The troubadour's song Page 10

  She did not struggle to get away, but gasped and trembled in his arms. He smiled into her hair, lightly kissed her temple. Her quick breathing only stimulated him all the more.

  "My lady," he said in a hungry voice.

  Then he tilted her chin with his other hand and found her lips with his own. Delicious lips, soft, sensual, that moved against

  his. He pulled her into him, drowning in her beauty and softness. This was his reward.

  Allesandra's mind spun. Her blood throbbed in her ears, and she was powerless to move. Had he not supported her with both his arms, she knew her knees would give way. She could only part her lips more to taste of the wine on his lips. To be in a man's arms again was awakening a need far greater than any she had felt with her husband. Gaucelm seemed to overpower her, to swallow her in strong limbs and set her blood on fire.

  He murmured softly, words of desire that matched her own, and all thought fled as he kissed her ear, her throat, his light embrace supporting her waning strength. From where had this hunger arisen, she wondered helplessly just before she began to summon strength again.

  "Allesandra," he whispered into her ear as his hand came up to brush cheek, shoulder, and lightly touch her breast. "If you are as you say you are, then we are not enemies. Perhaps a better resolution awaits us than captor and captive."

  She steadied herself against the swoon that tempted her and turned her face to the side. Gasping for a deep, steadying breath, she forced the words out.

  "If we are not enemies, then you would perforce return my lands."

  "It is too late for that. You were a vassal of Raymond of Toulouse, who leads the southern allies. You've already sworn the oath of fealty to me. Let me become your lover. I will protect you."

  She wrenched herself from his grasp and braced one hand above the fireplace.

  "I swore the oath because you dispossessed me," she cried. "It is not becoming to so quickly succumb to you, my lord. My . . . people would lose all respect for me."

  With the blood pounding in his ears and his loins ready to experience the pleasures that Provencal poetry only alluded to, Gaucelm found it hard to keep from grasping her once more. The tear that ran down her cheek and glistened in the yellow

  light moved him, and he managed to control his lust. When he held out his hand to her, it was slow and gentle.

  "I will not force you, madam. Such is not my way. It only seems to me that you need a man to show you the ways of love again. I give pleasure as well as take it. Who would know, behind this closed door? They would expect that we have much business together."

  He had drawn near, and his voice had a soothing effect on her raging emotions. What he said tempted her, and her lips longed to be kissed again. Her breasts ached to be touched. She had felt his desire through the soft folds of their clothing, and it had aroused her. But she would be a traitor to give herself to him.

  "What is between us is of the flesh only," she said with a shaking voice. "It is not my way to satisfy flesh without being loyal to heart and mind."

  "I understand," he said simply, with no demand in his tone. Still, he touched her burning cheek with his finger and then brushed it across her lips.

  "If you change your mind . . . come to me in the night."

  Then he lowered his head to kiss her lips softly, gently. He broke off the kiss, giving her room to gasp, moisten her lips and turn to cross the room.

  She did not look at him again, but paused before the door. "Good night, my lord," she said in a low voice.

  Then she pulled on the wrought-iron handle and passed through the door. Beyond her, torches lit the passage. A sergeant-at-arms shuffled up to close the door.

  "Does my lord want anything?" asked the sergeant behind her.

  She heard Gaucelm answer in a distant voice, deep in thought, "No, nothing. I will sit up a while. Wake me at dawn."

  Allesandra hurried to the chambers she now shared with her female companions, hoping that they would interpret her

  flushed appearance as apprehension before attempting a dangerous outing.

  "My lady," said Marcia as she entered. "We just returned from the hall. The Frenchmen had many questions for us, and we worried that we would be too late."

  "I only now got away myself," said Allesandra, divesting herself of her overtunic and then sitting on the bed to exchange her slippers for sturdy leather half boots. She would not take the time to change into her by-now-familiar male attire, for the distance she had to go tonight was not far, and she would go on foot.

  "We will go with you," said Isabelle.

