Troubadour (3 page)

Then, miraculously, a face emerged from the blur and it was Bertran! His smile calmed her and although she was still scared, it was so lovely to be able to dance with him and clasp his hand as they crossed the set, that her feet forgot to be frightened and she understood what her mother meant about the music.

When the
saltarello
came to an end and Bertran lifted her by the waist, she let the moment last just a fraction longer for the sake of feeling his arms around her.

‘Forgive me, lady,’ said Bertran, gently extricating himself. ‘It is time for my new song.’

He stood by Perrin, who sang passionately to Lady Clara on Bertran’s behalf. It was a strange new
canso
, more about war than love. Elinor scarcely took it in; she was still thinking of how it felt to be held by Bertran. But gradually her blood cooled and she paid more attention to the words he had written.

‘
He who loves nobly seeks not to be cured of Love’s ill, so sweet it is to suffer
.’

And her heart was pierced with such a pure pain to think that none of Bertran’s songs were for her, or ever would be, that when she went to the bed she shared with Alys, she lay awake in the dark for hours weeping silently so as to keep her grief to herself.

.

CHAPTER TWO

Parting

The sky was still streaked with red when Bertran saddled up his horse to ride out of the castle. Only Perrin was up early enough to say goodbye. Before the troubadour mounted, he undid the brooch from his hat and gave it to his joglar.

‘A present?’ asked Perrin, grinning.

‘Not for you,’ said Bertran. ‘Take it to the Lady Elinor and give it to her privately.’

‘A love token?’

‘You know that it can’t be that. But there would be no great harm if she took it that way,’ said Bertran.

‘You must be mad!’ said Perrin. ‘No harm? You know how the
donzela
feels about you. This will just encourage her.’

‘I am sorry for her,’ said Bertran seriously. ‘She has no idea that her life and the lives of all of us are about to change. I may never see her again. Would it hurt for her to nurture the fancies of her heart a little longer? Before her family is plunged into bloodshed and war?’

Perrin bowed his head in obedience and took the brooch. He had no arguments against these. Bertran patted him affectionately on the shoulder.

‘Stay safe, my friend,’ he said. ‘And go east in the spring. It may be that your path should take you to Italy.’

‘And you?’ asked Perrin, overwhelmed by fear that the poet would be riding into danger.

‘My road lies west,’ said the troubadour. ‘I must take the warning to our brothers and sisters of the storm that is coming.’ He embraced Perrin warmly then stood back and placed his two palms together, the fingers pointing upwards – the secret sign of greeting and farewell in their religion. The
joglar
did the same.

Then the poet leapt into his saddle and rode out of the castle of Sévignan.

Elinor was watching, dry-eyed, from a window slit as his horse picked its way down the hillside. It was a picture she would keep in her mind for years.

It took some weeks for the news of Pierre of Castelnau’s murder to reach the Pope in Rome. Innocent III was hearing an embassy from Navarre when the messenger was shown in and he pursed his lips at the interruption. But the man was so nervous that Innocent became sure he brought urgent and terrible news.

He hadn’t dreamed how terrible though, and he sank his head in his hands as soon as he had understood what had happened.

He gestured to the Navarrese Ambassador to join him in prayer and the two men knelt on the bare floor just as they were.

‘May his soul rest in peace,’ said the Pope, getting creakily to his feet. And that was the last peaceful thought he had for a long time.

‘As for the Count of Toulouse,’ he said to the messenger, ‘you say he has done nothing to apprehend the murderer?’

‘No, Holiness,’ said the man. ‘The rumour is that he knows the culprit but will not act against him.’

‘And there were no witnesses apart from the monks and the ferryman?’

‘One, Holiness, a nobleman, but he rode off in pursuit of the attacker and has not been heard of since.’

‘And he was?’

‘I do not have that information.’

‘Send to see what can be found out. I should like to talk to that man.’ The Pope sat lost in thought, then suddenly asked, ‘And where is Pierre’s body now?’

‘At Saint-Gilles, Holiness. The monks thought it best to take him back. There was a solemn Requiem Mass said by the Bishop and he has been interred in the Abbey, with full ceremony.’

‘He shall be Saint Pierre before long,’ vowed the Pope. ‘And Raimon of Toulouse shall be excommunicated again.’

Giving orders right and left, he swept out of his apartments to pray at the church in Rome named after the first Saint Peter. But his heart was full of hatred for the heretics and their supporters.

It was a simple pewter brooch with a stone set in it that looked like red glass. But it might have been the finest ruby in Europe, so pleased was Elinor to receive it.

It hadn’t taken Perrin long to find an opportunity to give it to her; Elinor’s sleepless night made her crave something sharp and savoury to eat and she was soon in the kitchen cajoling Hugo the cook into giving her a strip of salted venison. When she left to nibble it in private on the battlements, the
joglar
had seen her and slipped after her to give her Bertran’s token.

