Troubadour (8 page)

Elinor stepped forwards in her purple surcoat, feeling hot now and far from composed but she had memorised this lay, called ‘
Chevrefeuille
’ or ‘Honeysuckle’, among others by Marie de France, and as she started, the words began to work a kind of magic on her. Everyone was listening to the story – not to the individual
joglar
who sang it. Elinor or Esteve was just the vessel through which the sad tale passed.

Tristan was sent to woo the Lady Iseut for his uncle, King Mark, but had the misfortune to fall in love with her himself. His love was returned and the young couple pursued their affair in secret, not wishing for the King to discover it.

Elinor now came to the climax of the poem, where the banished Tristan carved a signal for Iseut into a hazel tree and a honeysuckle became entwined with it. The honeysuckle was so entangled with the hazel that either would die if the other were uprooted. And so it was with the two lovers, ‘
Ni moi sans vous, ni vous sans moi
’ – ‘Neither me without you nor you without me’.

Elinor thought of Bertran as she sang that part and it gave her voice more poignancy. She didn’t exactly feel that she couldn’t possibly live without him, like the honeysuckle and the hazel, but she could imagine what it would be like to feel that and for the duration of the song she did. She looked towards the Lady, who was listening to her so intently. Was she thinking of King Pedro? Elinor had gleaned from the gossip in the market that Pedro was fourteen years older than his wife – not as big a gap as between Iseut and King Mark but perhaps she was now yearning for a young Tristan to adore her. The Lady was still only twenty-two years old.

The lay of Chevrefeuille came to an end and Lady Maria led the applause. Elinor bowed and Lucatz clapped her on the back.

‘Well done, young
joglar
,’ he said. ‘You have made our fortune tonight.’

And indeed the
senescal
himself soon brought a goblet of hippocras especially for ‘the young
joglar
’ together with a velvet bag of coins. Elinor drank the spiced wine gratefully but handed the bag straight to Lucatz, without counting the coins. He appreciated her gesture but his eyes opened wide to see how much silver it contained. He stowed it away in his jacket but nodded to Elinor as if to say, ‘don’t worry – you’ll have some of it back.’

Some weeks after Elinor had brought tears to the eyes of Maria of Montpellier’s court as the young
joglar
Esteve, Bertran, quite ignorant of the
donzela
’s new life, at last reached Carcassonne. It was a city even more highly fortified than Minerve. Massive walls were punctuated by semicircular towers dating back to Roman times. There was a double gate to get through between the two suburbs outside the city, before the main road approaching the moated Château Comtal in the northeast corner, which had its own fortifications and towers.

Bertran was shown through all the gates and across the bridge to the château without challenge. The troubadour was a familiar figure in Carcassonne even though the young Viscount had poets and musicians enough of his own. Bertran was not kept waiting long before being shown into the presence of the Viscount himself.

Raimon-Roger Trencavel at twenty-four was younger than Bertran. But he looked tired, his face lined and sad. He brightened a bit when Bertran was shown in and, dispensing with the formalities, clasped the troubadour in his arms.

‘Well met, Miramont,’ he said. ‘It does me good to see you. Sit with me a while and let us drink a cup of wine together and put the world to rights.’

‘Ah, sire, if only we
could
put it to rights,’ said Bertran. ‘But I will willingly drink and talk with you, since there is much to talk about.’

‘Have you heard the latest news from the north?’ asked Trencavel, when the servants had gone and the two men were drinking companionably in the Viscount’s private room.

‘Tell me, sire,’ said Bertran.

‘The Pope has written direct to the nobles, asking them to take up arms against my uncle.’

‘I see,’ said Bertran. ‘What about King Philippe-Auguste?’

‘His Holiness has not written to him this time, they say. But I don’t imagine he will be happy if his barons take their soldiers and head south to please the Pope.’

‘What does your uncle say?’ asked Bertran.

‘I haven’t seen him. But he has brought this trouble on himself. He should never have promised the Legates that he would persecute the Believers. The Pope was bound to keep him to his word.’

The two men were silent for a while, drinking their wine and each thinking his own thoughts.

‘You heard about the murder of the Legate?’ asked Bertran.

