders with his hands and then lowered his mouth for a kiss. She opened her mouth, drinking in the pleasure of his hunger. His hands found their way under her smock, while his hard organ brushed her thighs.
The craving between her legs tingled with unbearable need, and then his mouth found her breasts, kissing, teasing, prodding through the material until she thought she would faint. Then he removed the smock, and they embraced each other, flesh to flesh. They lowered themselves to the bed, and he stretched out beside
her, exchanging her kisses with his, feeling the delight of her skin, as she touched and caressed his male firmness and muscular torso.
All was passion and ecstasy. There was no thought but for the pleasure of which the poets sang and the ultimate with which a lady could reward her suitor. She raised her knees when he lifted himself to mount her, and arched her back, crying out when he joined his flesh to hers. His own excitement was such that she heard his ragged breathing, and his voice was fraught with passion as he whispered, "This is the ecstasy of which I've dreamed these many nights." He bent over her, cupping her face in his hands.
She clasped his shoulders, giving herself completely to the thrusts of pleasure, building and building in mutual exaltation until the pinnacle of fire exploded within. How long had this been unremembered in her years of widowhood and how much greater was this cry of rapture. She wrapped herself around him in the moment of intense, deep passion that threatened to carry her away.