The troubadour's song (5 page)

"Ah, I see. Then you were hoping to return home soon?"

She felt a slight flush creep into her cheeks. "Yes, I was. My . . . husband expects me."

"Hmmm. Then perhaps you can send word. If you would care to write a letter, I will see to it that it is carried to Rouen for you."

She nodded politely. "How kind. I will write this evening."

She hoped he would leave them alone, but instead Gaucelm paced a little way in front of his lady prisoners. Apparently their interrogation was not over just because the hateful commander had left.

"Tell me, Madam Chavanne, do you always dress thus when riding into the forest?"

She glanced down at the man's tunic and leggings she had not had time to discard. Then she met his piercing dark eyes once again.

"Yes, my lord. As I said, the roads are not safe anymore. Dressing as a man, I feel safer even in the nearby woods."

"Hmmm. I see." The corners of his distractingly sensual mouth turned up slightly. "Surely then, we can expect you to honor us with feminine attire for supper this evening."

She clamped her teeth together at this boldness. But she lifted her chin. "Of course, my lord."

Gaucelm now flicked his eyes to Marguerite. "And you, madam. There is no reason to hide in a simple housewife's gown. Even as a captive you may dress according to your station."

Marguerite's eyes widened, but she said nothing.

Allesandra's thoughts were in turmoil. She had hoped to escape tonight, but now she must make a show of being present at supper. The matter was now more than inconvenient; she had backed herself into a corner fraught with danger.

Gaucelm took a step backward. "You heard my lord de Mont-fort's orders. You are free to run your household, Lady Borneil.

My sergeants-at-arms will remain here with you. They will carry any communications you wish. If you have needs they cannot provide, I will attend upon you at your call."

He then bowed low, and for a moment Allesandra envisioned him as a French courtier, instead of a mail-clad knight. But she looked away, just as his head rose to eye level. She retreated to the window seat and leaned there until Gaucelm crossed the hall, gave orders to his men and disappeared through the heavy doors.

She took a deep breath. Marguerite turned to speak to her steward and the household staff who had waited for orders. When she was free, Marguerite returned to where Allesandra stared out the window. In the courtyard below, French knights cried orders and went about their business. Glancing upward, she saw the French men-at-arms standing guard on the walls above, and a tremor passed through her.

"Now that I have started this masquerade, I must finish it," she said to Marguerite in a hushed tone. "But I have placed you in more danger than I anticipated."

"Nonsense, my dear," said her friend in a lowered voice that would not carry farther than where they stood. "This is my house. It is my responsibility to aid and shelter you against our enemies."

Allesandra glanced nervously at the guards posted at intervals along the hall. "We must be careful. The men-at-arms might not know Provencal, or then again, they may only appear not to understand. They will carry any plotting they hear back to that knight called Gaucelm."

Marguerite studied her friend. "He unsettles you, does he not?"

"Who would not be unsettled in the face of such lies as I have just told?"

She shook her head, her already disheveled hair further trailing about her shoulders. "I was wrong to come here two days ago, for now I have left my own castle undefended except for the household guard."

Marguerite laid a comforting hand on her arm. "Your inten-

tions were honorable. You sought only to help our friend Count Raymond in dealing with his allies. We had thought that Simon de Montfort's forces had dispersed. No one expected him to march in here yesterday."

Allesandra wrung her hands and paced before the window. "Raymond. Where has he gone, do you suppose?"

Marguerite's lips drew into a grim line. "There's no way to tell now. Better that we do not know his whereabouts until it is safe to contact him."

"You are right. We must struggle through this supper the mighty French general orders. But I will still attempt to slip away in the middle of the night. You will have to tell them in the morning that you knew nothing of my departure. I will leave a note saying that I was so homesick and frightened, I decided to set out at once for Rouen, despite the dangers. Do you think you can persuade them that I acted on my own without your help?"

"Of course, but I would feel better if you remained here where I can at least assure your safety."

Allesandra breathed deeply. "You know I cannot abandon my household. Neither would you in the same circumstances."