‘But what did he say?’ she asked, thrilled.

Perrin improvised. ‘He said . . . that he had to go away for a long time and . . . you were not to forget him.’

‘Forget him?’ said Elinor, hugging the brooch to her, in spite of its spiky fastening. ‘I could never do that. But is he to be away for very long? Will he not come in the spring as usual?’

Perrin shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, lady.’

‘Lady Elinor, Lady Elinor!’ echoed a shrill voice. It was Lady Clara’s maid, puffing her way up to the top of the wall. ‘Ah, there you are, my lady. Your mother said I might find you here. She wants to see you at once.’

The maid leaned against the rampart, to get her breath back. She was neither young nor slender and Elinor knew that Lady Clara employed her partly because her mother was vain and the servant provided such a contrast to the lady’s own still-admired beauty.

Elinor had jumped guiltily and tried to hide the brooch in her sleeve. But the maid’s eyes were sharp, even if her body was sluggish.

‘You are discovered, lady,’ said Perrin lightly, reaching out and taking the strip of venison from her, his body masking what she was doing with the brooch. Elinor blushed to the roots of her brown hair. The maid looked at the meat with interest and the danger passed.

‘I don’t see why I shouldn’t eat my father’s own food,’ said Elinor sulkily, keeping up the pretence. ‘Everything in the kitchen is his.’

‘Well, there’s no time for more eating now,’ said the maid firmly. ‘Lady Clara is waiting.’

Perrin shrugged as Elinor passed him on her way down the stone stairs and began to chew on the venison strip.
I wonder what the
domna
is on the warpath about now
, he thought.

‘Your behaviour last night was quite unacceptable,’ said Lady Clara.

In the long history of their battles with each other Elinor had never known her mother to sound so cold. And this time she did not know what she was supposed to have done wrong.

‘But I did what you said,’ she protested. ‘I didn’t stumble at all. I listened to the music and let myself enjoy it.’

Her mother sighed with exasperation.

‘With Bertran de Miramont! With the troubadour!’ she said.

‘I . . . I didn’t know that was wrong,’ said Elinor. ‘Is it not allowed to dance with troubadours?’

‘Dancing is one thing,’ said her mother. ‘Flinging your arms round him like the lovesick girl you are is quite another!’

Elinor felt suddenly reckless. She felt the pin of the red brooch pressing into her arm.

‘And what if I do love him?’ she said boldly. ‘He is the nicest, handsomest man I have ever met. And he was kind to me. And he is a nobleman too. What is wrong with loving him?’

Lady Clara looked horrified. ‘It is worse than I thought,’ she said. ‘Has he said anything to you?’

Elinor hesitated. ‘No, not exactly. And he has gone.’

Her mother stiffened with shock.

‘When? And how do you know?’

‘At first light. I saw him from the window. I couldn’t sleep. Perrin says he will stay away a long time.’ She could not hold her voice quite steady.

‘This has to end now,’ said Lady Clara. ‘Bertran de Miramont is not for you. I shall speak to your father today. It is best you marry straight away.’

‘You’re just jealous!’ Elinor burst out hotly. ‘Because I am young and you are old and Bertran has to write his poems for you when it’s me he loves!’

‘Enough!’ said her mother in a voice that cracked like a whip across Elinor’s face. Two round red spots burned on Lady Clara’s cheeks. Elinor had gone too far. She knew she ought to beg her mother’s pardon but her blood was up and she didn’t feel sorry. She ran on further, making it worse with every word.

‘I suppose it would be all right to like Gui?’ she said. ‘Or some other loutish knight. But Gui went too fast for me in the
saltarello
. He wanted me to fall. It was Bertran who showed
cortesia
.’

Her mother came and stood right up close to her so that Elinor felt her words hiss breath on to her face.

‘You are to forget Bertran de Miramont! He will never marry. Not you or anyone else. The way things are, he will be lucky to be alive this time next year. You are a foolish, moonstruck child dabbling in things you don’t understand. Now . . . leave my sight!’

Bertran’s path first took him southward, along the River Orb. He had to get to Béziers and pass on his news to the Believers there. The town was under the rule of young Viscount Trencavel, who was sympathetic to the Believers, but he did not live in Béziers. Bertran would have to find someone else to spread the word.

The troubadour rode up the hill into the city and made his way to the cathedral of Saint-Nazaire. He was about to do something very dangerous and needed some advice. Three years ago the Papal Legates had ordered the Bishop, Guilhem, to come down hard on the heretics and he had refused. He was killed for his pains and a new bishop installed. This Bishop, Ermengaud, was still an unknown quantity to Bertran, who had been in Béziers only a few times in recent years, and the troubadour was not going to show him his hand without finding out something about him first.