Almodis (20 page)

‘Well,’ says Geoffrey, when they have finished accounting for themselves, ‘it seems my army is much reinforced!’

He does not plan to stay for long but to take them
tomorrow
morning and I will depart then too, back to Toulouse. The thought of returning to Pons makes my heart sink, but I
console
myself with my new baby and the thought of Melisende and Bernadette.

It is very late. Dia and the children have been abed for a long time and the castle is still and silent. I am sitting up feeding my baby and am surprised to hear the door creak and see Geoffrey enter.

‘I want you to come away with me, Almodis,’ he says, without prelude.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean. I want you to be my wife.’ I control my shaking and carefully lay my child back in his
cradle
so that I might stand and face Geoffrey. I pull my thin
nightshift
across my breast. He is the kind of man who takes what he wants if it is not freely given and we are alone.

‘I am wed. I am the faithful wife of the Count of Toulouse.’

‘The miserable wife, Almodis. I’ve met your ancient husband and I know you.’

‘You know nothing.’

‘Let me try another tack. I am in need of an heir and a wife. I
have long desired you. You know it. I would give you everything you could wish for and free you from that tedious excuse of a man. He does not share your literary passions. I can do that. You rule and he drinks. I will appreciate and nurture your capabilities and I flatter myself that you would find me a more welcome sight in your bed. Much more welcome,’ he says, taking a step towards me.

My eyes linger on his mouth, his hand held out to me, the strength of the muscles in his neck.

‘It’s impossible,’ I say, rather weakly.

Sensing his advantage he closes for the kill, taking my arm and pulling me to him, kissing me hard, breathing my name. I stumble back from him. ‘I must think on it,’ I say holding him at bay with a gesture.

‘Yes do,’ he says warmly, believing that he has already tamed me.

I run from the room and gain the battlements. My daughter is in Toulouse. I have worked long and hard for the city and the county. If I abandon Pons as I would dearly wish to do he may disinherit my sons and take his nephew as his heir to spite me. And Geoffrey, what an uncertain man is he to take to my bed? He is addicted to battle. Agnes could not keep him with her, and what if I should not give him the heir he needs so badly? Is he infertile? I have managed Pons but I would never manage Geoffrey. He would seek to control me. I have seen how he is with his sisters. If they comply with his wishes, as Adele does, he is all goodness, but if they do not, as Hermengarde does not, he is punitive and harsh. Last year he accused Hermengarde of defiling herself with an illicit liaison and took her youngest son away from her to raise him in his own court. Could he be as cruel as his father?

As a woman who had abandoned her husband, I would be a scandal, excommunicated. We would struggle to have a marriage between us and any offspring recognised. Would my brother war with Geoffrey? Would Pons? No, nobody but the Duke of
Normandy
willingly wars with Geoffrey.

Though I have only distaste and contempt for my husband, I love my city and my county. My life is of the South – in the lands bounded by the Loire, the Garonne, the Pyrenees and the Rhone.
I love the people and the poets of Occitania, the Corbières hills, the monuments and memories of Romans and Visigoths, the
visiting
Barcelonese and Aragonese, the sun, the Genovese captains in the harbours. I love its deep valleys, its rivers winding round granite cliffs and castles, the cormorants on the river, the rolling gait of the broad, short peasants with their dark visages and hook noses. I do not wish to go to the North with its excessive pieties, its cold, its masculine military culture.

I run down to my chamber and shake Dia awake. ‘Pack up and bring the baby.’

She is sleepy and confused. ‘Now?’

‘Do it quietly and speak to no one but Piers.’

I write a note to Geoffrey.
I cannot do as you ask my Lord though I am greatly honoured that you ask it. My conscience and my religion forbid such an action. I will love you always as my brother. I beg that you will love my sons as your own.
My pen hovers. Would he be cruel to them in anger at me? I will tell Hugh to write to me immediately if Geoffrey is unkind and I will remove them to Audebert’s care if that should happen. I continue my letter:
I beg you teach them the arts of war and of chivalry of which you are the greatest example in all Christendom.

Mayhap you will ask me again
, I write suddenly at the end. What impelled me to do that? I open my mouth and things fall out of it. I must let this sentence stand or start the letter over again.
Geoffrey
is not a man to toy with. I think of his mouth on mine, of his thigh against mine, and leave it be.