The Viscount nodded. This was a delicate area. He could hardly tell the troubadour that his uncle had been responsible. But the fact was that Trencavel did not know the truth. He and his uncle, the Count of Toulouse, had not been on good terms for some time.

‘I was there,’ said Bertran. ‘I saw the murder and gave chase after the murderer. But I lost him.’

‘That is news indeed,’ said the Viscount. ‘I did not know you had been there.’

‘I am not proclaiming the fact,’ said Bertran. ‘It would have been all right if I had caught the villain but since he escaped me, there might be those, especially in Rome, who think I was in collusion with him.’

‘Surely not. You exaggerate the danger. Who would suspect you of such a heinous crime?’

‘That is not what matters anyway,’ said Bertran. ‘It is my belief that, if the Pope is successful in raising a northern army, it will not come only against Toulouse.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked the Viscount. ‘His argument is with my uncle, no one else.’

‘His argument is with the people he calls heretics,’ said Bertran. ‘And with any lord who supports them and is sympathetic to their cause.’

‘But that is more or less every lord in the Midi,’ objected the Viscount. ‘None of our cities and bastides could manage without the Believers – or the Jews come to that.’

‘That’s what I mean,’ said Bertran. ‘And why I have been singing of war and battles in every hill town between here and Saint-Gilles. I do believe that, using this murder as an excuse, the Pope will do everything he can to wage war against every court in the south. Anyway, once there is an army on the rampage, they will not be precise about who is a heretic and who is not.’

They were both thinking about this when a servant knocked at the door and came and whispered something in the Viscount’s ear.

‘And now we have two more pieces of news,’ said Raimon-Roger, his face grave. ‘The Pope has excommunicated my uncle again.’

‘That is surely no surprise,’ said Bertran.

‘No, indeed, he must be getting used to it,’ said the Viscount.

‘If he were a heretic, to be banned from the Sacrament would not mean much to him,’ said Bertran cautiously.

‘Nor if he were just a not very devout man but a rebellious and ambitious spirit, as I know him to be,’ said the Viscount, evading the implied question.

Bertran bowed. He was not going to find out, even from this intelligent man that he counted his friend, whether he or his uncle shared the troubadour’s religion.

‘But I said there was another piece of news,’ said the Viscount. ‘My servant tells me that there is a Pope’s man at the outer gate. He seeks one Bertran de Miramont. He thinks that the troubadour might be here and wishes – this is the precise phrase – to “interrogate him”. What shall I do, Bertran? It seems you might be right in one of your surmises at least. The Pope is looking for you.’

.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Two Journeys

The troupe stayed in Montpellier over a week. The Sunday after Easter was the feast day of a Saint Martin who had been a Pope hundreds of years before and Lucatz was insistent that they had to show themselves willing to celebrate the feast.

‘Pope Martin was a persecutor of heretics in his day,’ he told the
joglar
s. ‘And there are too many people who believe that we poets and minstrels support the heretics now. We have to show veneration for Saint Martin.’

Elinor caught the look that Perrin and Huguet exchanged and decided she must ask them about it. So when Lucatz had gone off to organise their next performance, she got the two
joglar
s on their own in the stables of Montpellier’s castle.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked. ‘You know something you’re not telling me. And there are whispers in the town.’

‘Sometimes it is better not to know too much,’ said Perrin. ‘Then you can plead ignorance if questioned.’

‘Questioned!’ said Elinor, alarmed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You heard what Lucatz said,’ said Huguet. ‘Travelling companies like ourselves, particularly the troubadours and
joglar
s, have been suspected of supporting the Believers and of carrying messages between them.’

‘And are you saying that is true?’ asked Elinor.

Perrin shifted uneasily. ‘Sometimes and in some cases, perhaps,’ he said.

‘And something has happened? Something that makes our situation more dangerous?’ asked Elinor.

‘We’d better tell her,’ said Huguet, looking at Perrin, who nodded briefly.

‘There was a murder a few months ago,’ said Perrin seriously. ‘The man who died was Pierre of Castelnau and he was archdeacon of Maguelonne here – a local man.’

