The troubadour's song (2 page)

"I'll go with you, then," said Marguerite.

"No, you might be needed here to try to ascertain what the devious Simon de Montfort will do. But you must get out of the clothing that will give you away as a noblewoman. You'll be less easily captured that way. Have your maid bring simple clothing. You must appear to be a townswoman. And I must look like a young man. Can that be managed?"

Marguerite gave orders to her maid, and sent a squire to saddle Allesandra's horse. Soon the ladies' sleeveless supertunics were cast aside, long-sleeved gowns and chemises tossed onto benches

while the two ladies divested themselves of the marks of their stations. Allesandra donned the loose linen braies and hose drawn up over them and tied them to the breech-girdle that held the braies around the waist.

Marguerite could not resist teasing her friend even in the midst of such dire straits.

"You are certainly adept at male underclothing," she said as her own maid laced up a simple gown at her back and then combed Marguerite's long straw-colored hair over it, handing her a wimple.

Allesandra reached for the man's shirt and pulled it over her head. "I was married for many years, madam. I am no stranger to a man's wardrobe."

Over the shirt, she pulled a long-sleeved tunic, not unlike the dress she was used to wearing except for its length, which came only to her knees, revealing the hose beneath. The long slit at the neck of the tunic revealed the linen shirt and the curve of her breast. But the plain nut-brown cloak she drew about her shoulders and tied at her throat would disguise her feminine form to all but the most discerning eye. She loosened the pins that held her hair dressed in plaits and wound over the ears. Long, loose-flowing dark hair tucked under the cape would more resemble a young man's hair than the coils meant to be hidden by wimple and veil.

"Come," she said to Marguerite, who now appeared to be a housewife to one of the burghers in town.

Marguerite followed Allesandra through the outer chamber, and the maid was about to grasp the handle of the heavy door when a thunder of footsteps sounded on the spiral stairs beyond.

"Wait," said Allesandra. "Something has happened."

She pressed herself to the edge of the door and grasped the handle to pull it open only a crack. In the flicker of light from wall sconces that lit the inner staircase she saw the hated French foot-soldiers fly past, quivers of arrows on their backs, longbows tightly strung in their arms.

A tall knight in hauberk, the chain mail garment that covered

his long-limbed body from chin to toe, clanked down the stone steps and stopped a few feet from where Allesandra peered out. He issued sharp commands to the archers in northern French, which Allesandra understood from a year spent in that region, and she closed the door tighter for fear of discovery.

"What is it?" whispered Marguerite, who had flattened her back to the door at the sound of the hurrying soldiers.

Allesandra opened the door a crack once more, but the knight in command of the infantry had not moved. She lifted a finger to her lips to indicate to Marguerite that they must be silent.

She could see little of his face, hidden by the helmet with nasal bar covering his nose and mail iaced over chin and tied to the helmet with thongs. But his deep baritone voice brooked no argument, and the sleeveless surcoat covering the chain mail to the knee was of rich material, the panels yellow and blue.

The long sheath that hung from his belt was of finely tooled leather, and the sword hilt drew her attention. The cross-guard was inlaid with ivory and gold, and the round pommel carved in regal design. His long, triangular shield was divided into quarters of the same colors as his surcoat.

A knot formed in her abdomen as she watched the archers move past in hurried discipline. Sergeants-at-arms stood behind this commander. When he barked orders to them, they flew down the stairs to take up positions by the north gate. Her throat felt dry. The Frenchmen had planned something.

The archers were followed by more foot-soldiers, these carrying long, sharply pointed lances. The knight called out to a sergeant-at-arms who stopped beside him.

"Make a sharp fight at the gate," he ordered. "A distraction to lure the enemy inside. The crossbows remain above to make sure you will have no more on the bridge than you can manage."

The sergeant nodded and clattered downward to take charge of the challenge.

Oh, Raymond, Allesandra thought to herself desperately. / must get to you and tell you what has happened within the castle and how many men are within the town. She clenched her jaw,

trying to still the nervousness and listen to the French knight. For in moments she hoped to be in Raymond's camp, and she could relay what she heard here.

