Troubadour (5 page)

‘Only that I will come to perfection on my deathbed,’ said Miqela calmly. ‘I hope to receive the
consolamentum
then before I die. But I don’t think I could live like Joana before then.’

‘No meat,’ said Elinor woefully, remembering the turning spits with their fearful but delicious burden. ‘No fish, or cheese, or eggs?’

‘Nothing that has been the result of any coupling,’ nodded Miqela. ‘And of course no coupling for the Perfects either, no love, marriage and childbearing. But I think I shall be past all that on my deathbed. Indeed it is many years since it has been behind me! It is the good food I should miss.’

Elinor looked solemn. She had understood about the living a clean life; that was true for all holy sisters, not just the Perfects. And wasn’t it exactly the carnal knowledge of Thibaut le Viguier she would be fleeing from?

But to be forbidden wine, to pray fifteen times a day, to fast three days out of seven, and for forty days three times a year! Elinor did not see how she could bear all that. It would be better to die swiftly and cleanly than to live out her days in such deprivation.

Miqela looked up at her sharply; her eyesight might be failing but she had known Elinor from birth.

‘Don’t tell me you are thinking of entering a sister house,’ she said. ‘I thought it was a wedding gown I was to stitch for you, not the black robe of a Perfect.’

‘Oh, you heard that, did you?’ said Elinor casually. ‘It might be that I am to be married, indeed. And no, I am not thinking of joining the sisters. I just wanted to know what it was like.’

Later that day, with her blood pulsing loudly in her ears, Elinor crept into the kitchen. Food was being served in the great hall but she had absented herself on the grounds of feeling unwell. The room still smelled strongly of roasted meat and Elinor felt her empty stomach rumble. She tore a bit of bread from an unused trencher and stuffed it in her mouth; it tasted better than anything she had eaten for weeks. Her last meal.

She had to hurry before Hugo and the kitchen servants came back for the date sweetmeats and apples dipped in honey that were spread on a table. Swiftly she crossed the room and took one of Hugo’s knives, with a horn handle. It was an old one, thin in the blade from having been honed against the whetstone so often. And it was sharp as any dagger.

Alys had been allowed to eat dinner with the local nobility in Elinor’s place. She said little but watched and listened. Le Viguier had good manners and was no fool but he was old; she could understand why Elinor would not want to marry him.

And his daughters were cross-grained, froward creatures. Lord Lanval and Lady Clara were polite to them but Alys could see that her parents did not regard the Viguier women as good models for their daughters. Perhaps their mother had been dead too long and they had been allowed too much freedom by their quiet, grey father?

Alys was worried about Elinor. She had seen her wasting away and thought at first it was because she was missing Bertran. But now she was sure that her sister’s decline was because she didn’t want an old husband and had realised it was her parents’ plan to give her one. Alys shuddered and drank some hippocras to disguise her trembling.

Suppose they had such a fate in mind for her too? She had hoped for something better. And what would Elinor do if she were forced to marry old Thibaut? Alys couldn’t imagine her sister just giving up and settling down. She had been watching her and had come to some conclusions of her own.

When the dinner came to an end and just a few men were left drinking and listening to the musicians, Alys passed close to Huguet and whispered that she would like to talk to him on the battlements when the evening’s music was over.

She passed a cold hour walking up and down on the walls, in spite of her fur-lined cloak. She kept herself warm by blowing on her hands and wrapping her arms round herself. After a long wait, a whistle like a bird’s single note told her that Huguet was near.

Alys was suddenly shy. The
joglar
s were Elinor’s special friends and she felt all at once the scandal of meeting a young man alone in a secret tryst. She was very aware of his presence, even though she was still a little girl, and was glad to be able to pull her hood over her face.

‘What can I do for you, my lady?’ he said and his warm and friendly voice allayed her fears. Huguet was a friend.

‘I am worried about my sister,’ she said. ‘She is so unhappy I fear she will harm herself in some way.’

‘She has certainly looked pale and thin of late,’ agreed Huguet. ‘May I ask what you think is wrong? What is it that has taken her appetite away? I thought it was – forgive me – some ailment of women.’

Alys sighed. ‘It is in a way. If marriage is a woman’s ailment. I’m not sure but I think our parents intend her to marry old Viguier. I know that’s what Elinor thinks he has come here for – to ask for her hand.’

‘The Lady Elinor and that stick!’ said the
joglar
. ‘Never! Besides,’ he hesitated. ‘Forgive me, not my place to mention it, but I have always thought your sister looked with favour on Bertran de Miramont?’

Alys smiled inside her hood; did everyone in the castle know of her sister’s preference?

‘My sister might not be able to act upon her own wishes,’ she said. ‘If our father says she must marry Thibaut, then what else can she do?’

She heard Huguet gasp.

‘No, surely she couldn’t . . .’ said the
joglar
anxiously.

‘What? What are you thinking?’ said Alys, his panic infecting her own mood.