‘Why was he murdered?’

‘He was the Pope’s Legate,’ said Huguet. ‘His official ambassador appointed to suppress the Believers. And he had just come away from a meeting with Count Raimon of Toulouse.’

‘That’s why the people of Montpellier are angry,’ said Perrin. ‘They feel that one of their own has been cut down.’

‘And the Pope blames the Count of Toulouse,’ said Huguet.

‘But how does that make it dangerous for us?’ asked Elinor. She felt at a loss, at sea in a world she didn’t understand.

‘Bertran thinks the Pope will take vengeance, not just on the Count but on the entire south,’ said Perrin.

‘Bertran said that? When?’

‘When he came to Sévignan,’ said Huguet. ‘That’s why he arrived in winter. He was visiting all the bastides sympathetic to the Believers, to warn them.’

Elinor was gradually beginning to understand. ‘My father . . .’ she said. Fear made her mouth dry. Was this why he had been so anxious to marry her off? Because he thought their castle would be attacked by the Pope? She forced her terror down and tried to listen carefully to what the
joglar
s were telling her.

Perrin was nodding. ‘I see you know about Lord Lanval’s religion,’ he said. ‘And I think you guess that Huguet and I – and Bertran – share it.’

‘But what can the Pope do?’ asked Elinor. ‘And why should he attack Sévignan if it was the Count of Toulouse who ordered the murder?’ She stowed away in her mind the revelation of Bertran’s dangerous religion.

‘He can raise an army,’ said Huguet grimly.

‘He hasn’t managed to do so yet – though he has tried,’ said Perrin. ‘But this time he has the best excuse ever to go to the French King and ask for help in defeating what he sees as heresy in the south. He’s always wanted to eliminate us.’

‘And if an army comes, they won’t stop at Toulouse,’ said Huguet. ‘And they won’t stop at heretics either.’

Elinor’s head was whirling with all these new ideas and facts. If Bertran was really a Believer of her father’s religion, she could understand better what her mother had meant when she said he would never marry. Elinor didn’t know much about them but she did know that all the Believers aspired to be Perfects before they died. And a Perfect must be celibate, without earthly ties.

‘But where is Bertran now?’ she asked. ‘And how did he know about the murder?’

‘He saw it,’ said Perrin. ‘And wherever he is, we must all pray he is not in danger.’

The unexpected visitor from the Pope to Viscount Trencavel’s court was the Bishop of Couserans. The Legate was very nervous about the task he had been assigned. But Innocent had been quite clear: ‘Find Bertran de Miramont, question him and bring him to Saint-Gilles for further interrogation.’

The Viscount rose and came forward to kiss the Bishop’s ring.

‘A thousand apologies, Your Grace,’ said the Viscount. ‘My foolish servant did not make clear to me how distinguished a visitor we had. May I introduce my friend, Bertran de Miramont?’

The Bishop had been one of the party with Pierre of Castelnau when he was killed and as soon as he was shown into Raimon-Roger’s presence, he had recognised the troubadour. It put him in a quandary, because he remembered very well how eagerly the man had mounted his horse and ridden after the murderer. It was hard to believe he had been part of a plan to kill the Legate.

The Bishop noticed that the troubadour did not offer him the same homage but the man bowed courteously enough.

The Viscount sent a servant away to fetch the best wine from the château’s cellar and the Legate seemed mollified, after his lukewarm welcome at the gate.

But the Bishop’s mind was in turmoil. This encounter was all very well and polite, but it did make it awkward for him to question Bertran as a possible criminal.

He cleared his throat. ‘I have been sent by His Holiness, Pope Innocent the Third, to continue his work in the Midi and to root out heresy,’ he began. ‘You have heard of the heinous murder of my fellow Legate, Pierre of Castelnau?’

‘Indeed I have,’ said the Viscount not looking at Bertran.

‘I was there, Your Grace,’ said the troubadour. ‘You might not remember, so sudden and terrible was the deed, but I gave chase to the assassin.’

This was better; the man was volunteering information.

‘Yes,’ said the Bishop. ‘I do remember you. What happened afterwards? Did you catch up with the man?’