- The knight said no more, but as he turned, she caught sight of his blazing dark eyes, a formidable expression on what she could see of his well-defined face. Prominent cheekbones spoke of his noble birth, and determination and courage showed in the way he moved as he joined the flow of soldiers hurrying downward.

She waited only a few seconds to see if any more soldiers would come from above. Her breath came in quick, shallow gasps. She would have to take a chance. She was not armed and hoped to be taken for a mere squire. Surely they would not mas-' sacre the citizens yet. And mere soldiers would not be able to tell that she was in actuality a noblewoman worth interrogating.

"Now," she hissed at Marguerite, who took her place holding the door as Allesandra slipped through.

Her heart pounding, she took the stairs downward. Ahead of her the soldiers clanked. Every time she glanced backward over her shoulder she feared discovery, for all her bravado about her disguise. But she made it safely to the ground level in time to see the soldiers filing through the great hall. She hesitated. Her way to the stables lay in the opposite direction. Should she follow the soldiers and gain even more information to relay to Count Raymond on the field?

At the moment of her hesitation, the knight she had glimpsed upstairs burst through the passage at the opposite end of the great hall. Instinctively, she stepped behind a screen. Now, sword drawn, he glanced about the hall as if to ascertain if there was any danger from the rear of his guard. Since the Frenchmen were in a hostile citadel in a hostile town, there was always danger of treachery from within.

Two servants had been sweeping up the soiled rushes from the floor and had hidden behind the wall hangings as the soldiers passed. Now they crept out to continue their task, but froze at the sight of the tall, fierce Frenchman.

For a moment Allesandra held her breath as the knight's eyes

swept over the screen behind which she hovered. But he must have decided it wasn't worth his investigation, for he turned and followed the rest of his men down the passage. Clearly they were on their way to the north gate.

She decided to follow them no farther. The stables lay in the opposite direction, and if she were to ride out of the south gate, through the old town and out the small door that led to the quay beside the river, she could tarry no longer.

She turned and wended her way through the castle, reaching out to offer reassurance to those she passed who worried for their fate. For with her hood thrown back, most of Marguerite's household recognized her.

"What will happen, my lady?" asked the wife of Marguerite's steward. "The bishop has left the priory and has taken refuge in the lord's bedchamber above." The woman's eyes lifted to the ceiling above which lay the master's sleeping chamber.

"Don't worry," said Allesandra. "Your mistress will direct the defense of the castle."

Marguerite's husband was in the field with Raymond. Simon de Montfort had taken the town of Muret in order to control communications between Toulouse and the Pyrenees. With her husband absent, the lady of the manor assumed full seigneurial duties, as in all households of this sort, and that included defending the castle when there was danger.

Allesandra hurried on to the stables and located her own steed, the chestnut mare she'd ridden here from her own castle, a day's ride to the southwest. She'd come here to meet with her friend Count Raymond and to take word of the latest danger back to the Cathar believers who met in her district. But it seemed she must assist in a battle before she could have her conversation with Raymond.

She left the stables none too soon. One of the squires dashed into the courtyard from the lower town just as she opened the side door leading to the quay. The water outside carried the sound of sudden cries and clashing metal. She grasped the squire's arm.

"What's happened?" she demanded.

"An assault," he answered, his eyes round with panic. "At the north gate." He pointed in the direction of the skirmish.

"Who is fighting?"

"The count of Foix leads the charge against the French garrison."

"On the bridge?" She frowned.

"Yes, madam."

A stupid place to fight, she thought, but held her tongue and let the squire dash on his way to be of help where he could.

Now she wasted no time. Once on the quay, she mounted up and pulled her hood forward to shield her face. Then she kicked her heels into her horse's side and flew south along the quay, away from the battle beside the town wall. She passed the ancient Roman masonry of the old cite, and then the new wall of the lower town. Ahead was her goal, the south bridge over the Garonne that led to open country.