  "No, I would prefer not," said Allesandra in hushed tones. "It will be hard enough for one to slip out. You must remain here, and if any of the Frenchmen knock, you can answer that I am asleep."

  Isabelle lifted down a plain dark woolen mantle from its wooden peg and handed it to her. "You'll need this once you get outside. You'll be less noticeable in it than in your fur-lined mantle."

  "And where is the package I am to take?"

  Isabelle wrinkled her brows. "Are you sure it is not better to leave it hidden where it is?"

  Allesandra shook her head. "We've been lucky that these French soldiers have not searched our quarters. When the bishop's inquisitors come, as I know they must, no place within the castle will be safe. I must take it now."

  Isabelle turned to the writing desk, upon which were spread several sheets of parchment, quills, and ink jars. Marcia helped her remove the items, and then they lifted the top to reveal the compartment beneath. From its depths they removed a squarish object, wrapped in several folds of dark cloth. Allesandra tucked it into the folds of the mantle she held over one arm.

  "It will be safer with our parfait, for if Sir Gaueelm knew that the women in this castle read the scriptures on their own, as is

  forbidden by the Catholic Church, he would surely turn us in as heretics."

  Marcia and Isabelle returned her apprehensive look, but she squeezed the older woman's hand.

  "With this bound copy of the scriptures out of our hands, they can prove nothing."

  "As long as you are not caught going out," whispered Marcia anxiously.

  "If I am stopped, I will say I am going to the garderobe, or to visit a servant who is ill. Sir Gaucelm did not say I could not move about the household."

  After assuring the two women that she would be all right, Allesandra took the circular staircase to the level of the courtyard. Then she pushed open the door and walked out into the courtyard, heading purposefully, but in no great hurry, for the kitchens. Several guards watched her progress, but did not stop her.

  Once within the large central kitchen, she crossed toward the large hearth beside which several of her own kitchen staff sat. They murmured and rose at her approach, but she put a finger to her lips. Her longtime cook, Ivetta, glanced at the cloak across her arm.

  "Quickly," said Allesandra. "I do not know if I am followed. I must use the tunnel. They have not discovered it yet?"

  "No, my lady," said Ivetta.

  The cook and a scullery maid took down the pots that hung from wooden pegs buried in the plastered wall. "You will need a light." And she reached for an outdoor lantern and some flint and steel.

  "The wick is trimmed. You should have no trouble lighting it."

  They pushed the panel inward, and Allesandra stepped into a passage she had not visited for many years. She saw Ivetta's plump face just before she heard men's voices and the scrape of boots coming into the kitchen, but Ivetta did not show any fear.

  Allesandra held her breath as the darkness enfolded her. She

  could barely hear the voices on the other side of the panel now and felt as if her heart stopped beating.

  But in a moment she heard muffled laughter, then the women's voices. Perhaps the soldiers simply wanted a midnight supper. There seemed to be no panic, and Allesandra groped her way down a few steps before she knelt to strike flint and steel. Feeling in the darkness, she slid up the thin plate of horn
to light the wick, and the lantern cast its dim glow.

  Not waiting to find out anything more about the soldiers in the kitchen, she quickly descended to where steps gave onto hard, damp dirt. She lifted the lantern high to reveal cut rock. Now the twists and turns of the tunnel came back to her and she hurried along. When the ground began to rise, she allowed herself a breath of hope.

  She came to a steeper slope and then some wooden steps embedded in the earth and climbed upward. Here she must be careful, and when she felt the cool air of night ahead, she slowed her pace. She paused where the rock of the tunnel stopped and felt the thorny branches woven into a door that hid the opening to the forest. It wasn't far to where she had to go, and it wasn't beasts of the forest she feared. Rather, she had no way of knowing if any French soldiers might be out roaming the woods at night. But why should they be?

  She issued a silent prayer and then pushed the hawthorn screen open. In the moonlight, the path at her feet was clear. She pulled the mantle close about her and stepped out into the night, listening for any human sounds. A nightingale gave forth its song.