‘I am afraid not,’ said Bertran. ‘He had a good start on me since my horse had to be got off the ferry-boat. I rode hard after the man but lost him near Beaucaire.’

‘Do you know the man’s name?’

‘No, Your Grace. I should of course have passed that information on if I had found it out.’

‘And have you heard the name Guilhem de Porcelet?’

‘I have heard it, Your Grace, but know nothing of him save that he owns lands near Arles.’

‘The Pope has received information that this man knows who the real killer is,’ said the Bishop. ‘And he wishes me to find him.’

‘I’m sorry that I cannot help you, Your Grace,’ said the troubadour. ‘Perhaps you would find out more in Beaucaire or Saint-Gilles?’

The Bishop looked relieved. ‘Yes, I might. And that will be convenient, for my next mission is to go eastwards.’ He coughed and stammered before saying, ‘However, I have to ask you to accompany me there. The Pope has asked me to take you to Saint-Gilles.’

There was nothing menacing about this Legate but Bertran understood that he was, in the politest way possible, being taken prisoner.

From the moment that the
joglar
s took her into their confidence, Elinor became more thoughtful. This adventure, which had started as an escape for her and had brought moments of longed-for freedom and exhilaration, had become something different, a flight from more than marriage.

Her thoughts turned increasingly to her old home and the dangers that her family might be facing. Sévignan was a well-defended hill town, with thick strong walls and battlements and a good company of knights and warriors, including her father and brother. It had its own wells and enough storerooms and barns that could be stocked to withstand a siege. She had grown up feeling safe and secure within its walls.

But what if an army of thousands or even tens of thousands, as the
joglar
s seemed to think possible, were to arrive, with equally experienced soldiers and the siege engines and catapults that she had heard about? She wished now that she had paid more attention to Aimeric’s talk of battles.

And what could the women do in such a situation? Would there be any role for Lady Clara or Alys during a siege or while the men went out to fight? Images flitted across her mind of bloody and broken bodies. Of course; that’s what the women would do: tend the wounded and dying. It made Elinor shiver, even in the warm southern sun.

Many times she thought of going back but it was impossible. A lone girl, even one dressed as boy, would not be safe in these turbulent times in the south. And Perrin had told her, very seriously, that Bertran would not want her to do anything but continue her escape. He knew the power of that name with her.

Bertran. She had loved him for so long that he was a part of her mind; her first thought in the morning and her last at night. He was her idea of the perfect man – like the heroes of the
canso
s
de gesta
she had been brought up on and the northern lays – her Alexander, Roland or Tristan. The irony did not escape her; ‘perfect’ was what Bertran aspired to be and that meant there could be no future for her with him, except as a loyal friend.

Then if that is all I can be to him, I will be that
, she thought.
For I must be something to him – at least if I am ever to see him again.

At last the troupe left Montpellier, richer by far than when they had arrived. Their road took them towards Lunel and the journey was long, without the luxury of a cart, even although Lucatz could now afford it. Their steps were accompanied by the low level grumbling of the
joglaresa
s, who didn’t want to walk and complained that they had to associate with acrobats and jugglers.

Lunel was not a hill town; it sat at the foot of the Cévennes Mountains and was surrounded by scrubland. But it had a fine Saturday market and that meant rich pickings for the troupe. It was May before they got there and the weather had turned very warm.

By now, Esteve had been accepted into the troupe and there was no more talk of finding his old troubadour. Lucatz valued his high clear voice and his knowledge of all the popular songs; he didn’t know that the other
joglar
s coached him every day, as they walked beside his pony.

The
joglaresa
s were the only other members of the troupe who knew Elinor’s secret.

Once, when they were camped at a little village on the way to Lunel, Pelegrina had probed her about her plans.

‘What will you do when you become a woman?’ she asked. ‘When you start to bleed every month and grow breasts? Will you wait for Lucatz to notice or will you look for another troupe as a
joglaresa
?’

Elinor had been horrified. Joining another troupe was a step too far. She looked at the Catalan, who was biting into a peach with evident enjoyment.

‘I don’t know, Pelegrina. I really don’t know,’ she said. ‘I can’t think further than this summer.’