The troubadour's song Read online

  Allesandra had the wet leggings and shirt off and accepted the towel the woman handed her to dry her clammy skin.

  "There, stand close to the fire and warm up, then put these on."

  In moments, Allesandra felt dry and warm again and was dressed in clothing she was beginning to feel belonged to her. For it was still safest to ride garbed as a man in case they were stopped.

  "How far is your castle, my lady?" asked the forester's wife.

  "Fifteen leagues," she answered. "I should never have left there for all the good I did at Muret."

  The woman shook her head and said bitterly, " 'Twas a terrible day. Even this far we heard our lads being cut down like so many trees in a forest. Wolves, those French, tearing open the throats of the sheep, lapping up their blood. The county of Toulouse will not forget or forgive."

  Allesandra paused in brushing out her tangled hair so as to twist it under a hood. She grasped the woman's arm and held her plump hands, while looking her in the eye.

  "Nor will I forget or forgive. I have taken a vow to help overthrow the French in these lands."

  The woman's soft gray eyes looked hopefully into Allesandra's violet ones, taking courage from the brave young woman.

  "I believe you, my lady. Those French have no right to disturb our way of life here." She tightened her jaw before she spoke again. "We don't need those rich bishops to tell us how to pray."

  Allesandra trembled as she dropped the woman's hands. No doubt the forester and his wife were Cathars, but she asked no more. The less she knew, the better.

  "I thank you for your help. Please accept these coins to help repay your kindness."

  The woman shook her head. "Kind of you, but I want no money. We must help each other here."

  But Allesandra pressed the coins into the woman's hand and closed her fingers over it. "For the believers, then."

  The woman looked at her hand and then up at Allesandra, saying no more. Allesandra knew that the money would go to support the Cathar believers and their parfait, most likely now in hiding since they could no longer meet openly.

  She and the woman exchanged a meaningful look and then she turned and fastened the dagger by its scabbard to her girdle, covering it with her short tunic. "Jaufre," she called softly. "I am ready."

  Her retainer came into the room followed by the brawny forester. She thanked the man for his help, and then he wasted no

  time leading them outside and behind the byre where the horses were waiting.

  Jaufre had not lied when he'd told her the horses he'd caught were tall, big-boned chargers, the sort men rode into battle. Her roan had a thick mane, massive chest and withers. But Allesandra did not hesitate to step onto the mounting block and then into the saddle, her thighs stretched over the awesome horse.

  "He's bigger than your mares," said Jaufre as he mounted a dapple gray of the same great size. "But gentle enough. Do you think you can handle him?"

  She patted the horse and spoke to it, and its ears pricked. She was a good horsewoman, and felt confident that she could master the war horse.

  "We've fifteen leagues to get acquainted," she said. "He seems a good steed."

  The forester led them to the gate and made them wait until he walked out a ways to make sure they were alone. Allesandra and Jaufre waited on their horses, ears straining to catch the sounds that came to them on the night breeze. She might have been missed at the castle now. Or Marguerite and Pantier might have been stopped with the tied sheets as damning evidence. She could only pray that her escape had not endangered her friends.

  The gate creaked, and the forester reappeared.

  "The way seems clear. You'll do best to stay in the forest. This path leads due west. When you come out you'll be well past Perramon hill and into the countryside beyond."

  Allesandra well knew the lush, hilly countryside between Muret and her lands by day. Riding by night would be a greater challenge.

  "Thank you, kind sir, for all you've done."

  Then she and Jaufre rode through the gate, their horses snorting and shaking their heads, ears forward to catch the sounds in their path. They moved very slowly, not risking a light. The moon had risen, but its pale light could not penetrate the thick forest.

  "I think I'd better dismount and walk," said Jaufre after they'd

  made only a little distance. "These woods are too unfamiliar to risk a wrong turning."

  With Jaufre on foot leading his mount and Allesandra's mount following, they fared better. How long she was in the saddle she did not know, for she bent all her effort to peering into the woods or at Jaufre's shadowy figure ahead. At last the trees thinned and they came out of the woods, so used to darkness by now that the glimmering starlight, and the light from the large, yellow moon, seemed bright. They could plainly see every feature of hilly country ahead.

  Jaufre mounted again and they began to make their way in the open, braver now that they were away from the garrison in the town.

  "We'll make better time by the road, my lady. But we'll be more likely to meet someone. We could cut over the hills and stay out of the way of any soldiers, but the horses will be harder worked. What is your choice?"

  She only considered a moment. "The road. I've a grave feeling that all is not well in our demesne. Every moment it costs us to get there is ill spent."

  "Very well. We'll come to the road just past those trees, I think."

  Once on the beaten road they made better time. But it was eerie to ride along in the depths of night. The soft rolling hills dipped away to the cover of trees near tributaries that flowed into the mighty Garonne, which tumbled down from the Pyrenees. Coverts of underbrush and woods where bands of outlaws or soldiers, for that matter, might be waiting. More than once, she felt for the dagger she had tied to her girdle. And she knew that Jaufre was well armed. But she daren't dwell on such possibilities.