  She made out a pinpoint of light ahead that one would miss unless one were looking for it. Now she hurried along the path and soon reached a clearing. In the center stood a tenant's holding with timbered manor house surrounded by a palisade. A figure came out of the shadows.

  "Who goes there?" asked a young man's voice.

  She pulled back her hood. "Lady Valtin," she responded. "I've come to warn the believers of danger from the castle."

  "My lady," said the boy, now recognizing her. "They are within."

  He opened the gate, and they passed into the yard. As she crossed to the steep wooden stairs leading to the hall above the undercroft, she caught the low murmur of prayer. The boy led the way up the stairs, giving two knocks before he opened the hall door for her.

  Filling the room between the thick oaken pillars that supported the vaulted roof, thirty or so men and women stood, their heads bowed in prayer. Near the blazing hearth at one end, a man with long straw-colored hair dressed in plain muslin gown delivered a blessing, his hand raised. Beside him a blond woman was similarly garbed. There were no crosses or other icons to be seen anywhere in the room, for Cathars abhorred the gaudy opulence of Catholicism.

  When the blessing was over, the congregation lifted their heads. Those who had been on their knees arose. The parfait, Bertram de Gide by name, smiled.

  "My lady Valtin," he said in a welcoming voice. "We had heard that you'd returned."

  She knelt to receive the parfait's blessing, and then he took her hand to raise her up again.

  "I've come to tell you of more danger. Sir Gaucelm Deluc and his French soldiers are now in possession of the castle."

  With a twinge in her heart, she turned to face the men and women who moved forward to better hear her words, some taking seats on the benches around the room. "He is not a cruel man, though loyal to his liege lord, Simon de Montfort, and to the king of France. However, Bishop Fulk is in Muret now, and make no mistake, his court will descend on us within weeks. I've come to warn you not to meet again, for the French soldiers will report whatever they see and hear to the inquisitors."

  At the mention of the hated inquisitors a murmur of concern passed through the room.

  "My lady," said Emice de Laurac, the woman also dressed in the plain garb of one who has pledged oneself to poverty and

  chastity, "we heed your warning and knew that something like this was coming. We have met tonight to gain strength from our numbers. Our parfait has blessed us and sends us on our way. It will be up to individual consciences to recant or not as they must."

  She and Bertram exchanged glances, and then he laid a firm hand on Allesandra's shoulder.

  "Emice and I must preach wherever we may be heard. But we would not endanger our flock. In order to preserve our beliefs, we advise our followers to live quietly, not drawing attention to themselves."

  "That is good," said Allesandra. "I fear you should not meet together in large numbers anywhere within the county again."

  "A sad decision, but perhaps wise. Does this Sir Gaucelm say when the bishop or his inquisitors will arrive?"

  She shook her head. "Only when their business in Muret is concluded. I would beware. They may arrive at any time."

  She lifted the wrapped Bible from her cloak and handed it to him.

  "It is no longer safe to keep the holy scriptures about the castle. We would be accused of heresy for certain if it became known that the women in the castle read it for themselves."

  The parfait took it in his hands and unwrapped it. "We will keep it safe for you."

  A trace of bitterness passed over his otherwise open and generous countenance. "It is one of the many evils of the Catholic church that says only priests must read and that Christians must be kept in ignorance."

  The Cathars believed that only a personal experience with God was valid and refused to accept the ecclesiastical hierarchy that stood between the individual and God in the Catholic Church.

  Then his kind blue eyes gazed at hers. "And you, madam. Will you remain at the castle? I am sure there are many here who would gladly help you out of the county should you wish to leave."

  She shook her head resolutely. "No, I must stay and act as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened. The French rulers

  know that we are used to a way of life wherein Catholics and Cathars have lived peaceably side by side for many years. It is that tolerance that they cannot understand. I, myself, cannot understand the pope's wish to control the thinking of every man, woman, and child. We seek a different path here. But for myself, I believe I can convince them of my innocence."

