The troubadour's song Read online

  "Rise, my son," intoned the bishop to the humbled commander. "The heretics have asked for the judgment of God, and God has judged in our favor."

  He frowned momentarily at the rest of Simon's contingent, who remained mounted, as if he expected them to also humble themselves before God's most holy representative.

  Gaucelm nonetheless remained upright in his saddle. He was no fool. The French had just gained a victory where the fiercely independent lords of the Languedoc thought they could dislodge their enemy. If the French soldiers did not remain fully armed and on guard while order was being reestablished, they could easily be betrayed.

  Seeing that the knights who accompanied Simon would not get down from their horses, the bishop was forced to raise his robed arm aloft to dispense his blessing. The embroidered threads of silver and gold glittered in the now-hot sun that glared down upon the scene of carnage and victory. From the distance, the wails of the bereaved carried to them. The bishop blessed the army of the pope, and then Simon stood.

  "Will my lord bishop ride with us through the town? It is our duty to accept the keys to the city as a symbol that Muret and any lands dependent on it now pay homage to our spiritual leader, His Most Holy Eminence, Pope Innocent III, and to his majesty King Philip Augustus of France."

  "Most assuredly," said the bishop in a voice used to preaching in vast cathedrals to humbled minions. He lifted his hand and allowed one long finger to signal the arrival of his litter for the procession through town.

  Simon had no need to send word to the councilmen of the

  town. They knew they were defeated, and though Muret had housed a French garrison for two days, town government had proceeded on its own course. Now a display of homage would be expected. After that, financial arrangements would be made for damages and tithes paid out of the citizens' pockets to their new overlords.

  The ornate litter was carried out on the shoulders of the bishop's servants. His staff of deacons and other local priests had garbed themselves in their finest vestments for the display of victory. Still in battle garb, Gaucelm rode beside Simon ahead of the litter, and the other knights followed behind it, as the procession left the priory and made its way into the streets.

  Glancing upward at the citadel above them, Gaucelm could see the French pennants being flown from poles on the ramparts as their men quickly took control of the town walls and the castle. Then they passed into the crowded, narrow streets, where wattle and daub and timber houses leaned irregularly two and three stories to steeply pitched roofs.

  Since the battle had been outside the walls of the town, there were few signs of suffering here. Except that ordinary business in stalls and ground-floor shops that opened to the street had come to a halt. Gaucelm perceived the subtle difference and narrowed his eyes to study the housewives in gowns and mantles and merchants in fur-trimmed surcoats who broke off from hushed conversations to stand silently and acknowledge the victors.

  No one cheered. Some of the women knelt and bowed their heads as the bishop's litter passed. But most of the citizens stood silently, staring straight ahead. Only the geese honked and fluttered from under the hooves of the horses. As Gaucelm looked from one face to another, he read the resentment there, pride, and yes, hatred. He felt the clutch of uneasiness at the eerie silence within the town.

  The Catholic church was determined to root out heresy in these lands. How many of the citizens of Muret were either heretics themselves or sheltered them? Gaucelm was a fighting man,

  loyal to the king of France. He'd sworn his fealty and had engaged in many battles over territory. The king's enemies were his enemies. He had fought to take lands back from the English King John, and Gaucelm was proud of helping King Philip extend his empire.

  But this long struggle in the South over religion was a different kind of war. He watched the citizens of Muret avert their faces from the knights who rode in victory, then drop their eyes before the bishop. These people were not going to be easy to subdue.

  "What are your plans for the townspeople?" Gaucelm asked Simon as they made their way slowly.

  "I shall spare them. A town without its artisans and merchants is a town without an economy. If there is no one to sell our armies supplies, we cannot support ourselves. If these burghers cooperate and give up the heretics we want, no harm will come to them."

  "That is wise, my lord. And the estates we shall surely gain will work the better for the king of France and for his vassals if we leave them intact and reap their harvests for ourselves."

