Alys and her mother were still in such a state of shock that they hardly spoke. It had been bad enough seeing Aimeric shot down on the battlements but the sight of Lord Lanval climbing steadily on to the pyre had eclipsed even that. As far as Lady Clara was concerned she had but one child left and so certain was she that death or utter ruin would soon overtake them that she could not take thought even to protect that last human being who was dependent on her.
If their senescal hadn’t made them stop for food and rest, it is doubtful that they would have survived the first few terrible days. They had come to Béziers and seen it nothing but a heap of ruins. They reined their horses and looked out at the devastation.
‘I was married there,’ said Clara quietly. ‘In that cathedral that is now nothing but a wreck. Lanval and I stood at the altar in Saint-Nazaire and pledged ourselves to each other for life. That same altar where priests clung on to the crucifix and women and children hung on to the priests’ robes screaming while French ruffians speared and burned them.’
She turned to her daughter and her servant.
‘They did that in the name of my church to the Believers of my husband’s religion. And to their own. I think the whole world has gone mad.’
They rode on to Narbonne, which had surrendered so easily to the northerners. But there were hardly any there now, only a handful to guard it against rebels.
The senescal persuaded Lady Clara to go to the court of the Viscount and throw themselves on his hospitality. Viscount Aimery was a cipher now, left his title as a reward for his surrender but no longer true lord of his own city. Still, he received them kindly enough.
‘I should have believed Miramont when he came to see me last spring,’ he said bitterly, when Clara had told him of the events at Sévignan.
‘Our troubadour came here?’ asked Alys. It was the first thing she had taken any interest in since the death of her brother and father.
Lady Clara hesitated then shrugged. What harm could Bertran’s secret do any of them now? He was probably dead too.
‘He was a Believer, like your father,’ she told Alys. ‘He came to Sévignan to warn us after the Pope’s Legate was murdered.’
‘And to me,’ said the Viscount. ‘He said that the French would not stop at killing heretics and he was proved right – look what they did at Béziers!’
‘We passed it,’ said Clara wearily. ‘No church, no marketplace left, nothing of that thriving and busy town – just ashes and ruins.’
‘That is what Narbonne would have looked like if I hadn’t surrendered,’ said the Viscount. ‘I know there are those who think me a coward for not resisting but at least my city still exists, unlike Trencavel’s.’ He lowered his voice, even though there were no Frenchmen in the room. ‘And may one day again not be in foreign hands.’
‘I sent our knights and foster-sons to join the rebels,’ said Clara, ‘but I have no great hopes. So many have been killed and the French army outnumbers them so vastly.’
‘But most of the French have gone home,’ said the Viscount. ‘And though they may have reinforcements in the spring, our men have all the winter to regroup.’
‘Then let us hope they do,’ said Clara.
The court at Monferrato fell silent. Iseut had told them everything. They had heard of some of the disaster in the Midi: news of the massacre at Béziers had travelled far and fast. But that French soldiers had crossed back over the Rhône and sacked Digne and threatened Saint-Jacques was unexpected.
‘So you fired your own castle?’ asked Guglielmo. He was shocked and impressed in equal measure. He could not imagine being so desperate as to destroy any of his own castles.
‘You are very brave,’ said the Marchesa, her hand on her heart, picturing her own three little boys with the castle under siege. She was carrying her fourth child and her husband did not want her to be upset.
‘Come, enough of such tragic tales for one day,’ he said, taking Iseut by the hand. ‘You and your companions are welcome guests at Monferrato. Stay as long as you wish. In fact, it would please me very much to have you and the Lady Elinor become part of my court. My wife is not so rich in noblewomen to be her friends that she would not welcome two more such lovely additions to the court. And my senescal will make yours welcome too.’
He stood and clapped his hands.
‘We shall have music. And you can tell us the rest of your story over the coming days. For now we shall have feasting and dancing and push away all thoughts of warfare while we can.’
.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Two Castles
Elinor and Iseut were assigned a chamber of their own in the castle, which the Marchesa took pleasure in furnishing with every comfort. At last the women were able to unpack what belongings they had saved from Saint-Jacques and put their pitifully few clothes and possessions into chests. All the jewels were unsewn now and, with the coins, were hidden under cloaks and dresses. Although Iseut was content to live as a dependent of the Marchese, at least for the winter, that money and those gems represented what was left of her independence.
But Guglielmo of Monferrato was a generous host and when his wife told him what poor clothing and adornment the two women had, he made them many presents of gowns and fine linen.
When they had been at court a week, he sent word that he would like a private audience with Iseut and there she told him about Jaufre and the Fourth Crusade.
The Marchese was a good listener. At the end he said, ‘You know that my father left on the same crusade as your lord? They might well have met and known each other. The last Marchese was a good man and a good father. I fought alongside him in many battles with troublesome neighbours. And I would have gone with him to the Holy Land.’
‘And why did you not?’ asked Iseut.
‘Because he forbade it. I am his only son, save my little half-brother Demetrio. And he is still only four. The Marchese insisted that I should stay and govern Monferrato, in case he didn’t come back. And of course he didn’t – like your husband.’
