Troubadour (6 page)

Bertran had reached Narbonne by the time the Pope’s messenger had arrived in Arles to look for the ferryman. The troubadour loved the city of Narbonne, which had a long history of appreciating poetry. One of his predecessors had written poems to Viscountess Ermengarde, who ruled the city for so long.

The present Viscount was Aimery III, a man who had just separated from his wife, causing a scandal in Narbonne. It was claimed she had been married to someone else all along. Such behaviour was not likely to make him popular with Bertran, who thought Aimery’s great-aunt Ermengarde must have been turning in her grave, but he knew the Viscount would receive him courteously.

Aimery was not particularly sympathetic to the Believers but Bertran taught his new song to the
joglar
s at court and saw that his message had once again been understood.

For those who had ears to hear, the
canso
was both a warning and a call to arms, yet was still on the surface a poem of
fin’amor
, which no one could take exception to.

And while the
joglar
s were singing it in Narbonne, the Pope’s messenger was in a tavern in Arles, plying Borel the ferryman with strong wine.

‘So you saw the whole thing?’ asked the messenger.

‘I did,’ said Borel, who had been bought many a drink in return for his account of the murder. With each telling he embroidered the story for his listeners with some new detail.

‘It must have been terrible for you,’ said the messenger encouragingly, signalling to the tavern keeper for more wine.

‘Not a night has passed since that I haven’t dreamed about it,’ said Borel. ‘The blood, the Legate’s single scream as the lance went in, the assassin on his horse, the size of a giant.’

‘The assassin or the horse?’ checked the messenger.

‘The ash-ash-sashin, of course,’ slurred Borel.

The messenger called for a trencher of bread and meat for his guest; he thought the ferryman was getting drunk too quickly.

‘Do you know who it was?’ he asked Borel.

The man tried to tap the side of his nose and missed.

‘Best not to mention any names,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know him myself but there are those that do. Guilhem de Porcelet, for one.’

The messenger stowed this information away for future use.

‘And I believe there was someone in the boat with you?’ he asked.

‘That’s right. Troubadour,’ said Borel.

‘Did you know him?’

‘’Course. Always popping back and forth over the river that one. Been coming to Arles for years.’

‘And his name? Do you know that?’

‘As well as I know my own. Bernard, no, that’s not right, Bertran, that’s the fellow. Made off on his horse after the killer as soon as he saw there was nothing to be done for the poor Legate, God rest his soul.’

‘So,’ said the Pope’s man. ‘Bertran the troubadour. Is he known by any other name?’

‘Miraval. No, hang on, that’s the other one. Miramont! Bertran de Miramont. Anyone here will tell you about him. Handsome devil. All the ladies love him.’

‘Not a devil, surely? He tried to help Pierre.’

‘
Oc
. But he doesn’t love the ladies back, you see.’

‘You mean he is an . . . unnatural, a sodomite?’

‘Nah. Too pure for that or for the ladies. Still he did go after the murderer.’

‘But didn’t catch him, as far as you know?’

‘The rumour is,’ said Borel. ‘That he lost him in Beaucaire but that was my
amic
Simos told me that. He brought the troubadour back in the ferry a few days later. Simos and me, we take turns on the boat. He’s on it now.’

The innkeeper brought Borel’s food and the messenger sat back and let his informant enjoy it. He had three useful pieces of news to take back to Rome: that one Guilhem de Porcelet knew the killer, that the witness was Bertran de Miramont and that the handsome troubadour was ‘too pure to love the ladies’. It had not been a bad evening’s work.

Winter was finally defeated and the days were beginning to stretch out longer again. Warmth returned even to the hills of the Midi and fur-lined cloaks were folded up and laid in cedar-wood chests. Elinor had tried on her
joglar
’s outfit in secret and Alys had agreed she could pass for a boy as soon as her hair was shorn. But they couldn’t do that till the day of the escape.

Lucatz and his troupe of
joglar
s normally moved on in April and he had not demurred when Perrin had suggested they might head eastward. He might be jealous of Bertran but he was not fool enough to ignore his advice.

March was coming to an end and Thibaut and his daughters were still at Sévignan. Elinor prayed daily that they would just go back home to their own bastide without any proposal having been made. She had shown him no encouragement. And, in spite of her escape plan, Elinor was in no hurry to leave the only home she had ever known.

But the day came when Lord Lanval summoned her to the solar and she found him sitting with le Viguier. Her father’s expression was set and she felt her mind closing down as the terms were at last offered to her.

‘My dear,’ said Lanval, without any warmth in his voice. ‘Our neighbour and friend, Lord Thibaut, has something he wishes to ask you and I must tell you that he does so with my full consent and approval.’

Both men looked at her expectantly and Elinor managed a small curtsey. Her father looked pleased to find her in such a submissive humour.

‘Lady Elinor,’ said Thibaut and she realised that her father wasn’t even going to leave the room. That would make it easier in case her old admirer offered to kiss her, she thought. She could feign shyness and modesty.

‘I have long been without the comfort of a wife,’ continued Thibaut. ‘Of my daughters, one is married, one betrothed and the third likely to be so soon. It will not be long before my castle is without a feminine presence and my court without a lady. You would do me a great honour if you would consent to be that lady.’