Marguerite looked worriedly at her friend. "Yes, you are right. Then I will help you prepare for your journey."

Allesandra glanced again at the guards who pretended not to watch them. "Very well, but we must be careful "

The meal that evening, held in one of Marguerite's rooms, was performed without mishap. A friendly fire flickered in the large fireplace. Servants brought tempting dishes, which the knights and the women ate with spoons and knives, sopping up the sauces with thick crusts of bread, washing it all down with cups of wine.

If the French knights knew the strain their female companions felt, they did not display any concern for it. Marguerite dressed in her finery, and Allesandra did as commanded, garbing herself in a long-sleeved turquoise tunic, embroidered at

hem and wrists. Over this she wore a sleeveless dark-blue sur-coat with deep armholes.

In keeping with her story of being a mason's wife, she avoided fine jewels, but fastened the surcoat at her left shoulder with an ivory brooch and adorned the chignon over her ears only with a few pearls. Her turquoise veil was held in place by a circlet of stiff linen across her brow, the veil falling gracefully down her back. Seated on the bench beside her at the trestle table, the knight Gaucelm seemed to approve.

Like de Montfort, Gaucelm was now divested of chain mail hauberk and appeared in a sleeveless forest-green surcoat, the deep armholes revealing a long-sleeved gray linen tunic that came to the ankles, embroidered with silver threads at the neck. On his feet he wore soft kid boots. Allesandra learned that he was of the house of Deluc from the He de France, the king's own demesne in the basin of the Seine, and that his family were close allies to the Capetian kings.

She had previously given little thought to the French king who had seemed so very far away in times past. He'd always been busy fighting King John of England over lands they contested. The southern lords recognized him as their overlord, but his authority existed in name only. King Philip had had no power in the independent south until he'd agreed to support the pope in this hateful conquest.

With half its territory already conquered, the Languedoc fought to hold its towns and castles and hoped to overthrow the French where they had gained a foothold. It was regarding this overthrow that Allesandra had hoped to aid her friend Count Raymond VI of Toulouse. But her ill-timed journey had ended in this house arrest.

The supper conversation put her French to the test, but she tried to hide behind feminine modesty in only answering questions put to her. Still, she was not unaware of the penetrating glances of the knight next to her, and when the last course was removed and everyone had wiped their hands and lips on the

tablecloth that also served as napkin, she hoped that she would soon be released, for she had laid plans for tonight.

As a good hostess, Marguerite had had to plan some entertainment for her guests.

"My lords," she said, "we have at hand a very good jongleur. Perhaps you would like to hear some songs."

"Ah, songs of the famous troubadours of the South, no doubt," said Simon.

"Yes, my lord. He has a repertoire of well-known songs as well as some composed by the lesser known."

"Perhaps a few songs would not hurt," said Simon. "Let the jongleur come in."

Marguerite nodded to a servant who went to fetch the waiting musician.

"I have heard," said Gaucelm to his supper companion, "that not only knights, but also some women write poetry in the South."

Allesandra's heart missed a beat. Surely it was her own deception that made her feel as if every comment and every glance of Gaucelm's dark eyes saw through her lies to the truth, or perhaps he had coerced one of the servants into telling him of her true identity. Like a serpent, perhaps he waited with poison knowledge and would strike out with the truth when she was least expecting.

"I do not know, my lord." Allesandra fought to answer calmly as the musicians entered the chamber and formed a grouping a little distance away.

For one frightening moment, she was afraid that the jongleur would sing a song of her own composition and give her away. She could easily pretend not to be familiar with these songs of romance and sardonic parodies. And of course the jongleur would sing in Provencal, so she suspected Gaucelm and Simon de Montfort would understand few of the words and none of the subtlety.

Singer, harpist, and lute player, all dressed in parti-colored knee-length tunics and leggings that fit them like skin, bowed

low to the table and then began their music. As Allesandra had predicted, Gaucelm soon leaned his head toward her and spoke.