‘That as I passed the kitchen, Big Hugo was bawling that someone had stolen his boning knife.’

Alys suddenly felt a lot colder.

And then she was flying along the wall to the little chamber she shared with Elinor, Huguet at her heels.

They burst into the room and found Elinor slumped on the bed, the knife in her hand and the front of her chemise stained all red.

.

CHAPTER FOUR

If Wishes Were Horses

It took a few seconds to realise that Elinor was not dying. She was sobbing but with frustration rather than suffering her death agony. The wounds she had managed to inflict with Hugo’s knife were superficial only and soon staunched. Huguet, white-faced, did all that Alys told him, swiftly fetching cold water and cloths and even some spiced wine from the kitchen. He took that opportunity to restore the knife, dropping it under a table so that it might look just mislaid and not stolen.

‘I couldn’t do it, Alys,’ sniffed Elinor, sipping the wine. The colour was returning to her face.

‘I’m glad, sister,’ said Alys seriously.

They all kept their voices low; if Huguet had been found in the girls’ chamber, their reputations would have been ruined. He held his face averted from the tending of the
donzela
’s wounds but he had been shocked to the soles of his feet to realise that she would rather die than be forced into marriage against her will.

‘What shall I do?’ whispered Elinor. She was calmer now but her situation had not changed and her future seemed just as bleak as before.

Alys felt that their roles had been reversed and she was the older sister now. But however hard she cudgelled her brains, she couldn’t think of any advice to give Elinor. In desperation she turned to Huguet.

‘What shall she do?’

‘I can’t marry le Viguier,’ repeated Elinor. ‘I shan’t.’

‘Is there no other way?’ asked the
joglar
.

‘I thought of joining the sisters,’ said Elinor. ‘You know, the Perfects. But from what I have found out about their lives, I can’t imagine that I could endure that existence for long. It would be small improvement on being Thibaut’s wife.’

‘But is there nowhere else you could go?’ asked Huguet, who was well aware of what the life of the Perfects was like and silently agreed that Elinor would not be suited to it.

She shook her head. ‘Nowhere. My parents would not let me go anywhere else.’

They were all silent for a few moments. Then Huguet hesitantly put forward an idea.

As he spoke, Elinor and Alys listened intently, the older girl with eyes wide and shining.

‘Would it work?’ asked Alys.

‘Would you dare do it?’ asked Huguet.

‘I was willing to die, Huguet,’ said Elinor. ‘I wasn’t brave enough to do it to myself but this I could do. It would be less hardship than joining the Holy Sisters and less painful than all the ways I have planned to leave the castle.’ Her face brightened. ‘And we could find Bertran!’

Huguet sighed. He had wondered how long it would take the
donzela
to think of that.

The barons of the north received messengers throughout March. The Duke of Burgundy, the Count of Nevers and many others who had knights at their disposal read the Pope’s letter.

‘
Forward, volunteers of the army of God!
’ it said. ‘
Fill your souls with godly anger to avenge the insult done to the Lord.
’

The language was flowery but the meaning was clear: the Count of Toulouse had at the least allowed and at worst encouraged the murder of the Pope’s faithful Legate while he was going about his lawful business. So the Count must be punished. The reward for any crusader from the north who took up the Cross against Toulouse and the heretics was huge.

First there would be a plenary indulgence from the Pope, which meant that they would be absolved of any sin committed so far and not receive any punishment in this life. All the interest on their debts would be cancelled too and, best of all, if they seized Raimon of Toulouse they could appropriate his lands.

It was customary for a crusader to sign up for forty days so, although the Pope didn’t spell it out, the barons and knights of the north knew that they could be back in their own demesnes in a little less than two months, with their saddlebags full of southern booty. And they wouldn’t even have had to cross the seas to get it. It was an attractive proposition.

Burgundy and Nevers between them could muster five hundred knights – a good basis for an army. They didn’t expect much resistance from the southerners. Wasn’t it a part of their unnatural beliefs that fighting was wrong? The lords of the north whipped themselves into a state of holy outrage about Pierre’s murder. Rumours abounded about the Count of Toulouse. The memory of Saint Thomas Becket’s death was still current in northern Europe and everyone knew that the English King was supposed to have asked ‘Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?’ before four of his knights stabbed the Archbishop at his own altar in Canterbury.

And now word was circulating that the Count had publicly said of Pierre’s assassin that he was ‘the only man loyal enough to rid me of my enemy’. It was open knowledge in the South who the man was, but instead of punishing him, Raimon of Toulouse had praised him. Didn’t that make the Count guilty? It was as good as admitting he was a heretic himself. The impious Count should feel the wrath of the Pope through the strong arms of the northern nobles.

But these things took time. First the barons had to get permission from the King, Philippe-Auguste, to leave their lands and set out for the south, and he hadn’t been very receptive to the Pope so far. Who was going to pay the expenses of what was a crusade in all but name? An army of many thousand strong would need a patron with a deep purse.

