Troubadour (11 page)

All that summer the troupe worked their way east. They travelled on from Avignon up into the Vaucluse mountains, through Sénanque, Forcalquier and Digne. It did not take them long to recoup the cost of Bertran’s new horse, even though there were no more great halls like the castle at Montpellier. There were enough villages and hill towns to fill their purses and Lucatz’s saddlebags. People seemed to need music and song more than ever, as if it might be the last summer when the south was happy. Elinor was astonished by the landscape they travelled through. The mountains were higher than the hills in which she had grown up and as they travelled further east into the Alps they got even higher. And the weather was unusually warm, even for the Midi.

The summer sun beat hot upon them but it was often accompanied by a fierce wind that cooled them on their travels. As they reached the far eastern part of Provensa, the autumn was beginning to draw in and the wind grew colder. Elinor was glad to have her fur-lined cloak with her.

They had been anxious at the beginning of their journey, sure that someone would follow them from Saint-Gilles, unable to believe that they had got away with their risky actions. But as the summer progressed and no one had stopped them on their journey, the troupe relaxed. Even Lucatz, who had taken a long time to recover any sort of good humour after their night flight, had forgiven the
joglar
s for their sudden and ignominious departure.

The trees were changing colour as they entered Saint-Jacques, a prosperous bastide in the lower Alps. Not that there were many trees in this landscape. Sturdy holm oaks were all that withstood the relentless wind.

Saint-Jacques had belonged to a crusader, Lord Jaufre, who had not come back from the disastrous Fourth Crusade in 1204. His lands, his flocks and herds and his castle at the heart of the fortified town, were now all in the hands of his widow, the Lady Iseut.

Her reputation had reached the troupe as they travelled away from Avignon. That she was beautiful and gracious was only to be expected; report never named a lady as anything else. But she was also admired for her learning and her justice. She was a
trobairitz
, a female troubadour, but not one who wandered from court to court. Iseut de Saint-Jacques was a poet, one who composed her verses sometimes in debate poems, called
tenso
s, with other
trobairitz
, like the Countess of Provence and Maria de Ventadorn.

‘It would be a good place to winter,’ said Lucatz, gazing up at the strong walls and imposing tower of Saint-Jacques as the troupe approached the town.

‘Thinking of winter already?’ asked Perrin.

‘I’m not as young as I was,’ said the troubadour. ‘And this wind bites through my cloak to my very bones. If the Lady of Saint-Jacques were inclined to give her patronage to a fellow-poet through till spring, I should not demur.’

Elinor looked up too. If Lucatz succeeded, this would be her home for months. A wave of nostalgia swept over her for the castle at Sévignan, its kitchens and its stables, even for the boisterous knights and
noiretz
who had teased her so. She wondered if she would ever see any of them again.

In mid-September, while Lucatz’s troupe was getting established with the Lady Iseut, the crusade against the Believers was officially called. The Abbot of Cîteaux used his position as both a senior churchman and the Pope’s Legate to make it official at the General Chapter of the Cistercian Order.

But the Pope’s letter six months earlier had already done most of the work; all over the north barons had been counting up the men and arms they could rely on, armour was being repaired, weapons forged and stores calculated.

The northern barons wouldn’t go to war in winter, but it was becoming clear that by the following summer the Pope’s army would be able to mass in force against the south and particularly against Toulouse, whose Count had been responsible for a lot of the trouble.

Bertran was at the Chapter in Cîteaux, disguised as a monk. He wore the white robes and had allowed his hair to be tonsured. He moved through the crowds unnoticed and unrecognised. But when the Chapter was over he cast aside his disguise, clamped a hat over his telltale shaven patch and rode hard for Toulouse.

Count Raimon was an extraordinary man by any standards and Bertran regarded him warily. He had inherited his titles, which included Duke of Narbonne and Marquis of Provence, fourteen years earlier.

Known for his ruthlessness about domestic and dynastic matters, Raimon was hardly likely to be the sort of man that Bertran would admire. Yet he had been a staunch friend of the Believers till now, risking the Pope’s displeasure on more than one occasion. And he was a great defender of the rights of his people to remain free from taxation by the church.

The Count listened to sermons by the Believers and always had at least one Perfect in his retinue. Many of his nobles, his allies and supporters were of that religion. As the Count had protested to Pierre before the murder, no one could have possibly exterminated what were now considered heretical beliefs as thoroughly as the Pope required him to do.

