The troubadour's song (22 page)

"You did well. I respect the risk my lord Deluc has taken and will guarantee him safe conduct when he leaves. You may leave us, my friends, so that I may speak to him privately."

"We'll wait outside your door, should you need us," said Christian, chin thrusting forward.

But Peire, older and wiser and no doubt beginning to perceive the nuances of the situation, corrected his friend. "I think not, lad. These two may talk late into the night. No harm will come to her, she's already given her word of safe conduct. Come, let us to our well-deserved beds."

Christian glanced at Allesandra for confirmation, and she nodded. "I will be quite safe. I thank you for your gallant concern."

"Then we will take our leave," said Peire. He bowed and then ushered his younger friend out.

When she had closed the door behind them, she turned and floated across the room into Gaucelm's arms. Hard and strong they felt as they wrapped around her. She leaned back her head to look at his face, and he cradled her head in his hand.

"My lord," she said, as he kissed her ear, her throat, her cheeks. "I am so glad you are safe. I was so worried, even though I fought for my people as was my duty. You are my enemy, my beloved enemy, Gaucelm."

He stopped her words with his mouth, and then they held each other tight, their hands roaming as if to make sure that their beloved was safe and whole.

"I must leave," he said between kisses. "Now that Simon is dead, I must ride north with my army."

At the mention of Simon, she turned her head and lay it on his shoulder so he could not see her face.

"Yes, the general. A victory for us, a loss for you I am sure. In that he was your friend, I am sorry. I cannot be sorry that we have banished the French from these lands." Her heart tore in two at their dilemma as she knew it would.

He silenced her. "Let us not think of that now. We have a few hours, then I must leave. I must be far from here ere the sun rises. Allesandra, I do not intend to forget you. I promise I will come back. I love you." He looked fervently into her eyes as if willing her to believe him.

"Oh, Gaucelm," she said, fast in his embrace, lifting her head to kiss his cheeks as he began caressing her hungrily. She thought her heart would break with love and desperation. "I do not want you to go. Make love to me."

A flicker of guilt crossed her mind as she realized that he must not know who fired the shot that killed Simon de Montfort. She knew that she should tell him, and she would tell him. Only his hands on her body, his lips against her burning skin were too delicious to break away from now. Let him make love to her, let them share these few hours of passion. She would tell him afterward.

Then thought was lost as he threw offhis clothing and released her from the loose gown that covered her and unbound her hair. They lay together between the bed clothes, reaching for each other eagerly. Moist, hungry kisses grew in demand. Hands touched lovingly everywhere. Passion throbbed, her body was

on fire. If this was the last night she could be with him, then she would hold nothing back, nothing.

And he took everything, like a man desperate to remember every inch of her, a man determined to imprint every part of her body on his mind so that he would never forget. And for her part, she kissed and caressed every part of him from his sleek, thick hair to his sinewy calves and feet. Though they breathed heavily with desire, they did not rush their love. Until finally he pulled her to him, touching every part of her body with his at once, and entered her, claimed her, made her his alone. Their souls flew up into the night skies together as they found love once more, a love that she had never known before and would never know again.

So powerful was the ecstasy that she thought she would not return to her body if it lasted, and so they descended together, whirling through the clouds, down again into soft, gentle fulfillment, their moans witness to what they had shared.

"Gaucelm," she whispered, turning her head, her hair splayed upon the pillow. How noble his profile looked. His eyes were closed, his thick eyelashes gracing his cheekbone, his nose, proud, his lips, full and sensitive, his chin firm. How she loved him. It hurt her more than she could describe.

"Gaucelm, my love."

But she had killed Simon de Montfort, his friend and leader. And if she did not tell him, it would be a wedge between them, the beginnings of the kind of secrets that keep lovers apart. It would turn them away from each other in the end. But if she did tell him, he would hate her. He would turn all that passion into rage, would rise, dress, be gone, and never see her again. Which was worse?