  Instead, she spoke to her horse, finding that indeed a little pressure from knee or rein communicated a subtle order for the horse to change his speed or adjust his gait. He was a good steed, and she thought they would do well together.

  "I wonder what his name is," she said while she and Jaufre rode together past a rocky hillside.

  The ridge above rose to be outlined in a faint change of color in the night sky. Beyond them gnarled grapevines clutched clusters of their fruit, soon to be harvested. Even in the predawn light, they could see bushes of broom bordering the vineyard, with branching stems, long used to sweep cottage floors.

  "The horse? Hard to say? Perhaps, my lady, you should name him yourself, for he's yours now."

  Riding a big, heavy-boned charger was bone-jarring even at a walk. And she understood why knights only used these war-horses for battle. For everyday travel they rode lighter palfreys, the heavier horse carrying packs until a battle. The horse slammed his massive foot down with every shattering step until her spine began to ache. But it was a minor inconvenience when she considered the progress they were making. She tried leaning forward and shifting her weight.

  "I think I'll call him Roussillon, after my lord the count's favorite wine."

  The big horse whickered at the name, and she took that to mean he did not mind.

  The sun came up on a dewy morning. Now the greens of the hillsides they passed turned into blue ridges in the distance. They passed a walled abbey, its gardens spiked with cypress trees. But they dared not stop to take a meal yet, and so pressed on into the hills, winding upward and downward, sometimes keeping to the road, sometimes striking off on a cart track that passed through small villages where the peasants busy with early-morning chores stopped to watch them.

  Allesandra inhaled the great solitude of the hills as they rode on, stopping occasionally to water the horses and take a drink themselves. They still had more than a day and a half's ride ahead, when they paused to breakfast on bread and cheese.

  They began to question peasants they encountered. "Have you seen any French soldiers?" Allesandra asked a woodland farmer w
ho stopped with his load of chopped logs.

  He shook his head. "Heard they were in the towns north of here, but none come this way. Not that they're welcome."

  "Thank you."

  But as the day waned, they tended to be more alert. When they came to a straggle of houses built along the road, they paused well in the distance to scout for any sign of soldiers. They stopped to dine at a simple tavern, but gained no more news.

  Roussillon nuzzled her when she came out of the tavern, and she offered him pieces of an apple. Her heart warmed to the big horse and she declined to trade him for a smaller palfrey when she had the opportunity.

  Allesandra was bone weary. And even though the thought of home urged her onward, she knew they had to rest. So when darkness fell, they asked for rooms at an abbey that took in guests. They left again early next morning.

  Jaufre helped her mount again for the last stretch.

  A mist seemed to hover over the mountains in the distance, but they pressed on. By late that day, the sun glinted on rocks and soil, turning everything to flame. Allesandra must have dozed in the saddle, for she was jerked awake when they stopped on the crest of a low hill on her own lands and looked across the narrow valley that spread upward to her own chateau. A feeling of welcome should have pervaded her sore body. But instead a tremor of fear paralyzed her as she stared upward.

  From the cylindrical keep and the two square towers that topped the yellow sandstone walls flew pennants with fields of blue and drops of gold—not the colors of Toulouse, but the fleur-de-lis of the Capetian kings of France.

  Five

  She was too late. The sting of grief grew to a simmering anger and then one of despair. Her home had been taken by the French already, but how?

  "Come, Roussillon," she said, and kicked his sides, leaning

  forward. Nothing was to be gained by hanging back. It was her duty now to find out what devastation had been wrought by the French and who had commanded it.

  Jaufre flew with her through the meadow and then up the slope toward the bridge over the dry moat that surrounded the castle. Castle Valtin rose on a rocky hillside to command a long valley that twisted through the mountains and eventually led to the passes through the Pyrenees. To their right, the summer's harvest stretched in rows along a gentle slope, waiting to be gathered in. She saw no evidence of carnage such as there had been at Muret, but. . . dear God, were any of her household knights dead, servants ill treated? Her heart twisted inside her as she conjured up the worst.

  They drew up to the gatehouse where French guards stood with lances crossed barring the way.

  "Let me in!" she shouted, Roussillon rearing on his hind legs as she jerked him to a stop.

  A sergeant-at-arms stepped forward. "This castle has been taken in the name of the king of France. Who wishes to enter?"

  "Lady Allesandra Valtin," she shouted. "Get out of my way. This is my castle."

  And she turned her charger preparing to run them down, for the way across the drawbridge behind them was open.

  But their lances parted as she charged across the bridge, her retainer behind her. And then she was under the upraised portcullis and into the cobbled inner courtyard. While she waited for Jaufre to dismount and come to help her down from the great horse, she glanced around anxiously. To her immense relief several of her own grooms and other of the household servants stopped their work to stand and stare at her. Normally they would nod or call out greetings, but the presence of the French soldiers muted them.

  Once on the ground, she turned to find her steward, Julian Farrell, having come down the steps from the hall to greet her. He was a middle-aged man of thin build, but tall. Even in such a crisis, he possessed a bearing of competence and honest de-

  meanor. His gray eyes were anxious, and his mouth pressed into a straight line beneath his long, arched nose. She rushed to him.