  "True, my friend," replied Simon. "A show of power is necessary at times, but perhaps we have already made our point."

  They followed the narrow streets of the old town to the old Roman wall and passed through into the lower new town. Here the packed streets were straighter, and they came at last to the market square where the contingent formed up around the bishop's litter. Opposite them on the steps of the Church of St. Denis waited the mayor and the town councilmen.

  The rich colors of their mantles and hose, their fine soft leather boots, and the gold and jeweled clasps showed their wealth. They stood in a tight group, no doubt wondering if they would be alive or dead after they handed the keys to the city over to the bishop. None spoke. The cries and moans of those who had lost loved ones in the battle were farther away now, barely heard.

  Bishop Fulk alighted from his litter, and his deacons made sure his vestments were straight. Simon and his knights dis-

  mounted while the sergeants-at-arms who had accompanied them held the standards behind them.

  The bishop approached the church steps and the mayor came down and knelt on one knee in front of him. In the silence, a breeze ruffled through the market square and past the church. Everyone waited. But Bishop Fulk took his time surveying the scene, a satisfied smile on his face as he gave his blessing. Then Simon stepped forward. His narrow dark eyes glittered, and his tone brooked no argument.

  "I, the victor of this day, Simon de Montfort, general of the French army, hereby claim this town and all its lands for his majesty, King Philip of France, who has taken up the sword in the name of God's holy Catholic Church. Until our august king decides how to dispense this town, I hand the keys to the city to His Holiness, Bishop Fulk, who stands as the pope's representative on this holy mission. You will cooperate with his court and answer any questions he may have in his quest to erase the evils of heresy from these lands."

  Simon's eyes now rested on the faces of each of the town's representatives in turn. "Those of you who answer the questions put to you of the bishop's court will be spared. If you say you know nothing of heretics and are proven to be a liar, you will suffer the same,fate as unrecanting heretics themselves." He paused while his words sank in.

  Finally, the mayor, a substantial-looking man of medium height, got to his feet and spoke. "We hear you, my lord, and we abide by the king's overlordship and to any he may appoint to govern our fair town."

  He lifted up the heavy, clattering keys to the city gates and to the count's palace.

  Simon stepped forward and took them from the solid burgher, whose well-trimmed beard and the hair curled beneath his ears now ruffled in the breeze. Simon handed the keys to the bishop and then knelt for a blessing.

  Gaucelm itched for the ceremonies to be over. There was still much to be done, and he stole a glance back at the town above

  them. A gentle slope rose from the market square up through the new town. Church spires, chimneys, and roofs rose toward the citadel at the top. He suddenly remembered the woman fleeing the battlefield, and something told him she was important. Gaucelm did not know himself to be prescient, but some sort of warning came to him.

  As soon as the ceremonies were over and Simon mounted again, Gaucelm caught Simon's ear. "The citadel, my lord. Is it secure?"

  "You saw our standards flying from its ramparts. The leaders we vanquished from the field surely will not take refuge there. I will not be so merciful if I find them in person."

  "
No, but there may be other persons there who we must not let slip away."

  "Oh? And who might that be?"

  "I'm not sure, my lord. But the counts' women may remain."

  "Hmmm. You are right. I'm sure that my lieutenants will have arrested any nobility they have discovered there. We will question any such prisoners at once."

  Gaucelm did not speak. But he knew the knights left to secure the castle could only arrest noblewomen if they knew them to be noble. He urged his horse a little faster, hoping Simon would keep up the pace.

  When they entered the archway at the bottom of the citadel and dismounted in the courtyard, one of Simon's men came to report.

  "We have secured the palace, my lord." The sergeant was a reliable enough man to Gaucelm's knowledge, plain thinking and honest, but not given to subtleties.

  "Good. And who is in residence?" asked Simon.

  "The count's wife, my lord, Marguerite Borneil. She awaits you in the great hall."

  "Very good. Anyone else?"