He stopped. Was there going to be more? Shouldn’t he say that he loved or worshipped her beauty or something similar? But Thibaut’s dignified little speech was clearly all that he had prepared.

‘Well, Elinor?’ said her father. ‘You cannot pretend to be surprised.’

‘No, indeed, Paire, Lord Thibaut. But forgive me – I am so young. Can I have a day or two to give my answer?’

Her father was frowning again.

‘There is nothing to think about, surely? It is a fine and gentlemanly offer, nobly made. You would not insult our guest, Elinor?’

‘No, Paire, I would not.’ Elinor gave another little curtsey. ‘I am . . . most grateful to the Lord Thibaut for his handsome offer. It’s just that I should like to talk to my mother and sister before I accept.’

‘Your mother is of one mind with me in this matter,’ said Lanval but he had been mollified by that word ‘before’.

So had Thibaut. ‘Shall we say two days then, my dear?’ he said. ‘Then we could announce our betrothal before I leave Sévignan.’

‘Very well,’ said Lanval. ‘Have your two days of maiden uncertainty. But then come back here and accept Thibaut’s most generous offer. I want to have a celebration before our
joglar
s all move on.’

Elinor ducked her head and left the room quietly but then rushed back to her chamber, where Alys was waiting.

‘Quick, sister,’ she said, all out of breath, ‘the scissors! I must be gone before the sun sets twice. We must tell Huguet. The time has come for me to be a
joglar
!’

.

CHAPTER FIVE

Joglar

Lord Lanval was not best pleased when Lucatz the troubadour came and asked if the troupe might leave next day. The request for permission was a courtesy; there was nothing the castellan could do to stop them. They had been in Sévignan for months and it was understood that they would move to another bastide in the spring.

But he wanted them to stay to celebrate his daughter’s betrothal. He tried to persuade Lucatz to wait a few days longer but the troubadour was politely firm; the
joglar
s were already packing up their instruments. Lucatz himself had been surprised by the urgency with which Perrin and Huguet had argued the need to move on immediately. But he did not want to stay in the castle without them and risk missing them on the road.

So with April just beginning and the trees all coming into light green leaf the troubadour, the two
joglar
s and three
joglaresa
s and a handful of acrobats, jugglers and dancers wound their way down the hill from the castle. Once the townspeople had gone back into their houses, a slight young boy with a heavy pack slipped out of the bailey and took the same road as the troupe.

It was some time before Elinor was missed. No one had seen the
donzela
for some hours before her mother started to inquire after her. The Lady Clara was planning another session of explaining to her daughter exactly how desirable it was for her to accept Lord le Viguier. But she was nowhere to be found.

The dark hair that Alys had carefully snipped off with Miqela’s scissors had been burned in the kitchen fire and one of Elinor’s dresses concealed in Alys’s chest for future destruction, so that no one would guess she had left in disguise. Her fur-lined cloak had been rolled into her pack against the next winter. There was nothing to suggest that she was anywhere other than roaming the castle and its environs as she so often did. And nothing to suggest that she was dressed in any way differently from normal. Any search party would be looking for a young girl, not a boy.

It wasn’t till nightfall that her parents were alarmed and by then it was too dark to take the search outside the castle. And when the dawn broke, after a sleepless night for many in Sévignan, Elinor was many miles away.

The troupe had reached Lodève and settled for the night near a tavern, when a young boy on a dappled pony stopped and asked if he might join them.

‘I am Esteve,’ he said in a high, unbroken voice. ‘And I am a
joglar
like you. I got separated from my troupe.’

Lucatz looked at him dubiously. ‘What troupe? Who is your troubadour?’ He thought the pony looked a little familiar but he did not recognise the boy.

Indeed her own mother would not have recognised Elinor in this slender and hollow-eyed youth. She was riding the pony with a man’s saddle, which had made her sore and awkward. But she had been happy to find Mackerel tethered by the town gate, as arranged with the
joglar
s. He was her own pony and had whickered in recognition as she approached, undeceived by her new appearance. Although it was unusual for a
joglar
to have his own mount – indeed only Lucatz had a horse and the rest of his troupe walked beside the pack ponies – it would make her adaptation to a rougher life a bit easier.

‘Guilhem Ademar,’ Elinor, who had been coached by Perrin, answered Lucatz’s question. ‘We were at Albi together.’

‘You must have left the court there very early in spring to have come so far by now,’ said Lucatz suspiciously. In truth he was rather jealous that Ademar’s least
joglar
– for this was just a boy – had his own mount.

The boy said nothing; he had been advised not to elaborate.

‘What do you play?’ asked Lucatz.

‘Flute and tambour,’ said Elinor. ‘And I can sing all the latest
canso
s.’

‘I say we let him join us,’ said Perrin. ‘Now that Huguet’s voice has broken we could do with another singer to take the high line.’

‘Very well,’ said Lucatz. ‘You may travel with us till you can rejoin Ademar’s troupe. I’ll not have him saying I stole his young
joglar
.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Elinor and then went through introductions to all the people she had already known when she was the
donzela
.