So it was with a mixture of hope and caution that Bertran approached the Count in Toulouse. As Trencavel’s liege lord, the Count also had Bertran’s allegiance and the troubadour had often been at the court in Toulouse. He entered the rose-coloured city through its eastern gate and made his way to the Count’s château. The streets were full of the Count of Toulouse’s coat of arms – a gold cross on a red background, and it made Bertran smile wryly. Would the Count still use it when the barons of the north took up the sign of the Cross to go to war against Toulouse?

But at the château he was disappointed; the Count was not there.

‘The Count of Toulouse, Your Majesty,’ announced the footman.

King Philippe-Auguste shifted irritably in his ornate chair. It was the last name he wanted to have announced. He was heartily sick of Raimon of Toulouse, heresy and, well . . . He stopped short at thinking he was sick of the Pope himself, but he could have done without the distraction of another appeal from the south.

‘Show him in, man,’ he said.

Raimon entered, bowing low. He was already an old man at fifty-two and some ten years older than the King, but he was vigorous in mind and body and hopeful of persuading Philippe-Auguste to his side.

‘Your Majesty,’ said Raimon. He had no need of quite so much formal courtesy; Philippe-Auguste was King of France but had no power over the south, whose allegiance was mainly to Pedro of Aragon. But Raimon was on a delicate mission and courtesy hurt no one.

‘To what do I owe the honour of this visit?’ asked the King.

‘It will be no surprise to you, Majesty, that I come about the Pope’s “crusade”, as men are calling it,’ said the Count. ‘He is waging a personal vendetta against me and perhaps against all the nobles in Western Europe. I fear his ambition is growing too great, saving His Holiness.’

‘I have had my own troubles with Rome,’ admitted the King. ‘I’m sure you know the Pope refuses my request to annul my marriage to that Ingeborg who insists she is my queen.’

‘What? Even though Your Majesty has since married the beautiful Agnes?’

The Count was very well aware of the King’s marital problems, which were similar to his own eventful domestic life, and he was banking on the King’s annoyance with the Pope to get him to forbid the crusade to the south.

‘Even so,’ said the King, brooding on the injustice. ‘Ingeborg insists the marriage was consummated and the Pope chooses to believe an ignorant girl over an experienced widower and father like myself.’

‘Perverse, perverse. But so are many of his decisions nowadays,’ said the Count.

‘Like this crusade?’ asked the King.

This is going well
, thought the Count and continued, ‘He has taken it into his head that I am responsible for the death of his Legate, Pierre of Castelnau.’

‘And of course you were not?’ asked the King ironically.

‘Of course I did not run his Legate through with my lance,’ smiled Raimon. ‘I admit I was very angry with the man. He was insufferably arrogant and rude. But, no, I did not kill him.’

The King didn’t enquire if the Count had ordered the death. There were things that nobility and royalty did not ask each other.

‘Then it is a pity,’ said the King.

‘A pity, Your Majesty?’

‘That I have already given my leave for my barons to march south,’ said Philippe-Auguste. ‘I do not want to anger the Pope. I am still hoping for my annulment. So I’m afraid I really can’t withdraw my permission now.’

.

CHAPTER NINE

Amistat

The Lady Iseut turned out to be just as gracious and beautiful as report had made her. She was now only twenty-three, a presumed widow, though no specific news had ever arrived of Jaufre’s death. Her husband had gone crusading a year after their marriage and she had lost the only baby conceived before he left.

So she had been ruling her own demesne for six years. She had made it a haven for poets, composers, musicians and artists and a place where her fellow
trobairitz
were welcome.

When Lucatz’s troupe arrived at Saint-Jacques, there were already several musicians at court and another
trobairitz
called Azalais de Tarascon. Iseut invited the whole troupe to dinner, not to perform, but out of good fellowship and in consideration of their weariness after travel.

‘Lucatz was right,’ whispered Maria to Elinor. ‘This will be an excellent bastide to winter in.’

Lady Iseut presided over the table in a dress of light blue satin, which perfectly complemented her fair colouring and her copious and curling hair, so pale it was almost white. Her friend was a perfect foil for her, black-browed and as dark-skinned as Pelegrina the Catalan
joglaresa
, and dressed in scarlet. But Elinor noticed that a costly diamond brooch pinned a blue feather to her gown, as if to proclaim her part of some society or clan.

‘Come, my friends,’ said Lady Iseut. ‘Tell us of your travels. We have had no news from as far west as Sévignan for a long time. Were your last lord and lady well when you left them?’

