Troubadour (12 page)

A moment or two to shake off the fog of sleep and she realised what it must be. Elinor crawled over to where the
joglaresa
s slept and found Bernardina in the dark.

‘I’m sorry to wake you,’ she whispered, ‘but the blood has come and I don’t know what to do.’

Towards the end of the month a group of pilgrims arrived at Saint-Jacques. It was only a short detour off the Pilgrim Way, the Via Domitia that went all the way from the Alps to Compostela. This was a party of Piedmontese on their return journey. They sought hospitality, which Lady Iseut was happy to provide, and they brought news. They had come from Saint-Gilles.

Even within a year, Pierre of Castelnau had become revered as if he were a saint. On the anniversary of his murder, his body had been exhumed.

‘It was unbelievable,’ said the pilgrims’ leader, a priest called Taddeo. ‘His blessed body was completely uncorrupted, the flesh as fair as the day that monster pierced it with his lance.’

‘Who dug it up?’ asked Azalais.

‘The Cistercians, my lady,’ said Taddeo stiffly. ‘It is already a source of miracles, as well as being one in itself. Why, one of our party was cured of a rheum just by gazing on the sacred corpse!’

‘Not by Saint Jacques, on your pilgrimage then?’ asked the lady of Tarascon, who was inclined to be sceptical.

‘Alas, no,’ said Taddeo and turned his full attention to Lady Iseut, who seemed to show a more reverent attitude to his tale.

Elinor was listening closely from the musicians’ place near the dinner table and saw that the
joglar
s were equally attentive. This was that same Pierre whose murder Bertran had witnessed.

Where the troubadour was now was unknown to all of them; there had been no news since he had separated from them in Saint-Gilles.

The Lady signalled to Lucatz to begin the entertainment and he nodded to the
joglar
s to start playing. Any further conversation of the pilgrims was lost to Elinor as she played the flute and sang.

In deference to the pilgrims, their songs were less secular than usual, leaving aside the chansons de gestes and heroic or romantic tales. They sang instead of Our Lady and Our Saviour, ending with the song of the white almond tree.

.

‘
White the blossom as the snow,

Rich the fruits that on it grow,

Bitter in each twelve is one,

Rendered sweet by Mary’s son . . .’

.

It had been recently written by the Lady Iseut herself and the
joglar
s sang it to honour her. In her role as Esteve, Elinor sang it in her sweet high treble. The Lady was listening intently with her eyes closed but her companion was watching the young
joglar
closely.

Elinor had learned the song well but, as she sang it for the pilgrims, she felt as if she understood it for the first time: even at the heart of joy you must expect a bitter note, but through love even that sharp tang could yield sweetness. There was something about this realisation, about the reasons that Iseut had written this song, about finding and losing Bertran and understanding that her future did not lie with him, that made Elinor weep.

She tried to make her tears seem like those of an overwrought boy, wiping them impatiently away with the back of her hand. But she noticed the lady of Tarascon looking at her oddly. This had been happening a lot since that night a few weeks ago when Bernardina had confirmed to Elinor that she had now become a woman.

Elinor did not want to be a woman. She was appalled by the treachery of her body that could turn her into something against her will.

‘
Dolcment
,
donzela
,’ Bernardina had said when she shed her first tears. ‘It is the burden you were born for. Without it, you could not bear children.’

‘But I don’t want children!’ Elinor had protested. It was true. She was scared of childbirth, which took so many women out of the world and killed so many babies too. Human beings seemed so much worse at it than animals, who only rarely died from reproducing.

Running away from home was one thing; even getting involved in the dangerous politics of the time through rescuing Bertran had been an adventure to savour. But this most recent event had been a change too far. What would she do once her growing breasts could no longer be confined within Huguet’s old jerkin? Or her hips split the seams of his old breeches?

So Esteve wept, because he would soon be Esteve no longer. And what he would or could be was a mystery.

And Azalais of Tarascon watched the young
joglar
, satisfied that, however unlikely it might seem, she was right about him. The time had come to tell Lady Iseut what she suspected.

.

CHAPTER TEN

Cortesia

The pilgrims were gone long before the snows came in February and perhaps were already back in their homes in Piedmont.

Before he left, Taddeo had told Iseut that if ever she needed to leave her bastide, Piedmont was the place to seek sanctuary.

‘Leave Saint-Jacques?’ she had exclaimed. ‘Why would I ever do such a thing?’

The priest looked very serious as he told her that he had heard rumours that no bastide in the Midi would be safe for long.

‘They caught one of those
ribaut
s who killed Pierre of Castelnau, at Saint-Gilles,’ he said. ‘But a gang of ruffians tied up the guards and set him free. It will not be long before the Pope wreaks his revenge for the blessed Pierre and then you might have reason to leave.’