The boys are sleeping soundly, their three blond heads
showing
above the fur covers. I kiss their soft cheeks, one, two, three, and hope they will not be too bewildered to find me gone in the morning without goodbyes.

‘Let’s go,’ I tell Dia.

Piers is waiting with the horses at the gate. Another departure with a newborn huddled in my cloak. As we clear the gate I look back to where my boys are sleeping and see that Geoffrey stands on the battlements watching me go. I throw back my hood so that the moonlight catches my hair and I raise my arm to him and he to me. I cannot see his face clearly, just the glint of his shoulder brooch and his sword.

‘It would be good for the House of Toulouse, husband, if our standing in Rome with this new pope were stronger.’

‘Want to go gallivanting on a pilgrimage, eh, pretty?’

‘No, my Lord. I was thinking that you would be the one to carry out such a delicate diplomatic mission, to travel to the tomb of Saint James at Santiago de Compostela, forging alliances with abbots and bishops along the route, and ensuring that the pope is a friend to Toulouse. That is not a job for a woman. I need to look after babies.’

‘Hmm’, Pons says, looking up at the ceiling, imagining himself, no doubt, lolling in a carriage all the way with two half-naked prostitutes, and I see that I have won my way.

Pons went by boat up the Tarn last week to the Abbey of Saint Peter at Moissac to begin his pilgrimage. He knows the abbot there, Durand de Bredon, and will begin his devotions for his journey. I expect that he will spend most of that journey on horseback, but he wants me to believe that he will go barefoot as a walking pilgrim. So I calculated how long it would take him to walk from Moissac and back: four months, I’ve told him. So now he will have to take that long or be shamefaced. I have sent one of my men, Gregor, along to give me news of my Lord’s progress, so that I can be sure he does not return to take me unawares.

It is the first day of the Troubadour Court as I am calling this year’s
Easter Assembly. Pons knew my plan but he thought that just a few bedraggled
jongleurs
would turn up ‘to take advantage of your hospitality and win your little prize’, but he is wrong. Here is a great throng of people in the bailey of the Chateau Narbonnais. Jongleurs, troubadours and
trobairitz
from all over Occitania, Italy, Catalonia, Andalucia and even a few from other Muslim kingdoms. Dia is making a list of all the entrants for the prize and she keeps rushing in to tell me excitedly that so and so is here from such and such and he is very famous or she is widely renowned or he is very handsome! My prize, my court, is a great success already. The nobility of Toulouse are here too, arriving in clumps with their servants and entourages, elbowing for precedence. Raingarde and her husband Pierre arrived last night, with my mother and sister Lucia who is growing fast, sixteen now. My mother is determined that Lucia will make a splendid marriage, and won’t listen to reason that the third daughter of a countess is not such a catch, though Lucia is handsome and intelligent so we will see what can be done for her. Raingarde brings with her the very sad news that Countess Elisabet of Barcelona – Ramon’s wife, has died in childbed in
Barcelona
, leaving him with just his eight-year-old son Pere.

I have invited Fides, Countess of Rouergue; Rangarda,
Viscountess
of Albi and Nîmes; Garsenda, Viscountess of
Narbonne
; and my sister to act as judges with me: a high court of women! Their husbands are all here with them and many others of the local nobility besides. I see Roger, Count of Foix and his brother Bernard, Count of Bigorre in the courtyard below and Richard, Viscount of Millau arrived last night too with the Bishop of Uzès. Almost everyone is here. Arnaud, Count of Comminges, sent me a charming letter in rhyming couplets, which he no doubt did not devise himself, sending apologies that he is laid up with gout and cannot attend. Everyone knows that he has a great
distaste
for poetry and music and prefers drinking songs but I have sent him an elegant reply, pretending that I know how distraught he is to miss the court.

And the town is here. I have made a great point of
inviting
the
capitouls
and the leading merchants, as well as Armand and Adémar, the viscounts of the city. At least they can all go home at night, because we are bursting at the seams. Gilbert, has
everything running smoothly. He has proved to be an excellent and energetic young chamberlain. The servants have an air of team morale about them as if they are all rising to the challenge of this great event and wanting to show what they are capable of. In most households there would be moaning and complaining but my staff look as if they are enjoying themselves. Well, all except Bernadette, of course, who has gone into her most sincere and loudest level of whingeing.

‘But how am I to do that my Lady, at the same time as looking after three children?’ she keeps saying to me.