They were both silent for a while.
‘I heard what happened to your father – it was terrible,’ said Iseut gently.
‘Yes,’ said Guglielmo. ‘It was, but I must not think of that now. I have to rule my lands as best I can and I must continue the tradition of my father’s court. He was always generous to widows and orphans and I would wish to follow his example.’
‘So I have heard,’ said Iseut. ‘And I have also heard that your father was a great patron of music and poetry. Did his own troubadour not fight and die at his side?’
‘So they say,’ said Guglielmo. He had his own views about troubadours; since his father’s death many of them had written poems urging him to go and avenge the dead Marchese. But Guglielmo saw nothing to be gained by listening to their advice, except further bloodshed and a doubtful chance of victory. He preferred to stay in Monferrato and encourage the poets to write about something else.
‘I am myself a trobairitz and so is my companion Elinor,’ said Iseut. ‘Though we are not yet greatly experienced poets and Elinor has started composing only since she came to me at Saint-Jacques. Yet we would both rather rely on your patronage than on your charity.’
This startled the Marchese out of his reverie about troubadours.
‘Both trobairitz?’ he exclaimed. ‘Then doubly welcome at the court of Monferrato. We shall not expect to hear much from you yet but when you are ready to give my joglars something to perform, we shall be honoured to hear it.’
Iseut’s heart lifted, till she saw how the Marchese was looking at her. It was a speculative assessment, not like a man attracted to a woman but more like a farmer assessing a cow he was thinking of purchasing. She saw with sudden clarity that he was mentally matchmaking. This great lord, for all his power, his army and his castles, wa
s casting around in his mind to see if any of his knights might make a second husband for her!
She told Elinor her suspicions, as soon as she was back in their chamber.
‘And he’ll do the same for you, be sure of it,’ she said.
‘What shall we do?’ asked Elinor. ‘You surely don’t think we should leave?’
The thought of returning to the road with no better destination in mind appalled both women. It was well into November now and the nights were cold. Their bedchamber with its own fireplace was welcoming and cosy and to go back on the road without a goal or plan would have been madness.
‘No,’ said Iseut firmly. ‘We shall stay and eat the Marchese’s meat and wear the Marchesa’s clothes but we shall spend our days in composition and offer our songs and poems in return for their care. They’ll never think of marrying us off before the spring and then we can decide what to do. Besides, it might be amusing to see whom Guglielmo has in mind.’
Elinor was not so sure; the only marriage proposal she had ever received had been far from amusing.
But at the next feast day, when they might have feared eligible suitors would be presented to them, the evening turned out very differently.
The joglars had sung and played and the dancers and acrobats and jugglers had entertained Guglielmo’s guests, when his senescal came and spoke into his ear. The Marchese continued his father’s tradition of never turning anyone away from his great hall during a meal and it seemed that a knight had come to the gate all the way from the Midi. Iseut and Elinor gathered that much but it seemed the man did not want to enter. He had asked instead for Guglielmo to come to him.
The Marchese was disconcerted; he considered it ill-mannered to leave his guests, who did indeed include possibly eligible suitors for the ladies of Saint-Jacques, but the knight had been most insistent and the senescal looked very grave.
With many elaborate courtesies and excuses, the Marchese left his board and the women glanced at one another, fearing something but doubting what it could be. He was not long gone, however, and brought the knight with him, making space for him at his table and pressing him to take wine and some sweetmeats at least.
Elinor recognised the red and gold of his surcoat; here was someone else from her homeland and she longed to question him.
Guglielmo stood and rapped the table, calling all to listen to him.
‘This young man,’ he said, ‘has ridden hard over a long distance to bring bad news. Viscount Trencavel is dead.’
It was no different a fate from what Elinor had feared but it was so definite, so final. She had seen the young Viscount and his wife on several occasions; as her father’s overlord he had even come to Sévignan more than once. She had heard about his capture at Carcassonne and about the way his titles had been usurped by the French victors. But dead! As long as he had been a prisoner in his own dungeon there might have been some hope – some talk of ransom or other bargaining for his release. But now all hope had died with him.
‘The French “Viscount” de Montfort,’ spat the Marchese, ‘is giving it out that Trencavel died of dysentery. But I think we can discount that. The man was alone and unarmed, chained up in a dungeon. What would have been easier than to eliminate him with a dagger or rope? And what had he done, except own some fine castles and rich lands?’
‘Does his son live?’ asked the soft-hearted Marchesa, whose own little boys were no older than the small heir to Trencavel’s title.
‘He does, my lady,’ said the knight. ‘The Viscountess Agnes has accepted a pension of three thousand sols and is under the protection of the Count of Foix, with her son. But of course she is viscountess no more – that title is reserved for Alice de Montfort. And little Roger has lost his father’s title to a Frenchman. Viscountess Agnes had to promise he would never try to get it back.’
‘And the cur had Viscount Trencavel’s body laid out in the cathedral for all to see,’ said the Marchese. ‘As if to honour him. He who was kept a prisoner in his own dungeon! There is no limit to the man’s effrontery.’
