The troubadour's song Read online

  "This is your new master," she said to the people of the village. "His steward will collect your revenues. I have sworn the oath of fealty to him. You will all come to the castle tomorrow beginning in the morning to do the same."

  The peasants looked at their new overlord with a mixture of curiosity and reserve. Gaucelm, used to such situations, maintained a stance of authority, but looked each man in the eye and nodded formally.

  "I think you'll find my justice fair," he said in a voice that carried. "I wish to see the region increase and bloom for the glory of the king of France. You've no reason to fear anything from me. When the king prospers, you will prosper."

  Eyes suddenly shifted. Glances among the villagers were exchanged, and Gaueelm watched them carefully. No reason to fear him, no. But perhaps there was much to fear from the religious courts that would come in his wake. Ahead of him Allesandra rode on, leaning down to say a few words to those she knew From their smiles and greetings, he could see that they respected her and held affection for her.

  They rode out of the village, and Allesandra led him along a path beside a stream. No need to dig canals here. The rivulets and brooks that brought the melting snows down from the mountains watered the fertile lands. Gaucelm could not help but feel pleased at what Simon had awarded him. But his satisfaction was

  tinged with an ill wind of what was surely to come. For he had to remember the conditions under which he'd won these lands. And the purpose of the crusade. He knew that many of the people he'd seen today would suffer. For even though the Lady Valtin strove to convince him that no Cathars lived here, he knew otherwise.

  Allesandra slowed her horse and turned to him. "Have you seen enough for today?" She asked it with respect and no malice.

  "Perhaps. Let us stop here and refresh the horses and ourselves."

  He got down and led his horse to the stream for a drink. Then he took Allesandra's bridle and brought her horse to a tree stump where she could dismount. She got down with agility, and he again noticed the freshness of her face. Pride lurked under her submissive actions. But it was a pride he could understand.

  Then he removed a wineskin from his saddle and unstoppered the top.

  "Wine?" he offered.

  Thirsty from the warm September sun, she accepted, the sweet liquid moistening throat and lips before she handed it back to him. Then he led the horses to where they could graze and leaned himself against the smooth bark of a plane tree, whose branches shielded them from the glare of sun.

  "Rest a while, my lady," he said, and removed his gloves.

  She came to the spot where he stood, but she did not sit on the convenient log that had fallen. Nor did she lean beside him against the tree.

  They were silent for a moment, listening to the gurgle of the brook, the occasional breeze carrying the sound of the sheep bells from far above them. It was a peaceful land, belying the carnage she had witnessed when two cultures clashed. Gaucelm Deluc might be a fair conqueror, but she must remember what he represented.

  "Tell me," said Gaucelm, picking up a twig to smooth between his long fingers. "Why has not Count Raymond found you another husband? Surely there were many suitors for your lands."

  The question startled her and she glanced at him, resenting the way he had put it. She was careful not to reveal too much in her answer. "I had no need to remarry. I had the ability to run the demesne. And the right to my own life."

  "Hmmm. While it is clear that the count of Toulouse profited from your holdings, you could not perform the required military service for him. It surprises me that as your guardian, he did not wed you to an ally of his own."

  His eyes gave away nothing as he looked into the distance.

  "My lord Raymond was wise enough to see that he could profit from my lands without my remarriage. And of course I paid a fee in lieu of giving military service."

  She trembled as she spoke and then waited for his answer. A woman possessed neither physical power, political clout, nor personal freedom. Her intelligence was her only weapon, that and her gift for song. Perhaps he had brought her here to inform her that he was choosing a husband for her. One of his vassals, no doubt, who would take control of her life and curtail the freedom she'd experienced these past two years.

  But Gaucelm was wrestling with emotions of his own. He was her overlord now and he could dispose of her as he pleased. He could marry her himself if he wished; Simon would give him leave. But he was not anxious to marry a heretic. As to the pleasures she might offer him in bed, he'd no doubt that her body would be delectable. But her icy stares and the temper that she struggled so to hide made him think twice about either proposition. She was a formidable woman, not easily molded in a man's hands. Ah, but there were mysteries about her he wished to unveil. He would let things move in that direction slowly. He had business to conduct with her first.

  For now, her lands were his, he mused. He must see to it that she helped him profit from them. He roused himself from his reveries.

  "This evening," he said, pushing himself away from the tree, "I would like your company for supper in my chamber. We can continue going over matters of the demesne."

  She tried to keep a level look. This evening she had other plans, but evidently, they would have to wait.

  "Very well, my lord."

  They remounted and rode back through the hills and valleys until the castle was within view. Gaucelm let his mind roam over the many responsibilities that were now his. And yet the woman at his side distracted his thoughts. They would dine alone in his chambers this night. He dared not allow himself to think that an evening of business might also be one of pleasure.

  But one thing was clear in his mind. Allesandra Valtin was a woman he would be wise to keep near him. For she was keeping many secrets from her enemies, and he needed to learn what they were.

  Seven

  Gaucelm had the accounts brought to him before supper so that he could verse himself in the running of the household. So when Allesandra arrived, dressed now in a flowing tight-sleeved gown of light green, he was prepared to discuss business.