‘That can have nothing to do with me,’ said Iseut firmly, unaware that the ‘gang of ruffians’ was under her roof. ‘I deplore the taking of a life, whoever did it.’

‘Indeed, of course,’ said Taddeo. ‘And I’m sure you would not shelter heretics either. But if you do ever need a safe place further away from the Rhône, remember that troubadours are well received in Piedmont, particularly at the court of Monferrato.’

Even
trobairitz? thought Iseut but she merely thanked him and wished the pilgrims well on their way back home.

It was perhaps as well that Elinor did not hear this conversation, though by now Perrin had told her that their way lay east towards Monferrato, where the Marchese was sympathetic to the Believers.

But when the snows came and she had bled for the second time, she received a message to go and see the Lady in private. Lucatz was put out when she told him; for Elinor had soon learned that nothing must be done without his knowledge and approval, since the night of Bertran’s rescue.

‘I expect she wants me to learn a new poem, sire,’ said Elinor. It had happened before.

‘Yes, but she has not asked to see you without me before,’ said Lucatz.

‘Cannot you come with me?’ asked Elinor, who did not at all want to have a private audience with the Lady.

Lucatz shook his head. ‘No, not if I am not asked for. That would not be
cortesia
.’

But he was pleased that the boy had asked. It showed the right spirit.

‘I will tell you what she said,’ promised Elinor, little knowing how hard that would be.

When she got to Lady Iseut’s private room, where she kept accounts and record, Elinor was surprised to find Azalais there with her. The lady of Tarascon was first to speak.

‘Esteve,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘A good name for a boy. It is a shame that your sweet voice will soon crack. How old are you?’

‘Nearly fourteen, lady,’ said Elinor. She could feel the throb of her own blood in her neck.

‘Then it will not be long.’

There was a charged silence in the room. Elinor noticed that Iseut was as pale as she feared herself flushed.

‘At least, not if Esteve were really a boy.’

It had been said now. The thing that Elinor had feared. Her secret was out. She saw little point in denying it. She had taken off her cap when she entered the room and now ran her fingers through her shaggy hair, which Huguet had kept trimmed for her every few weeks. But she remained silent; there was nothing to say.

‘Why did you deceive me?’ asked Iseut.

‘Oh not you, my lady,’ she found her voice at last. ‘I mean not just you. It was everyone. I had to leave my bastide and it was the safest way for me to travel.’

‘Does Lucatz know?’ asked Iseut.

‘No. Only the other
joglar
s and the
joglaresa
s.’

‘I find it hard to believe that a young woman of quality – for you are of noble birth, aren’t you? – would leave her home and roam the country dressed as a boy in a company of travelling musicians,’ said Azalais. But even as she said it, she had a wistful look, as if she wouldn’t have minded doing such a thing herself.

‘It was my only choice,’ said Elinor. ‘My father wanted me to marry an old man and I couldn’t bear it.’

Now both ladies were looking more sympathetic.

‘Who are you really?’ asked Iseut.

‘Elinor of Sévignan. I am daughter of Lord Lanval and Lady Clara.’

‘And they do not know where you are?’ asked Iseut. ‘They must be mad with worry in these dangerous times.’

Elinor bowed her head; it was true, but she hadn’t understood that when she left. The resentment had gradually faded on her journey. It was as the Lady’s poem said: bitter things could be made sweet by love. Her parents had loved her and everything they had tried to do was to protect her. Where they had gone wrong was in not explaining it her.

‘You must have known you could not get away with it for ever,’ said Azalais. ‘You are already bursting out of your disguise.’

Elinor’s cheeks burned. ‘I, I did not think further ahead than escaping from my father’s choice of a husband for me,’ she said.

‘And now?’ asked Iseut. ‘Azalais is right. I do not think your disguise will help you for much longer. Can you still be Esteve the
joglar
when Lucatz moves on in a few months’ time?’

Elinor hung her head miserably; she knew they were both right. It had kept her awake for many a night.

‘I shall go back to Tarascon in the spring,’ said Azalais. ‘You may come with me if you wish. You could be transformed back into a young woman by the time we reached there. I could say you were another
trobairitz
I had met in the mountains.’

‘Or you could stay here with me as my companion when Azalais leaves,’ said Iseut. ‘I am sure that with a dress and a coif no one would recognise you as the boy
joglar
once your troupe had gone.’

Elinor felt the tension in the air and realised that the two women had discussed these options before she had been sent for. Again she was being asked to choose and she knew that this time it was about more than where she lived. She had to choose her words carefully. Two pairs of eyes, one dark, one grey, were watching her closely.