  "Oh, my God, Julian, what has happened?"

  The lines of regret and worry in his face seemed to have aged him ten years.

  "I'm sorry to inform you, my lady, that our castle has been overtaken by the French. It happened just this morning."

  She struggled to quell her anger. "It is my fault. I should not have rushed to the aid of Count Raymond, for all was lost at Muret as well. If I had been here to defend my home . . ."

  Her eyes lifted to the wall walk where more guards were posted and the hated French pennants on long poles flew above the towers.

  "Do not blame yourself, my lady. Your household guard fought bravely. They were simply taken by surprise and outnumbered. The French penetrated the gatehouse by stealth before we could get the portcullis down and the drawbridge lifted."

  True, she had sent as many knights as she could to help Raymond in the field, leaving only a small corps to defend this place. She thought her men were needed in the field. How wrong she had been. Rage and humiliation overwhelmed her, but she kept a dignified demeanor before all those watching her.

  She inhaled a long, steadying breath. "And who is it led this attack?"

  "The knight Gaucelm Deluc, a vassal of Simon de Montfort."

  Her eyes opened wider. The same man! New humiliation filled her. How he would gloat that he had outfoxed her. How he would laugh at her feeble lies! Standing in the growing shadows of the end of day, she came to realize the terrible truth. She was his prisoner.

  In the next moment, worse fears plagued her. "My men-at-arms, were they all. . . ?"

  "Two died bravely," reported Julian. "The wounded are being attended. The rest are taken prisoner in the tower."

  "There have been no vengeful atrocities committed, then?"

  "No, madam. The victor has been most reasonable."

  "Thank God for that."

  Julian cleared his throat, the creases in his proud face deepening. "I am to bring you to him as soon as you arrive."

  She straightened. "Where is he?"

  "In the great chamber, my lady."

  Again she fought the despair that swept over her. Gaucelm Deluc had wasted no time installing himself in the chamber that had been hers and her husband's before he had died in battle two years ago. She was undermined at every turn. But she summoned some pride.

  "I will see him when I have changed into proper clothing and refreshed myself."

  Julian would say nothing to counter his mistress, but she could see from the unhappy look on his face that he'd been ordered precisely to bring her before the conquering Gaucelm immediately. Still, she made a show of her own authority. She was still a noblewoman in a place that had been her home since her marriage.

  She turned and started for the entrance to the keep. With Julian following her, they mounted the steep stone stairs. The guards at the heavy nail-studded door stood aside to let them enter. Passing through the antechamber, she swept across the large hall, but she was stopped on the other side where she would have taken the circular stairway in the tower that led to the solar.

  "Let me pass," she ordered through clenched teeth to the implacable man-at-arms with short-cropped brown hair who barred her way to the tower.

  He did not move, his fixed gaze staring straight ahead at nothing. Then she made the same command in French so he could understand, but still he did not move. To her left was an arched passage that led to the few steps that would take her to the great chamber above the hall. Light glimmered from oil lamps in sconces and she could imagine a fire flickering in the great chamber, beyond.

  They were going to force her to confront the rude, unscrupulous, greedy Gaucelm Deluc who had the nerve to ensconce him-

  self as lord of this castle, her castle. Very well then, she would see him now, inflamed by her anger and humiliation, but she would hold nothing back. If she were forced to surrender the keys to this place, she would accompany them with words of hatred and vows of vengeance. She hurried up the steps and through the door into the great chamber.

  Gaucelm Deluc stood garbed in a tunic of dark blue and sur-coat of reddish brown, hardly appearing as if
he'd just fought two battles in three days with a hard ride between. He turned from gazing into the fire licking at great logs in the fireplace. His sun-bronzed face held a slight frown, but as he watched her approach, a change came over it. She saw the muscles in his jaw twitch, but if he was surprised, he did not betray it except for the flicker in his dark, intent eyes.

  "Madam Chavanne, I did not know I would have the pleasure again so soon. But pray, this is not the way to Rouen. Perhaps you are lost."

  His toying made her all the angrier and she spat out her words. "I am not lost, and you have already no doubt realized that I am not the wife of a master mason at Rouen, but the lady of this castle."

  An ironic smile tinged his lips. But then he became sober again and bowed to her as was her due.

  "I see. I am sorry then that our acquaintance should be so awkward."

  He straightened and stepped toward the fire, all business now. "I have claimed this castle and all its lands in the name of the king of France."

  She took a step toward him, her hair disheveled after the many hours in the saddle, dust smudging her face. "You have no right."

  He lifted a brow slightly. "I have every right. Or have you not noticed that Count Simon de Montfort leads an army to claim the county of Toulouse for France. And you, Madam Valtin, are a vassal of Count Raymond of Toulouse."

  Her voice rose in fury. "You descend on our rich and favored land with fire and sword. Is it religious fervor or greed that makes

  your ruffians want to lay hands on these territories? Do you stop to discover who is Catholic and who is not before you seize castle and domain? I think not."

  She was aware of his challenge as he glared at her. "And you, madam? Are you a heretic?"

  His gaze made her tremble, but she lifted her chin. "I am not."