  Allesandra stepped into the lamp-lit chamber. Her hair had been dressed in coils about her head and held in place with white netting as became a widow. But at first glance of her, he had the impulse to reach for the coif and release the tresses that had flowed down her back in disarray when she'd first confronted him at the castle. He preferred to see the fire in her than this tight, controlled lady of the castle, who was not used to taking orders from anyone.

  Gaucelm turned to greet her. "Good evening, my lady. I hope you have an appetite, for your cooks have prepared a delicious meal."

  A trestle table next to the fireplace had been draped with a

  clean white tablecloth. A servant she did not recognize set a blown glass carafe of dark-red wine on the table and stepped back for Gaucelm to inspect the platters offish, steaming bowls of stew, and fresh-smelling loaves of bread. He dismissed the servant, who slid out noiselessly.

  Pan lamps suspended from wrought-iron brackets in the carved oak paneling cast an eerie light. Float lamps in green glass holders flickered on the table. The corners of the room remained in dimness except for a wall sconce near the door.

  Gaucelm was dressed in a tunic of gray with silver threads and sleeveless crimson surcoat. Sandal leather crisscrossed feet and ankles and rose up muscular calves. Even as she stepped into the yellow lamplight encircling the table, Allesandra felt a weakening of her resolve to keep her distance from this man.

  Already his presence seemed to draw her into the room. She watched his browned hands pour wine and hand her a goblet, and when she glanced into his eyes, she was undone, as she had been at the vineyard.

  She sipped the wine quickly and turned her gaze to the table. If she must acknowledge the undeniable masculinity Gaucelm Deluc possessed, then she must find a way to use it to her advantage. For even though her pulse now quickened at the intimate scene he had set, her mind worked quickly for ways to turn
her acquaintance with her captor to good use for her own purposes.

  Gaucelm watched her for a long while, and after a second sip of the rich, full-bodied wine, he knew that his plans to discuss business this night were lost. He had only intended to have this lady in his chamber so that he could learn more of the running of the household and try to fathom what plots were hatching in her mind. But looking at her in the pale light with door closed on the rest of the castle, and only the balmy night air coming in the narrow unshuttered windows, he knew now that he wanted something else.

  The woman before him had been dispossessed by him. Perhaps the power he felt as a conqueror now released desire into his loins. The idea of bedding her in order to seal and savor his

  victory tempted him. But he did not want to possess her cruelly. He wanted her submission.

  All this passed through his mind in the blink of an eye, and he forced his mind to other matters. He thought he saw in Alle-sandra a faint struggle of her own. But not being privy to a woman's mind, he could not guess at what it was. She found words before he did.

  "My lord," she began. "What do you intend to do with the prisoners locked up in the tower? They are no good to you there."

  He set his goblet on the table, glad for a topic he had already considered.

  "I will ransom them. My sergeants are sending out word to their families now. If any among them choose to swear an oath of fealty to me, they may stay here. But only in numbers less than my own men. I will not risk an uprising. Those who are ransomed will go, but without arms or mounts, which I claim as spoils. It is still a time of war, as I am sure you can understand."

  "Yes, quite," she replied. "It is only my duty to do what I can for their welfare."

  "Agreed."

  There was another knock on the door, and the servant entered again, this time with a tray of sauces for the fish and cooked greens, which he set on the table and then left.

  "Let us dine, madam, before our food gets cold."

  She took a seat in the high-backed carved chair opposite Gaucelm and picked up the spoon to taste the stew. She found her appetite increased, and had no difficulty doing justice to the food.

  After eating in silence for a while, Gaucelm leaned back and began a conversation about the native wines and crops such as any well-bred courtier would. She could not get over the illusion that instead of bitter enemies, they were intimate acquaintances enjoying a pleasurable meal. That after dinner perhaps she would sing to him.

  The tingling of her spine when he addressed her, and the gentle ache she felt in her chest awakened feelings she had relegated to

  another place. Perhaps he read her mind, for he again brought the conversation around to her late husband.

  "Tell me, my lady. Was your late lord one of these poets of whom you speak so highly?"

  She suppressed a secret smile. "No, he was not. Though he was a great patron of the courts of love."

  "Ah, yes, the court of love. You must instruct me in how it works. You said there were many rules."

  "That is true, as you will see when the troubadours arrive. I have sent word since you gave permission."

  His eyes gleamed. He smiled and sat back while the servant removed trenchers and platters, then came back again with bowls of fresh strawberries and a pitcher of cream.

  Gaucelm rose from his chair and walked to the tall, ornately carved cabinet that stood against the wall at the foot of the curtained bed. It was not locked, for Allesandra remembered that there had been nothing of great value in it. Only things of a private nature, and she felt a rush of apprehension that he so casually reached inside a place that had been privately hers for the last two years.

  He extracted several loose sheets of vellum as well as a collection of songs she herself had bound between boards covered with soft kidskin and sewn into the binding with stiff threads. He brought the collection to the table.

  "I have not spent all my time reading documents to administer the estate. These, if I am not mistaken, are works of a more literary bent."