But as she turned onto the bridge, the south town gate creaked open behind her, and a contingent of horsemen poured through. Allesandra's heart leapt into her throat when she saw Simon de Montfort himself lead his men forth. But the frightening sight only spurred her on, and she bent over her horse and urged the mare to dash over the bridge. For one horrifying second she imagined all of de Montfort's corps coming after her and taking her prisoner, and she dared not look back.

Instead, she turned when she'd crossed the bridge and pressed the mare to the north, where even with her hair and the wind in her eyes, she knew that the allies' boats waited. She raced for her life. Only when the camp was within sight and she plunged her horse into the Garonne did she dare look back.

The French army had not followed. She could now see the enemy forces riding southeast on the road away from the town. The sight confused her. A withdrawal? With the infantry still fighting at the north gate? Some deep suspicion nagged, and while she paused, her horse breathing hard after the short burst of speed, she tried to grapple with the French strategy.

Then she urged the horse into the middle of the river. "Come on, Kastira," she addressed the horse. "Swim."

As she swam the horse through the middle of the river and came out on the bank at the edge of the allied camp, Allesandra had time to assess the chaos in front of her. In the distance by the north gate the count of Foix's colors showed that his men still engaged in mostly hand-to-hand combat with French soldiers, fighting for possession of the bridge. The gate was open and now several horsemen slashed their way in.

"My God," she breathed, riding through the camp, where the rest of the allied infantry still milled about, yelling and gesturing excitedly. "It's some sort of trap."

"Where is Count Raymond?" she yelled at a knot of soldiers she approached.

"There," one of them answered, and pointed to a tent in the middle of the camp.

She nudged her horse forward and then dismounted when she found her objective.

"Raymond," she shouted, her soft boots sliding on the damp grass.

Count Raymond VI of Toulouse turned from the group of men with whom he was speaking and looked at her in surprise. He was clad in chain mail and helmet, but even if she didn't know the slope of his squarish shoulders, his surcoat of red and white identified him, as did the pennant drooping from several lances held erect by his tent.

He stepped forward to meet her. "My lady Allesandra, what are you doing here?"

"Come to assist you," she said in tones that brooked no argument. "Simon de Montfort is up to something and you've no time to waste."

"Yes, yes, well, you see the skirmish at the gate. I had suggested building a barricade by the road in case the French do break out of the gate. But Foix and Comminges do not agree."

They were distracted by shouts and sergeants-at-arms running through the camp toward them.

"Sir, they withdraw," said a knight who spoke to the men-at-arms, and then turned to address Count Raymond.

"They withdraw?" he asked, lifting his thick eyebrows under his helmet.

"They've been seen on the road south in formation," said the knight.

"Well," said Raymond. "Perhaps they realize that we outnumber them and are giving up the fight."

An image of the French knight on the staircase in the tower came to mind, and Allesandra stepped between the men.

"It is a trick, my lord," she said, making Raymond look at her. "They would not withdraw their cavalry and leave their infantry in the middle of an assault on the other side of the town. Rouse your men, sir, Simon de Montfort is going to attack."

"My dear," said Raymond, "he will hardly attack us in the field. We outnumber him fifteen to one. It would be his suicide."

Exasperation overwhelmed her. "You are in charge of this army, Raymond. We haven't time to argue."

He shook his head helplessly. "I've been arguing all morning with Foix and Cumminges. Now King Peter is making camp across the road. Surely our forces are large enough to handle any sorties Simon de Montfort might make. But you heard the message. Simon withdraws. We will retake the town with little difficulty now. But you must get yourself out of danger, my dear. You could be injured by a misdirected missile."

"Where is Peter of Aragon?" she demanded, holding on to Raymond's mail-clad arm and not letting go until she had an answer. "If you will not form into battle array, perhaps he will."

"He makes camp on the right flank, but come into my tent, my lady. You must protect yourself."

Instead, she dropped Raymond's arm and rushed to her horse. A sergeant-at-arms saw her fly in his direction and assisted her to mount. Then she picked her way through the disorganized camp, staying behind the line of mangonels and balistas that haphazardly launched stones toward the crossbowmen who fired down on the count of Foix from the citadel parapets.