  The sergeant betrayed some puzzlement as he continued to

  report. "She was with another lady when we found her, my lord. A friend who says she's from Rouen. She speaks French."

  "I see. But you doubt her word?"

  "It's not for me to judge, sir, but her accent is not northern."

  "Ah, I see." Simon turned to Gaucelm. "Well now, this sounds interesting. We shall have to see who this French-speaking woman is. Come."

  They followed the sergeant inside and up a circular staircase. Gaucelm blinked to accustom his eyes to the darkness of the tower, lit only by oil lamps in sconces placed at intervals along the curving stone wall. They came to a door guarded by several French soldiers who stood aside to let them pass.

  As they passed through the small guard chamber beyond, Gaucelm began to pay closer attention. As Simon's chief advisor, Gaucelm made it his business to notice everything. One never knew when remembering some small fact would help them later. Whenever he moved through a palace such as this, he noted the passages, entries, and especially how many exits there were from a given place. And where enemies might hide. They'd been in and out of the citadel since yesterday, but Gaucelm was still aware of the dangers lurking in a place where they were not wanted.

  The next door led them to the great hall, a large room now well lit by tall, pointed arched windows on one side of the room, green wooden shutters thrown outward on their iron hinges. The opposite wall was covered with painted wall hangings. The rushes on the floor had been freshened. Men-at-arms stood at attention at the edges of the room, guarding their prisoners, a small knot of women near one window.

  Gaucelm walked the length of the room with Simon and then stopped before the women, some of whom were seated on stools. But two of them sat on the broad window seats. One stood at their approach, and the women on stools rose and walked a little distance off. While Simon addressed the lady of the castle, Gaucelm strove to see the other woman's face, which was in shadow.

  A broad stripe of sunlight lay across her lap, and he would have taken her for a young man if he didn't know better. For the leggings and knee-length tunic she wore were the same as she'd worn on the battlefield. But a graceful hand lay atop the mantle that had been tossed aside and now trailed down the low steps leading to the window seat.

  While Simon addressed Marguerite Borneil, whose simple clothing did nothing to hide her own nobility, Gaucelm continued to watch the face hidden in shadow in the recess of the window.

  "Madam," said Simon. "I have word that you are the lady of the house."

  "I am, my lord. And in my husband's absence I am castellan. While it is true that my husband is Count Raymond's man, he would wish me to be an honorable loser in this hateful war. I place my household in your hands, since I must. I give you my word we will prove reliable prisoners. I only beg mercy and not cruelty in your treatment of us."

  "There will be no undue cruelty if you cooperate with us, madam. You are aware of my mission. I seek to assist the Holy Pope in eliminating heretics. You will be questioned and expected to hand over all heretics known to you, but I will leave it to the bishop and his court to conduct the investigations. I am here only to secure the castle."

  Marguerite lifted a heavy ring of keys from the folds of her mantle. "Take these, my lord. We have nothing to hide."

  Simon accepted the keys. "I thank you, my lady. I expect housing and food for my troops, and fodder for the horses. The town will give us supplies from the merchants as we need them."

  Marguerite lifted a hand and the steward approached and bowed. "This is Pantier, my steward. He will see to all your needs. I will arrange a supper this evening in your honor."

  While all this was going on a few paces from her, Allesandra watched warily from her seat by the window. Her jaws were still clenched in anger, for her plans had gone awry. No sooner had she ridden into the courtyard of the castle, than some of the French soldiers had commandeered her horse and marched her

  into the castle as a prisoner. There'd been no time to change her clothing. Recognizing her for a woman, they'd put her under house arrest with Marguerite until the commander could appear and decide what to do with them.

  She admired Marguerite's coolness in addressing the iron-willed, sly Simon de Montfort. For though the French commander was only of medium height and build, she sensed the icy fire in his veins and the heartless cruelty that lay just beneath his hauteur. His dark mustache and short, pointed beard emphasized his angular, haughty face.