Elinor felt that her heart might break. She had no idea if any of her family had survived the French onslaught on the south and she had been as horrified as everyone else when she had heard the news of the massacre at Béziers. But the word of this one death was somehow worse than anything she had heard so far because she could see a picture in her mind of the young Viscount, tossing his baby son up into the air and smiling as the boy crowed and the pretty Viscountess gazed indulgently at them both. Now the father was dead, almost certainly murdered, the son dispossessed and the wife a widow, dependent on the protection of another southern noble, just as vulnerable as her husband had been.
She could bear it no longer. Elinor whispered in Iseut’s ear. All around them voices were raised in anger and shock as the news sank in. Trencavel had been a popular overlord and his fame had spread even into Piedmont. His death was viewed as an outrage too far.
Iseut spoke to Guglielmo and he clapped his hands again for silence.
‘We shall honour Viscount Trencavel as a fallen comrade,’ he said. ‘As if he had died on the battlefield defending his lands and castle. Not having met his end in a dank and unhealthy prison, whether by disease or treachery. The Lady Iseut reminds me that we have at our court Lady Elinor of Sévignan, daughter of one of the Viscount’s vassals. And she would like to sing for us a lament, written by Lady Iseut, but to a tune of her own composition.’
Elinor came down and spoke to the musicians. She stood straight and slender in a dark red gown and sang the planh that Iseut had written for her dead husband, to a tune she had been working on for months.
The joglars soon picked it up and produced a soft accompaniment on rebec and tambour. She poured into it all she felt about the destruction of the south and the loss of her own home and family. It was unusual for a trobairitz to sing in public but this was an unusual occasion and Elinor’s plangent melody fitted the melancholy mood exactly.
When she stopped, there was long silence and then a roar of approval, as Guglielmo pledged a toast to ‘Trencavel, Sévignan and the people of the south!’
‘Well sung, Elinor,’ said Iseut, when she sat back down, and the Lady’s eyes were wet with sadness for the death of more than one man.
The news of the Viscount’s death had reached Termes from Carcassonne as the garrison was settling in for the winter. Bertran was stunned. It seemed such a short time ago he had been with Viscount Trencavel in his castle, when the Legate came to arrest him. All the knights were similarly affected. The young Viscount had been liege lord to most of them, although many were older than him, and there was a warmth of feeling towards him that made his ignominious and unnecessary death seem all the worse.
They held a memorial Mass in the church at Termes and Bertran went, though he didn’t take the Sacrament. He noticed about twenty others who refrained, telling him more clearly than he had known before who were what the Pope would call heretics. They never discussed religion in the garrison; whatever the reason this carnage had begun, it was clear now that it was all out war between the north and south.
The young Viscount hadn’t been a Believer – or if he had he had kept it quiet – and he had never been accused of any crime. The Abbot of Cîteaux had broken with every honourable convention of law by not accepting the Viscount’s submission at Montpellier. It was Trencavel’s uncle, the Count of Toulouse, that the vast army had been assembled to crush and by joining the French he had deflected the onslaught on to his nephew.
Feeling against the Count of Toulouse was running high; he was known to have sent his own representatives to Rome so that his lands wouldn’t be confiscated. And if he succeeded, he would have lost nothing in this war that had caused so much death and destruction.
All the faidits wandering through the south, sheltering where they could in the empty castles abandoned by t
he northerners, blamed the Count of Toulouse for their situation, even more than they blamed the French.
Sévignan was one of the abandoned bastides. Bertran had gone with a small band, including Gui le Viguier, to check the lie of the land in his old lord’s hill town. But though abandoned, it was not quite empty. Bertran knocked on the wicket gate and a grizzled head appeared.
‘Friend or foe?’ asked the keeper.
‘Foe to the French,’ said Bertran recklessly.
‘Then friend to us,’ said the man and opened the gate to the little party. When he saw Gui, nudging his horse through, he rushed up to cling on to his stirrup.
‘Is it you, young master?’ the old man asked. ‘Lord le Viguier and your sister are here.’
It was true. No one knew what would happen in the spring, whether the French army would return to reclaim its prizes won so easily the summer before. But for now, in the unusually cold and wet winter in the Midi, the forsaken castles and hill towns could provide shelter and some meagre rations for the landless lords who had been ejected from their own keeps.
Lord Thibaut and Blandina were warming themselves by the one log fire in the deserted hall. They fell on Gui with joy when they saw him; they had thought him dead in the defence of this same bastide. Gui hadn’t had the heart to send Sicart, the old senescal, back out into the wilderness to find his father. The messenger he had sent in his place had come back unable to find where Thibaut was. But the old man and his daughter had found their way to Sévignan after they had surrendered their own bastide.
Bertran left them to have their reunion in peace and wandered the keep looking for signs of the life that had once been his to share. All the tapestries and hangings had gone, looted by the French, and all the portable plate and furniture. The kitchen was cold and empty, though there were logs enough stacked in the hearth.
Bertran stood a moment to remember Hugo the cook, who had died so bravely.