‘They were indeed, lady,’ said the troubadour. ‘And about to celebrate the betrothal of their elder daughter.’

Elinor felt herself stiffen and prayed she would not blush. She fancied that the Lady’s friend, Azalais, had been looking at her rather intently and she felt seen-through already.

‘And we have ourselves taken part in christening celebrations in Montpellier,’ added Lucatz. ‘The Lady Maria’s young son.’

‘How delightful,’ said Iseut. ‘So Lady Maria has a son? She is fortunate indeed.’

‘Though not in her marriage, I believe,’ said Lucatz.

Elinor would not have believed Lucatz was such a gossip but he was soon telling the ladies all about Maria de Montpellier’s unfortunate situation. And then about their other encounters in Provensa and the Alps, though not a word of what had happened at Saint-Gilles.

Iseut and Azalais listened eagerly to all the news. Then the Lady from Tarascon asked, ‘And what of the other events we have heard rumours of? Some say that there is to be some action taken against Raimon of Toulouse?’

It was Perrin who answered this question.

‘We do indeed believe that there might be trouble throughout the south. And not just in Toulouse.’

‘You really think the northerners will want to fight our cities?’

‘And smaller bastides too,’ added Huguet. ‘Our information is that none will be safe.’

Elinor could see that the Lady was reluctant to believe that. Her town was well fortified and her lands down in the valley fertile. It was clear from her table that she was rich in grain, meat and cheese.

Iseut turned to Azalais, with a troubled face.

‘Surely we are safe here in Saint-Jacques? Who would attack our walls because of a quarrel with Toulouse?’

‘That depends on whether your ladyship is sympathetic to the Believers,’ said Azalais, in a low voice.

‘And maybe it will not depend even on that,’ whispered Perrin. ‘The men from the north may march under the banner of a holy war to crush heretics but will actually be more interested in acquiring land – no matter whose it is.’

Lady Iseut clapped her hands. ‘Enough of war,’ she said. ‘For now, we are safe in Saint-Jacques and can speak of happier matters. As you see, I have a few court musicians but nothing to compare with your company. They will play for us now and perhaps you could tell us about your new songs and poems?’

The rest of the evening was passed in music and discussion of poetry but Elinor noticed that the Lady of Saint-Jacques now wore a small frown making a line between her fair brows. She was sure that their news of war from the north had deeply disconcerted her.

From Paris, Raimon of Toulouse travelled to Germany to see Otto of Brunswick, one of the two claimants to be Holy Roman Emperor. The Count was still fuming from his interview with the French King.

How could Philippe-Auguste have yielded to the Pope so easily? It was understandable that the King’s long-desired release from the wife he found repellent had been held out as a reward for his cooperation with Rome but the Count was certain that the Pope would not give Philippe-Auguste what he wanted once the crusade had been launched.

But for now Raimon must see what succour he might hope for from Otto IV. The would-be Emperor was an ally through King John of England, who had been the Count’s brother-in-law at one time, and he had always been good at reminding others of alliances. In fact, until this wretched business with the Pope and the heretics, he had enjoyed his position as Count of Toulouse and overlord of such fine cities as Carcassonne, Béziers and Nîmes.

When he wanted something done, people leapt to obey his command. And when he wanted something not done, whatever it was ceased without question. But everything had changed once Innocent III had been elected Pope. Since then, the Pontiff had been a thorn in his side and, as the Count had told Philippe-Auguste, he suspected there was more to it than a hatred of seeing the Church defied by heretics.

The court of Otto of Brunswick was even more magnificent than that of the French King. Raimon was kept waiting for a little in an anteroom so gilded and damasked, so mirrored and bedecked with candelabra holding such a wealth of the best beeswax candles, that it would have served as a throne room in any other palace of Europe.

After a short wait, while he wondered which of these innovations he might employ in the château at Toulouse, Raimon was shown into the royal presence. Otto was as sumptuous in his own person as was his palace. He wore crimson velvet and a cloth of gold cloak, his fingers bejewelled with many rings and an elaborate gold circlet on his head.

Though the Count had been able to speak French with Philippe-Auguste, the only language he and Otto had in common was Latin.

‘
Salve, Imperator
,’ said the Count, kissing Otto’s hand.

‘Ah, not that yet,’ said Otto, all smiles. ‘My rival, Philip, seems to have met an untimely end but now Fredrik von Hohenstaufen claims to have more right to the title than I do.’