‘Just get on with it, Bernadette, like everybody else,’ I tell her. ‘Involve the children in the tasks. Use it as an opportunity to teach them something.’

‘What?’ she says and I turn from her exasperated, to look over Dia’s list of troubadours. I know that Bernadette will do the jobs I have given her and well, but she has to complain too. I watch with pleasure as my children troop out after her telling her which bits they can help with. Hugh the Bishop is three now. Melisende is ten, and holds hands with my new daughter, Adalmoda, who has just started to walk. Bernadette does not have the patience to go at a baby’s pace, but Melisende does. She helps Adalmoda balance her slow and precarious way. Melisende is a good girl and has some features of my former husband, her black eyes
contrasting
with her golden hair. I am reminded with sadness of him every time I look at her. I have no doubt that Bernadette will sit in a corner complaining with Adalmoda and Hugh the Bishop on her lap and Melisende will do all her work.

I sit with the other lady judges on the high table with the golden violet laid on a purple cushion in front of us. Amoravis has done an excellent job and it is a beautiful object. Fides has added 200
solidi
to the prize making it even more desirable. Dia introduces the ‘proceedings’ telling us that there are thirty competitors and there will be three days of poetry and on the fourth day we will give our decision. Rangarda, Garsenda and my sister have also contributed money prizes so that we can award second, third and fourth prizes too and I have decided to give each entrant some small gift to take away. We will have to place a limit on the number of entrants next year or we will be sitting here from
Easter to Lammas listening to poems. Gilbert told me that some of the merchants have been grumbling that if I am spending so many days with entertainers how will I do my duty in my
husband’s
absence and ensure the ‘serious’ business of the assembly is conducted. I gathered the
capitouls
and merchants of the city together this morning before the poets began, and gave them a schedule of hearings for the disputes and other matters of justice that are coming before me.

At the end of the morning’s recitations, the final troubadour to come before us gives his name as Rodriguez of Girona. He has a thick black beard, a hooked nose and a dirty cowl covering his head, with a pilgrim’s broad-brimmed hat jammed on top of that. His belly is huge, perched above his legs, which seem to be the only shapely part of him. It is not a promising beginning and I hope that his contribution will be a couplet rather than an epic. He gives us a sonnet describing me as the Queen of Occitania. It is a short and surprisingly sweet poem for one so ugly, but not the best entry to be sure. It seems some flattery to name me but I feel a suspicion that he is laughing at me somehow.

‘Next,’ snaps Countess Fides, rapping her ring against her glass. She is unimpressed, or perhaps she is jealous that he has not called her Queen of Occitania.

‘Thank you Don Rodriguez, how beautiful,’ I say and he bows low and is replaced by the next competitor.

I weary of poetry. I did not think that I would ever say that!
Yesterday’s
batch was indifferent. Many poems but no great ones. Imitations and conventional compositions. I watch my falcon circle high in the early morning mist. The blue of the sky is
working
to force its way through but has not won its battle yet. The sun is bright but has no heat so early. The trees are beginning to bud and green. I have ridden a long way out, needing to escape from so many people, so many demands. My stomach rumbles and I head towards the lodge to break my fast. I am come alone and carry some bread and ale with me. I need solitude and so am perplexed to find the fat troubadour Rodriguez of Girona standing near the door of the lodge. Drat! He bows low flourishing his ridiculous pilgrim’s hat.

‘I cannot give you audience now, here, Rodriguez,’ I say, before he can begin with some tiresome request. ‘Leave me and I will speak with you later today in the hall.’

‘I would wish to comply with your every order my dear Lady,’ he says, ‘but I cannot.’

I stare at him. What does he mean? He must comply with my order. He does not drop his gaze. He stares back at me. Does he mean me harm? Surreptitously I feel for the hunting knife at my waist.

‘You won’t need that Almodis. You need have no fear of me, though I look most fearful.’ There is something about his voice. He is pulling off his hat and cowl and I step back and grip my knife now, assessing the position of my horse. What can he mean by this behaviour?

‘You will address me as Countess,’ I say in my coldest voice, ‘and you will leave me immediately, now. I want you gone from Toulouse altogether before I get back to the castle.’

‘Oh but I can’t do that,’ he persists. ‘What if I should be the winner of the violet?’

I am frowning and begin to be afraid. His behaviour is
impertinent
in the extreme and he is shedding his clothes in an alarming fashion. I turn to run to the horse and he grabs me by the arm. He means rape.