"Very pretty, but of what does the young man sing? Love? War? Of the breath of spring?"

She allowed herself to breathe. The jongleur had begun with a very well-known song by one of the most famous troubadours who had died in the last century, a song about which she could speak safely.

"I have heard this song before," she began. "He sings of a prince who fell in love with the countess of Tripoli without ever having seen her."

Gaucelm allowed himself a chuckle. "And on what word did he fall in love with a woman he had never seen?"

Allesandra creased her brows in concentration, pretending to listen to the jongleur's words and to struggle to remember the tale as she had heard it. She dared not let Gaucelm know that as a patroness of the troubadours and a poet herself, she knew the song by heart.

"The prince heard the glowing descriptions of her beauty and charms from the pilgrims returning from Antioch. He made many verses in her honor, and finally, because of his desire to see her, he put to sea."

Gaucelm seemed entertained by the tale. His dark brows rose in interest. "A man would travel to the East merely to see a woman of whom he had heard?"

In spite of herself, Allesandra smiled. Even in the present danger, her love for troubadour poetry sustained her as it did others in this land. Gaucelm's interest in the song threatened to loosen her tongue into eloquence, and she pressed her lips shut for a moment to regain her composure.

Under her breath, she murmured the words the jongleur sang, giving herself time to translate to French.

"The nuances and much of the rhyme are lost," she commented. "But the story goes that on board the vessel to Tripoli, the prince took ill. At Tripoli they thought he was dead and carried him to an inn."

"Poor man," said Gaucelm, watching her carefully.

"Yes. But when it became known to the countess, she came to him and . .." And held him in her arms, she kept herself from saying.

"And then?"

"He recovered his senses, and he praised God that He had sustained his life until he had seen her. Then he died in the countess's arms."

She expected Gaucelm to laugh or mock the story, but he did not. For a moment he only looked at her. Then he slowly raised his wine goblet to his lips and drank. When he finally took his eyes from Allesandra's face, he lifted his cup in a toast.

"Well then, to the poet, who wrote a very tragic song."

Her hand shaking softly, she lifted her goblet to join in the toast. "Indeed."

"Does it end there?" he asked after having drunk again.

Allesandra paused. "She did him the highest honors and buried him in the house of the Templars. On that day she became a nun because of the grief she felt at his death."

"Then it was a tragic loss on both sides. Unrequited love."

He looked away from her and watched the musicians, and she thought she caught a glimmer of emotion in his eyes. Eyes that until now had been searching, penetrating, watchful, but had shrouded their own expression.

Beware, she warned herself and resolutely put her wineglass down. She dared not converse with this man anymore; he was her enemy. He could not really be interested in poetry. He distracted her from her purpose, which was to end the meal as soon as possible and prepare for her night's journey, for she did not plan to sleep another night in this place.

Marguerite requested the next song, but Gaucelm sat silently beside Allesandra. She was no longer asked to translate. As soon as Simon de Montfort had had enough, he stood and thanked the hostess for her hospitality. For the first time since Allesandra had met the pope's relentless crusader, she heard him speak words that were somewhat human.

"I know this has been difficult for you, madam, since your husband is absent with the army I seek to destroy. As a wife you are duty bound by the Church to obey your husband's wishes. Therefore, I wish you to know that I hold no personal grudge toward yourself." He flicked a glance at Allesandra. "Or toward your cousin, who finds herself in such an inconvenient circumstance. If you are truly religious women as you say you are, you have nothing to fear from us. I thank you for this meal, and I wish you God's blessing."

Marguerite lowered her head, accepting his compliments as he bowed and made to leave. Gaucelm bowed also and took leave of Marguerite. But then he spoke to Allesandra, with whom he had shared the supper conversation.

"Thank you for telling me the story of which the jongleur sang, madam. I was much diverted by the evening's entertainment."

She said nothing, but stiffened her spine as he bowed to her.

The good nights said, both men took their leave. As soon as the door behind them shut, the musicians stopped. But Marguerite turned to them.