‘The problems of inheritance,’ said the Count, shaking his head. ‘And even when the title is secure, the problems don’t end there. I have lately come from the King of France. I sought his help in my, ah, difficulties with His Holiness the Pope.’

‘
Your
difficulties?’ said Otto. ‘I thought he had “difficulties” enough of his own with Pope Innocent.’

‘Indeed, that is what he said,’ acknowledged Raimon ruefully.

‘So he refused you?’ said Otto.

‘I’m afraid so,’ said the Count. ‘May I tell you what I asked of him?’

‘That he would refuse permission for his knights and nobles to take up the Cross against the south?’ said Otto.

The Count was crestfallen. If Otto knew and had not already offered his help, he was not likely to act on Raimon’s personal entreaty.

‘Saving Your Majesty,’ he began hesitantly, ‘and His Holiness, I suspect that it is not simply “the south” that Innocent wants to punish. He is waging a personal vendetta against me – you know he has excommunicated me again?’

‘I was not aware that you had been received back into the Church since last time,’ said Otto.

‘Indeed, I had not,’ said Raimon, struggling to maintain an expression of sorrow and regret. But his anger soon got the better of him. ‘I say that this Pope has decided that I am his enemy.’

‘It is a dangerous thing to have a Pope for an enemy,’ said Otto. ‘Kings and emperors are one thing, but the Pope . . . ! It pits the whole of Christendom against you. I myself have need of Innocent’s support in my claim against Fredrik, particularly since Philippe-Auguste is on Fredrik’s side.’

He looked at Raimon speculatively for a long moment. Then he held out his beringed hand for him to kiss again.

‘
Vale
, my son,’ he said to the Count, who was nearly twenty years older than him. ‘There is nothing I can do to help you.
Quem Papae oderunt nemo audet adiuvare
.’

And Raimon left Brunswick with that farewell ringing in his ears: ‘
Whom Popes hate, let no one dare to help.’

Lady Iseut was as generous a patron as Lucatz could wish for. But as autumn wore on into the colder months, Elinor became aware of the sadness that hung over the bastide of Saint-Jacques.

Iseut was a good ‘
Senhor
’ – as good as any man – but, in spite of the competence with which she ran her household, her vassals and her farms, whenever her face was in repose, it wore an expression of deep sorrow.

From the
joglaresa
s’ gossip with the castle servants, Elinor understood that the Lady was still in mourning for her husband, Jaufre. He had gone off on the crusade to the Holy Land six years before and she had never seen him again. After two years, the survivors had started to straggle back and news had gradually filtered through the Midi of what a disaster it had been.

But of Lord Jaufre there was no word. For the first two years of his absence, once recovered from the loss of her child, Iseut had enjoyed taking over the reins. But she had always believed that her husband would return from the war and resume the Seigneury.

It was a whole year after the end of the crusade before Iseut really understood that Jaufre was not coming back. What had helped to convince her was the string of suitors who wanted to pay court to the rich young widow of Saint-Jacques.

‘But she wouldn’t have any of them,’ said Maria. ‘Isn’t that romantic?’

‘More fool her, then,’ said Pelegrina. ‘I don’t see what’s romantic about living on your own when you could marry again.’

‘But she’s not on her own, is she?’ said Bernardina. ‘She has her special friend, the
trobairitz
.’

‘Huh!’ snorted Pelegrina. ‘That wouldn’t make up to me for losing a husband.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Bernardina, whose own experience of marriage had left her a less high opinion of men. ‘The lady from Tarascon seems very fond of the Lady here.’

‘She’s not like that,’ said Pelegrina. ‘Azalais may be – but not the Lady Iseut. She needs a man.’

The suitors had eventually given up but Elinor noticed one visitor who was often at the Lady’s court. Berenger de Digne was older than Iseut, around thirty, and reminded Elinor a little of Bertran. He was tall and dark-haired with intense dark brown eyes and he was clearly devoted to the Lady of Saint-Jacques.

When Elinor asked the
joglaresa
s about him, Maria said that he had wanted to marry Iseut before she chose Jaufre and was now her most loyal friend and local ally.

The winter months passed and the troupe celebrated Christmas at Saint-Jacques. When Elinor’s jacket started to feel tight on her she thought it was because of the unaccustomed feasting. Then, the night after Epiphany, she woke on the pallet she shared with Huguet feeling a nagging insistent pain tugging at her lower back.