‘Almodis, Almodis. No, it’s me. You know me.’

I turn, sick in my stomach, to see if I can find a way to be free. I don’t know him. Is he mad? He holds my arm so that I cannot free my knife. How have I allowed this to happen?

‘Please, don’t be afraid. I’m so sorry to scare you. I could not come as myself and have any chance to speak with you.’

I turn in wonder and see that his black beard is hanging loose from one side of his face. A false beard. Stripped of his cowl, his hair is golden. His hand on my arm is young and shapely. The clothes he has shed are his … his belly.

‘Ramon?’

‘Yes. I thought you would know me yesterday!’

He is laughing and I remember his laugh and his blue eyes, the boy in the mews when I was still a girl. I am so relieved and amazed I cannot speak. He relaxes his grip but still holds my arm.

‘I’m sorry. I have really frightened you. Come into the lodge and sit down. We will break fast together and I can try to explain myself to you. Countess,’ he adds in mock politeness and I
manage
a feeble smile at that. My mind is blank. He has brought some fruit and wine but I cannot eat. A bee bumbles through the lodge, buzzing slowly. All the time I am taking quick glances at him and he is stripping himself of more and more of his ridiculous
disguise
. The hook nose, strips of cloth that padded his arms and stomach, the beard. At last there he is. Himself. With vestiges of glue hanging on his chin and cheek.

‘I don’t understand you,’ I say, finally finding that I am angry with him. ‘Why must you come like this? Like an idiotic
pantomime
. You would be an honoured guest at my court as yourself.’

‘Yes, but where would be the fun in that?’ I frown and he sees that he must say more. ‘I am truly sorry that I scared you. I couldn’t think of another way to encounter you alone.’

I shift along the bench, away from him. ‘And why should you wish to do that? Why this subterfuge and deceit?’

‘I wished to speak with you intimately, Almodis,’ he says
shifting
back towards me and taking my hand. I feel the cool warmth of his palm and admire the light golden skin of his hand on mine but then snatch my hand away. ‘And why can you not speak to me in my chambers or in the hall? This is ridiculous Ramon.’ His blue eyes smiling at me chime so strongly with my memories. A little mollified I add, ‘I am pleased to see you of course, after all this time.’

‘Eleven years,’ he says. ‘And four days.’

I swallow at that and look at him again. He has changed, for now he is a man but still a young and beautiful one. I reach up and pull a piece of glue hanging from his cheek.

‘Ouch!’

‘You deserve a great deal of pain,’ I tell him, smiling
reluctantly
. ‘And by the way you won’t win the golden violet. Your poem was terrible.’

‘No, don’t say that! It wasn’t bad. Dia wrote it for me!’

‘What, Dia! She knew it was you and didn’t tell me!’

‘Don’t be unkind to her. It’s not her fault. The fault is all mine.’

‘Well, you have amused yourself with this game, Count Ramon,’ I say rising, ‘and now I must return to my serious business of
running
my assembly.’

He rises with me and takes my hand again. ‘Almodis, let me speak first. I did not do this merely for a jape, though I admit it has been quite amusing.’ He pauses and grins lopsidedly at me, raising his eyebrows, but I do not bend.

‘Hmmph!’ I say.

‘I am come to speak with you seriously Almodis. You know that my wife has died?’

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I am so sorry for it Ramon. You have suffered a great deal with your family.’

‘Thank you, and yes. Fortune favours me in the field and in politics. Barcelona flourishes and you will love the city when you see her but I have not been so lucky in my family life.’

‘No doubt I will admire Barcelona,’ I say. ‘Perhaps I will come next year to your Easter Assembly.’

‘No,’ he says. ‘Come now. Come with me. I want you as my wife Almodis. I wanted you eleven years and four days ago, but my grandmother would hear nothing of it and took me away before I could speak with you. Elisabet was a good wife to me but I don’t want just a dutiful wife, Almodis. I want you. I love you. I always have.’

I pull my hand out of his with force. ‘What can you mean, Ramon? This is more nonsense.’

‘No.’ He sinks to his knees and crushes me and my skirts against him. ‘Please, Almodis, consider me and say yes. I know that you are not happy with Pons. I know how capable you are, but above all, I love you and I will make you happy, as you deserve. I will give you everything. You are more shining than snow. You are radiant Almodis, as radiant as the girl I met so long ago in the mews in her nightclothes and her hair loosed down her back.’