She held her peace, unable to move from savoring his passion, from having him beside her. All that would end soon enough. Give her an hour, and then she would tell him, hoping that he would understand. She thought it better that he hear it from her lips than from another. For an hour of peace, she kept her silence, drowsing in his arms.

But the consoling night drew her deeper and deeper. Their breathing blended, they went heavenward again in a peaceful sleep that was all too short. She dreamed and dreamed, turned in her sleep, slept deeply. She stirred at last as the sky turned a flinty gray. She reached an arm across to him, but he was not there.

She stirred, awake now, looking at the indentation where he had been.

"Gaucelm?" she whispered to herself. But there was no answer. She sat up, reached for her smock. He was gone.

He would not be in the hall, for he had said he needed to be far away ere the dawn. Only Christian and Peire knew that he'd been here at all. He would not let his presence be known for fear of vengeance.

"Oh, my lord," she said, sinking onto the bed again. "What have I done?"

And yet her fear and her hurt were tempered by the passion they'd shared last night. Surely he, too, would remember that when he learned the worst of her. She gave a sob. She could not even write him a letter, for it might be intercepted. The crusade might be lifted for now, but they were still enemies. One did not know what the French would do next. If they found another general to lead them, they would be back. The king might even entrust a new crusade to Gaucelm.

She sobbed, swaying against her hands, picturing Gaucelm at the head of an army with fire and sword laying waste to all of Languedoc, come to take revenge and to punish them all? It did not seem the sort of thing he would do, and yet. . . if he were angry enough, he might take on the charge laid down to him by his king.

She found the strength to rise, bathe her face with a warm cloth, and dress. She braided her own hair and coiled it under a wimple, not wanting to have to talk with Isabelle and Marcia just yet. She needed solitude, time to think, time to gain strength.

She made her appearance in the hall after the household had broken their fast. Julian was waiting for her at a table by the

fireplace with the keys he had retrieved from Gaucelm's lieutenant at their surrender and with inventories prepared of all their supplies and staples. There were also letters from neighboring demesnes saying that the defections from other de Montfort holdings had begun. It seemed the French were slipping away with no further fight.

"That is good," she said to Julian as she finished reading one scroll.

"Indeed."

A soldier at arms posted at the arched entrance came forward and bowed. "Madam," he said. "Pardon the interruption. But we have just had a messenger announcing that Count Raymond and his son are on their way here."

She rose from her seat. "Happy news! We must make ready for them. Julian, see that a chamber in the tower is prepared. Let us have clean rushes in the hall. Wash down the courtyard, and slaughter a pig to roast for tonight. Set every servant about restocking supplies, and give me a list of what is needed. If the French did not seize all the goods from the villages, we will buy staples. Fresh bread will need to be baked. I must welcome my friends with all due show of respect."

Julian left to issue orders to the cooks, the butler, the pantler, and the chamberlain. With the household busy making ready for guests, Allesandra retired again to her chamber to pace and fret.

What was done was done, there was no undoing it. She could not write to her lover while she would be considered by her own people as a traitor for doing it. There was too much damage done for France and the Languedoc to enjoy any sort of real peace.

But neither could she go mad with worry. She was again the chatelaine of this demesne. She must find a reason to hold on. She informed Julian that she would be praying in the chapel, but to find her there as soon as Count Raymond arrived.

In the simple chapel, she lit lamps to reflect off the plain gold crosses. With a heavy heart, she prayed to her God, knowing in her mind that one God looked over all, rueing the petty arguments of his flock. Her arguments were not with the Lord, but with the

Church that claimed there was only one way to worship him. She prayed for Gaucelm's safety, drawing strength in simply meditating quietly and letting her thoughts float upward.

When at last she heard footsteps scrape on the stone floor behind her, she arose and turned with some less degree of turmoil in her heart. Young Raymond came forward to bow very low.

"My lady, I interrupt your prayers."

"No, Raymond. I was finished praying and simply resting my thoughts away from the world."

He arose and they looked into each other's faces, seeing there what the war had cost them as well as so many others.

Finally, he spoke softly and in a consoling tone. "Indeed, much has happened. But you seem unduly sad, my lady. Now is a time for rejoicing."