  She exhaled a breath. "You are right, my lord. They are."

  "As I thought. But you can help me here. My Provencal is not fluent. I do not think I can appreciate the poetry as well by reading it to myself. Perhaps on your tongue, the words might flow better."

  Her cheeks warmed. "You wish me to read aloud?"

  He lifted a shoulder and dropped it. "It is a suitable pastime for an evening, would you not agree?"

  She met his gaze steadily as she took the vellum sheets and

  then the book he handed her. A knock on the door signaled the entry of the servant waiting on them. And together with two more servants they removed the remains of the meal, gathered the crumbs in the tablecloth, and then folded up the trestle table and leaned it against the wall.

  The high-backed chairs were moved nearer the fire and Gaucelm threw himself in his, placing his feet on a low stool. Indeed he had every appearance of a lord in his own castle. Her castle, she reminded herself. But she sat demurely on the other chair and opened the book. If he must hear a song, let him hear something fine, but not too provocative.

  "Perhaps you would like to hear the work of Peire d'Auvergne, who was a canon in the Church before he became a jongleur. He served the Spanish monarchs before he died some thirty years ago."

  "Please," said Gaucelm, and gestured with a hand that she should begin.

  To Allesandra it seemed that Gaucelm was settled in for an evening of entertainment. She had an hour yet before she must attend to her other errand, so why not lull him into a less watchful state that would serve her purposes?

  "Near the time of brief days and long nights," she began reading in lilting tones, "when the clear air grows darker, I want my thoughts to grow, branch forth with new joy to bear fruit and blossom, for I see the oaks being cleared of leaves, and the jay, thrush, nightingale, and woodpecker withdraw from discomfort and cold."

  She read it in Provencal, and then paused to ask if he desired a translation into French.

  "No," he said with a shake of the head as he gazed with a half-smile at the fire. "On your tongue, the words are clear enough. Pray continue."

  She read the vision of distant, far-off love, hoping that Gau-celm's ear was attuned to the interwoven text with its alliteration, related rhymes, and nuances of meaning. And from his response, it seemed clear that he mostly understood.

  "Very nice," he said when she had finished. "There is a secretive quality to the words. He seems to speak in paradoxes, or perhaps the language is too obscure for a Frenchman to grasp."

  "You are right," she said, lowering the book to her lap like a good instructor. But also because with the book on her lap he was less likely to see the shaking of her hands. "Troubadour songs always feature hidden meanings and inner rhymes."

  "And unrequited love. Is this a constant theme as well?"

  She did not meet his inquiring look as she said, "It is the custom of troubadour knights to sing the praises of the ladies that dispense hospitality toward them."

  "Hmmm. I have even read in your literature that a nobleman cannot be a perfect knight unless he loves a lady. Is this true?"

  She still did not look at him. "It is believed among our knights that all chivalric qualities are strengthened by worship of a lady."

  Allesandra had repeated these principles many times in discussions with both men and women. But telling Gaucelm about the rules of courtly love unnerved her. Perhaps because he seemed to be such a willing student. But sly. If she were not careful, he would do something to trip her up.

  "Ah, I see. And does the lady return the favor? Or is this courtly love merely a gesture?"

  She gave a subdued smile. "Troubadour love is not necessarily mutual. The knight loves. The lady does not have to reward him."

  "Then the ladies in these poems are passive goddesses who are adored whether they wish to be or not." His tone sounded doubtful.

  "That is so, my lord."

  He gave a chuckle
and uncrossed his legs. "And you, my lady, have you many poems written in praise of your own virtues?"

  She lifted her shoulders and dropped them. "I would not know, for the lady of the poem is never identified."

  Gaucelm dropped his bantering tone and got up from the chair. He stepped toward the fire and placed his hand on the carved mantel above.

  "If I loved a woman, I would not be satisfied with worship from afar."

  Her heartbeat quickened, but she could not stop her words of explanation. "It is the longing that gives our poetry its appeal. His desire increases the knight's prowess."

  Gaucelm seized the andiron and poked the logs, sending up sparks. "And so the knight fights the harder because he thinks of his lady's charms. But never to be rewarded with them for himself?"

  She could not stand the throbbing of her pulse at so dangerous a conversation and stood up, setting the book in the chair.

  "How can he be, when the lady is most often the wife of another man?"

  "And when she is not?"

  His words caught her by surprise. He replaced the andiron, then turned to gaze at her face. They stood near each other, and Allesandra knew that she should leave. But her lips opened to draw a quick breath, and she was lost to the moment.

  In one step he reached her, his arm coming around her waist, his breath fanning her hair.

  "Yourself, for example," he said in a low, sensual voice. "You do not seem the ice-cold goddess of whom these poems speak. You are flesh and blood, my lady. Am I not right in guessing that you have loved? That your heart now desires to be unlocked? If not your heart, then surely your body misses a man's caress?"

  He did not even know where he found the words, they only poured forth from him expressing something of what he felt, not all of which he could understand himself. Her breast curved against his chest and his hand pressed her against him of its own accord.