But the seeds of the idea had been planted and it seemed certain that the Pope would have the revenge he wanted.

It was part of the plan that Elinor should now get to know the
joglaresa
s. She had always been friendly with Perrin and Huguet, sometimes too friendly, in her mother’s view, but she had held apart from Pelegrina, Maria and Bernardina.
Joglaresa
s did not have a good reputation; they were loud and flamboyant and most people thought them loose in their morals. But if Elinor was to escape from the castle, these three women had to be in on the plot.

Pelegrina was a Catalan, dark-haired and sullen. Maria was of a sunnier temperament and was the youngest of the three – not much older than Elinor herself. Bernardina was the oldest, a woman in her late twenties who had run away from a violent husband. She had a crooked arm, which he had broken and which had set badly. Bernardina had made a new life for herself, travelling from castle to castle, and her husband had no means of chasing after her.

It was to Bernardina that the plan was first disclosed.

‘So you see,’ said Perrin, who had accepted Huguet’s idea without hesitation, ‘the
donzela
must leave the castle with us in the spring. We have to welcome her into our troupe.’

‘As a
joglaresa
?’ asked Bernardina incredulously. ‘She will never pass as one of us.’

‘No,’ said Perrin. ‘As a
joglar
. She will wear boy’s clothes and has agreed to cut her hair.’

‘That could work, I suppose,’ said Bernardina. ‘The
donzela
doesn’t yet have a woman’s figure. But can she sing? Can she play an instrument? We know she is not much of a dancer.’

‘I am already teaching her the flute,’ said Huguet. ‘And I’m sure she will be able to play the tambour.’

‘And she has a sweet voice,’ said Perrin. ‘We must all teach her the songs. She must have the full repertoire of chansons de gestes and
canso
s if she is to pass as a
joglar
.’

‘As for the dancing,’ said Huguet, ‘she is sure to improve. I think she will like to lead better than to follow.’

Maria and Pelegrina took some persuading. The Catalan was forthright in her objections.

‘What will happen to us if the disguise fails and she is recognised as a runaway
donzela
? We will all be punished and never be able to return to Sévignan. Why should we risk our livelihood for a spoilt young noblewoman?’

‘Listen,’ said Perrin. ‘We shall all be in danger soon, whether we do this for Lady Elinor or not. Everyone associated with the Perfects, especially the troubadours and their troupes, is suspect as far as the Church is concerned. And what makes you think that Sévignan will be here to come back to, even by next winter?’

‘Is it really as bad as that?’ asked Maria. They had all heard rumours and they had picked up the hidden message in Bertran de Miramont’s new song.

‘It could be,’ said Perrin. ‘Bertran advised me to go east, maybe even as far as Italy. The Midi will not be safe for us much longer.’

‘Besides,’ said Huguet, ‘can’t you understand that Elinor does not want to marry Thibaut le Viguier?’

Pelegrina thought about it. The question of marrying a nobleman did not arise in her case; most women of her class didn’t bother with marrying at all. That was for the nobles, who had land to leave and property to worry about. But they still had men they liked and men they didn’t. There were boisterous young knights like Gui le Viguier and older lords in some of the castles they visited who were free with their hands and difficult to repulse if they were the troupe’s paymasters.

The
joglaresa
s had their reputation unfairly; it was not that they willingly gave their favours to any who desired them, but that they were often not in a position to say no. A song, a dance, a tune, or a night in a nobleman’s bed were all something to be bought and sold.

‘She hates him so much?’ asked Maria. She didn’t find the old lord attractive herself but he wasn’t one of the ones who pawed over her and leered suggestively at her while she danced. And the idea of being the
domna
of a fortified town, with servants to do your will, was not so very terrible in itself.

‘She does not wish to marry at all,’ said Huguet.

‘Huh,’ snorted Pelegrina. ‘She wishes this and she doesn’t wish that. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. When does anyone care about our wishes? If you are determined to do this thing, we’ll have to go along with it, whether we like it or not.’

‘But it would be preferable if you were all kind to the
donzela
, when she is dressed as a
joven
, travelling among us. We will be her only friends in the world, her only family.’

‘What does Lucatz think?’ asked Maria.

Lucatz was the troupe’s troubadour, who had been wintering with them in the castle when Bertran had turned up so suddenly. They were rivals and Lucatz had taken the opportunity to visit his ailing mother in Nîmes. He was only recently returned to Sévignan.

Perrin and Huguet exchanged glances; they had decided not to tell Lucatz until the party was well away from the castle and on the road east. It would be possible to keep Elinor out of the way until at least their first stop for the night.

‘We have not told him,’ said Perrin. ‘We shall introduce him to “Esteve” – our new
joglar
– on the road. Then, if he accepts her as a boy, there will be no need to say more.’

Pelegrina said nothing but all three
joglaresa
s wondered why they had been entrusted with a secret their troubadour would remain ignorant of.