The
joglaresa
s were the hardest, flirting with him and teasing him about his absence of beard and other aspects of manhood that he lacked.

‘Leave him be, Pelegrina,’ said Perrin in the end, quite harshly. ‘The lad must be tired. Give him something to eat. And then you can bed down with Huguet and me, son. Take no notice of the women – they treat everyone the same.’

Elinor was grateful, though she hoped perhaps the women’s teasing was meant to help keep up her pretence. She ate her bowl of rabbit stew greedily and, after stretching out her bedroll between the two
joglar
s who were already her friends, she fell into a deep and refreshing sleep, better than any night she had passed in the castle for weeks. To lie on the ground, under the stars, was a completely new experience and she would never have guessed how free and at the same time how safe she felt.

In the morning, after some fresh bread and small ale from the tavern, the troupe packed up and returned to the road.

‘Would you ride while a lady walks?’ Bernardina asked the new
joglar
. ‘That is not true
cortesia
.’

‘See how he colours up like a girl,’ jeered Pelegrina. ‘Perhaps because he doesn’t think we are ladies?’

Elinor stopped the pony and dismounted, bowing awkwardly to the
joglaresa
s and offering Mackerel to whichever of them would like to ride. But Lucatz had ridden back to see why they had stopped and ordered the boy back up.

‘I don’t want them getting soft,’ he said. ‘How many
joglaresa
s do you know who can ride? But then perhaps in Ademar’s troupe everyone has their own mount?’

‘No, sir,’ said Elinor. ‘I was given the pony by a lord.’ That was true enough.

‘Hmm,’ said Lucatz. ‘We will not enquire into why.’ He glared at the
joglaresa
s, who were cackling with lewd laughter. ‘Now we have delayed long enough. On your way.’

While Lucatz and his troupe travelled slowly east towards Montpellier, Bertran was working his way from court to court in the west. From Narbonne he crossed the River Aude and headed for Minerve, calling at the hill towns in between: Aigne, Aigues-Vives and La Caunette.

After many weeks on horseback he rode unchallenged through the gates in the double curtain wall round the town and over the bridge into Minerve. The River Cesse disappeared into a large natural tunnel, affording a good water supply for the castle. And from here he could see the tall
candela
, the central tower. From here it looked impregnable, standing on a high spur of rock.

The town was built on the site of an old Roman temple to the goddess Minerva, who had given it her name. In ancient times, the locals would have prayed to the warlike goddess to protect them, but what could save them from the battles to come now that the Midi was Christian but the Church itself was about to take up arms against them? Bertran hoped that the town’s many natural advantages would hold the answer.

He sang his song himself that night at the court of Viscount Guilhem. There were no other troubadours or
joglar
s in the castle so he took his own lute from his saddlebags and sang to all who would listen about the love that was like war, the battles that would be fought and lost or won depending on the readiness of the beloved.

After dinner, he had an interview with the Viscount alone.

‘Where will you go next?’ asked Guilhem.

‘West, to Carcassonne,’ said Bertran. ‘I must talk to Viscount Trencavel.’

‘Do you think he understands the gravity of the situation?’

‘I think not,’ said Bertran. ‘He will see it as a problem only for his uncle in Toulouse. But once the lords of the north take up the Cross against the south, it will not be the Count of Toulouse alone who will suffer.’

‘You really think that an army will invade the Midi?’ asked Guilhem. ‘That the northerners will besiege our castles and bastides?’

‘I do indeed believe that, my lord,’ said the troubadour.

‘But look how we are placed here,’ said Guilhem. ‘We have the outer walls and the tower and enough men to defend them. Even if they come in their tens of thousands, we could withstand them.’

‘Then prepare for that,’ urged Bertran. ‘Build up your stocks of armour, weapons and food. And make sure that the people are loyal to you and willing to defend the Believers.’

Bertran did not know whether the Viscount of Minerve shared his secret religion; he had given no sign. But he did know that if the Church moved against the south, an army hungry for blood and land would not distinguish between heretics and the faithful.

It took the troupe several more days to reach Montpellier and Lucatz was so keen to be in the city in time for Easter that he hired a cart to carry all those without mounts. The three
joglaresa
s sat in the back with their legs dangling over the edge, chatting and laughing and greatly enjoying the treat. After the long winter in Sévignan, they were out of practice in walking the roads. Perrin and Huguet sat next to the carter on either side, playing on a flute and fiddle to keep him entertained on the journey. The jugglers and dancers huddled up together on the straw in the back of the cart improvising raucous and rude lyrics to the
joglar
s’ tunes. Lucatz rode well ahead but Esteve kept the pony alongside the cart.

Elinor was getting used to being Esteve the
joglar
. She had hardened to riding in a man’s saddle and had not found the change in her life too difficult. It helped that the weather was warm and the nights mild, since the troupe usually slept in the open. Their food was homely and without the refinements that Hugo had applied in the castle kitchen at Sévignan, but Elinor throve on it. Riding in the fresh air and performing at country fairs gave her an appetite much greater than her restricted life in the castle. And now that she was no longer afraid of being made to marry, her heart was light.