  She felt a surge of guilt as a vision of Gaucelm's arms about her passed through her mind. But she dared not ponder it now.

  "Do not worry for my sake, Father."

  "Very well. Then we shall pray for our torn land and for the return of a way of life that once blessed us all."

  She steadied her voice as she said resolutely, "The only way that way of life can return is by the expulsion of the French. And to that end, I pledge my efforts on your behalf. Even if it costs my life."

  Eight

  By word of mouth and in the way that news travels across a countryside in a land where feeling is high and the people close knit, the troubadours received Allesandra's call. Those former vassals of Allesandra's who promised to swear the oath of fealty to Gaucelm were released from their imprisonment. The rest were ransomed by their families.

  So a week after Gaucelm returned to what was now his castle on the Garonne, the preparations for a banquet and several days of entertainment were under way.

  Once again the household was readied for guests. Wine casks were brought up, fresh rushes were strewn, and wicks were trimmed. Wall hangings were cleaned to bring out their bright colors. Even the servants were garbed in new clothing. Goblets and lamps were polished, pots were scrubbed. Fresh herbs were

  gathered and tied in bouquets so that their scents would freshen the air.

  On this day, Allesandra sat on the dais beside Gaucelm for the ceremony at which her former vassals would swear the oath of fealty. Gaucelm appeared in a new tunic of turquoise and a loose-sleeved surcoat of darkest blue with silver threads. His noble face wore an expression that spoke to all that this was his due. He was lord and master here, but he would be fair as long as there were no infringements to his rule.

  Sitting beside him, Allesandra trembled to think how close she was to falling under his spell. Even without looking at her, he seemed to emanate possessiveness, and she feared that one false move on her part might betray a dangerous intimacy between them to those watching.

  In consequence, she sat stiffly, dressed in crimson finery embroidered with gold threads. A crimson-and-gold veil, held in place with a cloth band about her forehead, flowed over hair coiled in refined chignon as befitted her submissive status. Her hands clasped the carved chair arms and she faced straig
ht ahead as Gaucelm carried out the ceremonies. As each man approached, Allesandra said his name so that Gaucelm might know what to call him. She knew her household staff and guard personally, but Julian stood at her left shoulder to give her the name if she had forgotten it.

  The men-at-arms were free men, defeated in battie, but offered the choice between following him and returning unarmed and unhorsed to their families. Their mistress had already offered her oath, so there was no need for those who chose to do so as well to feel traitor. Service to a lord was freely entered into, and this freedom of choice was jealously guarded by all concerned.

  With heavy hearts they watched the French swallow up the southern counties.

  The steward, Julian Farrell, now took his turn to walk to the edge of the dais and kneel on the top step. As he shifted his middle-aged body to one knee, Allesandra caught the flicker of his gray eyes before he lowered his gaze. Her heart went out to

  the man who had served her and whose father had served this castle before him.

  "Julian Farrell," said Allesandra, without looking at either man.

  Julian put his bony hands between those of his new lord.

  "Do you wish without reserve to become my man?" asked Gaucelm.

  "I so wish," Julian replied. His tone was firm, but without joy. "I promise by my faith that from this time forward I will be faithful to Sir Gaucelm Deluc and will maintain toward him my homage entirely against every man in good faith without any deception, and that I will keep good faith with King Philip Augustus the second, of France."

  All this was sworn next to a jewel-encrusted, finely illuminated copy of the Bible, which sat on an ornately carved stand to Gaucelm's right. He picked up a gold cross and touched it to Julian's forehead.

  "I accept your fealty, Julian Farrell. Defend the true faith." Then he leaned forward to seal the alliance with a kiss on both cheeks.

  Julian stood and resumed his place on the dais, so that the next man could approach. Allesandra barely moved a muscle throughout. Only her eyes held silent messages to her old servants and tenants. In those looks were conveyed secret thoughts and feelings that could not be revealed to the man who swore the vassals in.