‘I had a . . . friend,’ she said at last, ‘who advised me to travel east. I don’t know how far he meant. But I do know that he thought there was danger in my old home. He would not recommend retracing my journey even as far west as Tarascon.’

Azalais relaxed a fraction. ‘So you will stay here,’ she said flatly. ‘I thought that would be your choice. Even before I knew you had a “friend”. So it was only the age of your suitor that troubled you. You are not against marriage in general?’

‘No, not in general,’ said Elinor. ‘But you misunderstand me. It was not that sort of friend.’ Her face belied her words.

‘Your reasons are your own,’ said Iseut. ‘I am glad you want to stay at Saint-Jacques.

Elinor realised that she did want to stay up here in the mountains, where the air was clear and sharp and where murder and revenge were just words. Even though she would miss her friends in the troupe more than she dared to think about now. She admired the Lady, who was such a good ‘
Senhor
’. Iseut reminded Elinor of Maria of Montpellier. Another woman ruling her own lands and vassals, who did not need a man to advise or protect her. Perhaps Elinor could be like her one day?

‘But what shall I tell Lucatz?’ was all she said.

Bertran de Miramont had waited at Toulouse for Raimon’s return. He was unrecognisable now either as a Cistercian monk or a troubadour. He had grown a dark beard and moustache and there was no trace of his former tonsure. His little stock of money had dwindled, even though he had lived as frugally as a monk since the rescue at Saint-Gilles. But he was loath to sell the horse he had bought then; it was his last connection with the
joglar
s and
joglaresa
s who had rescued him – not to mention with Elinor. And it was his passport to a quick getaway if he was traced to the ‘rose city.’

So he had posed as a scholar called Jules, fallen on hard times, and taken on work as a scribe and clerk. It was enough to pay for his board and lodgings and his religion made him an abstemious man. The only item of value he possessed he had given to Elinor.

Elinor. As his situation seemed more and more desperate, Bertran thought more often of the
donzela
he thought he had left for ever in Sévignan. He knew she was in love with him, or that at least that she believed herself so. That was why he had left her the token and with it a small hope; it was all that people had in such critical times.

Besides, as he grew closer to death, Bertran was trying to divest himself of possessions. He would die a true Perfect, and he must prepare for that. So what of love? He could perhaps have put Elinor out of his mind if he had not seen her again so unexpectedly in Saint-Gilles and been told that the escape plan was her doing.

But why had she been dressed as a boy – a
joglar
? He regretted now that he had not spared the time to hear her story, but it seemed that she had left her family with the help of Perrin and Huguet. In a way, as long as they continued east, it was safer for her than staying at Sévignan. Her father was a well-known Believer and Bertran was sure Lanval would feel the wrath of the crusade that would soon muster in the north.

But what would happen to Elinor in future? She couldn’t maintain her disguise as a boy for ever and he couldn’t imagine what she would do next, even if the troupe did reach Italy. But he did find himself imagining all sorts of things. He tried to stop himself; this was not the right way for a Believer to be thinking.

For all that he had sung and written of love, Bertran did not have love affairs. He kept women at a distance, even though many had tried to win the heart of the troubadour. But Elinor had somehow crept behind his defences. She was so young, so determined and so idealistic. Seeing her at Saint-Gilles in her disguise had made him realise that. Whatever had made her leave her home, she had risked a great deal; rescuing him was all of a piece with that.

Bertran, living in disguise himself in Toulouse, without friends to talk to, felt Elinor’s position even more strongly. And he had little to take his mind off it till the Count returned.

Raimon of Toulouse came back into the city as unpredictable and sore as a wounded lion. Philippe-Auguste had turned him down and so had Otto. He had even been to see the Abbot of Cîteaux, who was the Pope’s Legate, and begged forgiveness for his sins. The Abbot had also refused him. Then in a last-ditch attempt to forestall the Pope’s rage, he had gone, cap in hand, to his nephew and vassal Viscount Trencavel at Carcassonne.

Young Trencavel had been polite; he was the model of
cortesia
at all times. But he did not feel he always had to follow the same line as his ambitious and hot-tempered uncle. He declined the alliance. The Count had left Carcassonne thwarted for the fourth time and this last refusal had hurt more than the other three. It had been his last chance to form an alliance and make a concerted defence against the Pope’s war. Now he had no choice but to submit to whatever penance Innocent demanded of him. And it would not be long in coming.

‘She wants you to stay here?’ said Lucatz, stupefied. ‘Whatever for?’

‘The Lady wants me to stay at Saint-Jacques until I can rejoin my old troubadour,’ said Elinor. She felt very uncomfortable about lying, but hadn’t she lied to Lucatz from the beginning?