  There was a different quality to the knight who stood with de Montfort quietly observing everything with his alert, dark eyes fringed with dark eyelashes in a clean-shaven face. He'd removed his helmet and arming cap to reveal thick dark wavy hair that was cut below his ears. His broad brow spoke of intelligence. Well-proportioned eyebrows and a long, straight nose spoke of nobility, and pleasing lips remained shut until his commander spoke to him. But she was distracted from her observations by de Montfort, who now glanced about the room.

  "I understand there is another woman of class present! Who might that be?"

  Allesandra tensed.

  The tall, dark knight now spoke in a musical baritone voice. "Here, my lord," he said, and gestured toward where Allesandra sat.

  How did he know? she wondered. For she did not miss the nuance of victory in his tone. She was so startled by his words that her mouth parted in surprise and she straightened. Seeing that she would be better off confronting the two Frenchmen with her hastily concocted story than appearing recalcitrant, she rose from her seat and stepped down to join them. Marguerite introduced her the way they had planned.

  "My lords, this is my cousin by marriage from Rouen, wife of the master mason of the cathedral there. She has been visiting me at this most unfortunate time."

  Allesandra was fortunate that she spoke French. Like Mar-

  guerite, she had been educated by a tutor who foresaw the day when the southerners, who spoke Provencal, might need to be conversant in French.

  While the northern country had a name, France, the southern principalities had been too fragmented politically to call themselves any one regional name. However, the war had united the southern lords to a greater degree than before, and now they accepted the appellation Languedoc for convenience.

  "Well, Gaucelm," said Simon, "a lady from Rouen. One of our own. A good Catholic no doubt."

  She did not miss the challenge in his demanding voice, but she strained to appear unruffled. "Yes, my lord."

  The knight called Gaucelm took a step nearer and spoke. "I have spent much time in Rouen. Perhaps I have seen the cathedral upon which this lady's husband works."

  She felt her face warm. She had never set foot in Rouen, but called to mind drawings and illuminated pages of the cathedral that her tutor had shown her long ago.

  "Perhaps, my lord."

  The corners of his mouth lifted slightly and his eyes glimmered. But his challenge was not cruel like that of de Montfort.

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bsp; "When I was there, the roof had not yet been raised, nor the spires completed. Tell me, is it finished now?"

  "Not completely, my lord"

  She had no idea, but she could lie about finishing touches even if this knight with the disconcerting presence attempted to trip her up.

  Simon de Montfort interrupted. "And does this master mason have a name?"

  Fortunately, Marguerite supplied a name, for Allesandra was too busy thinking up possible answers for the imposing Gaucelm, whose piercing eyes challenged her.

  "My lord General, allow me to present Elisabeth Chavanne. Her husband is a cousin of my husband's," said Marguerite.

  Gaucelm had not taken his eyes off Allesandra, who struggled

  to lower her gaze and curtsy to the French commander. The sooner she and Marguerite were left alone, the better. But she feared they would be kept under guard, and she would have no way to escape. Every moment she remained here placed her own demesne in more danger. For she was certain that once Muret was secured, the French army would waste no time laying claim to the lands farther south and west toward the Pyrenees, which bordered on the kingdom of Aragon.

  "I am honored, sir," she said, eyes still lowered.

  "Hmmm," uttered Simon. "If you are, as you say, no enemy of King Philip of France, then I have no reason to restrain you. It is odd, however, to find a French woman from the North residing here in the south at such a time. Such sympathizers with the southern nobility are rare. And in man's dress at that."

  "She was mounted and on the field, my lord," said Gaucelm. "I saw her this morning."

  Allesandra was startled. How could he have noticed her when he was busy directing an attack? But she did not deny it.

  "I see." Simon de Montfort clasped his gloved hands behind his back. His boot scraped on the rush-covered plank floor as he came to stand more directly in front of her. "So, a northern lady who takes so much interest in a battle as to be present when our forces attacked. On which side was she fighting, Gaucelm?"