"So it is." She squeezed his hand warmly. "Come, let us go into the hall, and you can tell us all the news."

The entire household gathered in the great hall to hear the tale of the vanquishing of the French. Voices chattered excitedly as everyone found a place on a bench or stool. In their fashion as great storytellers, the troubadours did most of the narrating, beginning with the sortie out of Toulouse, for the benefit of those who had not been there.

"De Montfort was dead," said young Raymond, "though we did not know it then. They carried him northward across the plain, and we followed, thinking they might yet turn to fight. But it was not to be so. Finally, on the crest of a hill, one of their men awaited us with the white flag of truce. When we drew up to him, he announced that their leader was dead. They begged a truce so that they could fashion a litter for him and carry him home properly. The day was ours."

Christian picked up the narrative. In the background, just as Allesandra knew would happen, Peire plucked his stringed git-tern. This heroic battle would find its way into a war song. More than once her name was mentioned as having fired the shot from the mangonella that killed Simon de Montfort. She blushed and bowed her head. Like it or not she would be memorialized for

that. Her role was growing with each retelling of the events, and she spoke up several times pleading that she had done nothing but her duty.

"It was the brave men who rode forth from the gates of the town that claimed the day for us," she insisted.

"So they did," said Jean de Batute. "But you must claim your part, too, my lady."

And so Allesandra Valtin became the heroine of all Langue-doc. And lived with her guilt for the love she bore a powerful enemy.

Gaucelm rode east with his army, his heart heavy, his soul numb. They marched with a white flag flying, the symbol of truce. Villagers stayed within their cottages and crofts as they passed. They skirted large towns, sending emissaries to pay for what foodstuffs they needed. But in three days' time they crossed to the eastern side of the River Baise, and thereafter were in friendly territory.

Here the folks came out to cheer them and to pay tribute to Count Simon, who lay in state on his litter. Simon's eldest son Amaury succeeded him as count and as commander of the crusading army. But unlike his father, Amaury did not solicit advice from Gaucelm but from other knights as to which route was best, where supplies would be most readily available. And so Gaucelm was left mercifully alone with his black thoughts.

At night his squire pitched his tent. After strolling the camp in idle observation to see that all was well, Gaucelm shunned the firelight, the boasts and stories, the roll of the dice, and the company of camp followers. Instead, he walked along the line of horses, found a lonely outcropping where he could be away from everyone and watch the night skies. Nor did he return to his tent before the evening star had set.

His friend and leader was dead. Of course that was the way of war, but it was a great loss to Church and France both, for

they did not have another leader like him. Now who would lead the crusade?

King Philip was too busy keeping hold of his eastern lands, newly won from England. And in his bitter and morose mood, Gaucelm himself had no desire to ride at the head of an army. He was not the same man who had come on crusade two years ago, eager to fight for God and king. He was not bloodthirsty enough to walk before troops at the beginning of every battle and rouse them into a rage to kill.

Gaucelm turned even more inward now. He'd lost lands, friend, and more. He knew he would not be able to forget her. When he finally lay a weary head on his pallet in his tent, he saw her face before his eyes. He felt her creamy skin on the tips of his fingers. He remembered her ecstasy and knew that no matter if he never saw her again, he would not lie with another woman for a long, long time.

When the camp prostitutes crossed his path, he pushed them away so brusquely they often stumbled. None could understand what blackness had gotten hold of the handsome Gaucelm Deluc's heart. The soldiers counted it as his grief for Simon de Montfort, for the two men had been close.

But Gaucelm longed for Allesandra with every step his horse took, with every league he put between them. How was it that she had so captured his heart? How might he ever be able to return to her?

The army plodded northward. Already spirits were lifted. They spoke of the king gathering a new army in the next year, and they composed songs about Simon de Montfort's heroism. As they traveled, news began to catch up to them. In the way that gossip seems to float on the winds and across the grasses, it came to the camp followers, then to the soldiers, and then to the squires, who told their knights.