The troubadour's song (26 page)

Allesandra sat with her friend Raymond VII in his citadel in Toulouse. His father was gravely ill, though still with greatness of spirit. She knew that the sorrow the son felt was beyond words. She, too, sorrowed at the prospect of the loss of the man so loved by all of Toulouse. However, Raymond VII shouldered the responsibility of carrying on as she knew he would.

It was late in the evening, and the log in the hearth fire fell into the ashes. They sat alone on stools. On her lap was a book of poetry, which she had thought to read aloud to try and comfort Raymond. But instead, they had whiled away the hour talking, speculating, laying plans.

"My informants tell me that King Louis has concluded negotiations with the pope. They will come again, just as we knew they would."

She was silent for a moment. "Why could they not leave us alone?"

The younger Raymond regarded her. Such a lovely woman, and yet with a trace of sadness about her. Not the sadness of

grief, but rather a melancholy. She wore her hair in a braid wrapped around her head under a wimple. She had lost some weight and her cheekbones looked sharper of late.

His own father was gravely ill, and perhaps he took comfort in her solemn mood. He felt he had grown closer to Allesandra. Among fine ladies and patrons of the troubadours, he knew none so noble as she. He had often praised her in his own poetry, sung love songs at her feet. They had exchanged tensos, and yet not until now had he seriously considered the notion that theirs might indeed be a suitable match.

He gazed at her somber countenance, her tightly bound hair under fillet and veil, her desirable figure in fitted green gown with surcoat draped as if an artist had arranged its folds. Her long legs were folded to the side, her graceful hands clasped about her knee. There was a strain all about her, but underneath that, still her loveliness shone.

Having lost the thread of their conversation, he began a new one. "Allesandra, dear friend, I have been thinking."

She lifted her eyes slowly and smiled sadly at him. "What have you been thinking?"

He curved his sensuous lips into a smile. "That you have been a widow for too long."

Her open, warm expression altered. Her lids lowered, and she transferred her gaze to the fire. He noticed how the skin about her high cheekbones drew tighter still. Her mouth straightened out into a firm line.

"Do you think so?" she replied.

Feeling his heart begin to beat in his chest, he moved forward onto his knees. "I do."

She gave the slightest shake of her head. "There has been much to do as chatelaine of my own demesne. I have not missed having a husband."

He risked raising his hand and placing it on hers. "But in days to come it would give you strength to have a husband. If we must fight again, you would be better offjoining your lands to those of another strong and noble family."

Small lines about her mouth creased as she allowed herself an ironic smile. She lifted her heavy lids, her great violet eyes meeting his. "And whose house might that be?"

Raymond smiled back, undone by her frankness. Still, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it, then pressed the hem of her sleeve and the chilled skin of her hand to his cheek. "My own, of course."

"Aha, so I thought." She let her hand drift through his thick, brown hair, curling down to his shoulders. But the caress was one of friendship, not of passion.

He nuzzled his head against her hand. "My father would be pleased," he said. "Wouldn't you like to grant him a dying wish?"

Her hand stopped for a moment. "Has he said this himself?"

Raymond could not lie. "Not in so many words, but we have spoken of it in the past, I'm quite sure."

She pinched his ear. "Ow!" he exclaimed.

"Your father never suggested the idea to me. Not even a hint."

"Hmmm. I suppose it was because he didn't think I was good enough for you."

She gazed at him fondly. "You are still very young. Perhaps your father thought you needed to have your amorous adventures before you married."

He grimaced. "Allesandra, you know very well marriage is for the uniting of lands and titles. Amorous adventures occur because oftentimes bride and bridegroom cannot stand the sight of each other."

"Yes, I know. And of that was born our poetry." She gave a long sigh. "Love as perpetual torment, as an ennobling force, making its way around the obstacles of distance, class, marriage."

He let the back of his finger drift across her cheek. "You speak as if you have felt such a torment."

She gave him a regretful smile. "Perhaps I have. How could I write about it if I had not experienced it?"

"Yes, your poetry of late has been filled with sadness, it is true. Then tell me, if you do not love me, who do you love?"

She shook her head. "I cannot tell you. Such things must remain a secret always."

"You exasperate me, Allesandra dear." He thought a moment, picked up the poker and stirred sparks from the fire. "You know, when my father passes on, though I hope that is not for a very long time, I will be your overlord. I might not be so patient in letting you remain in your widowed state."

She sat up straight, her shoulders erect. "You would not make me marry against my wishes, surely. Our friendship is too great, is it not?"

He noticed that her last words were not as confidently spoken as the first of her phrases. Perhaps it would be wise to press his point, so that she would not take him for granted as her future overlord.

He shrugged. "I am not a cruel man, you know that. But an overlord is well served when a ward marries. You will better be able to provide knights when we need them, as surely we must, now that Louis is king."

Allesandra guided the conversation back to where they had begun. "We must make plans. Our people are loyal, but they are broken. Some of our cities cannot stand devastation again. We have not had enough time to recover. They remember too well what Simon de Montfort was like."

"But he is dead."

"Yes, but with King Louis at the head of an army, and the pope paying for it..." She shivered and did not finish. A feeling of dread passed over her, and she clutched at Raymond's hand. This time their grasp was one of mutual desperation. Her words were rasping as she half whispered, "Are we doomed, Raymond? Is our way of life fading away before our eyes? Are these forces too strong to withstand?"

Raymond pressed his lips together before he answered. His courageous heart wanted nothing better than to reassure her. They would fight to the death to defend Languedoc, of course. But he, too, saw the bitter winds of change, the evil of the hated word inquisition. And he did not want to place it on his tongue.

"Be of good heart, madam. We do not yet know the outcome. I have spies who will keep me informed of Louis's movements. He gathers his army now, and it is a very great one, of that I am certain."

Allesandra trembled, but would not show her fear. "I will help you. But we must have firsthand knowledge. I fear that some of our cities will indeed fall. We must find out which route Louis plans to take and do what we can to prepare our forces." Then her noble speech done, she squeezed his bony fingers between her own and gave a little gasp. "Oh, Raymond, I am afraid. Afraid for us, for our land, for what we fought so hard to win."

He got to his feet, angered to see this brave, able noblewoman shaking in fear of an army that was forming far to the north.

"We will take action. Action banishes fear. As soon as I know where Louis is going, I will tell you."

She rose as well and uttered her pledge. "And then we will do as we must."

That said, there seemed nothing else to do than to bid her good night. "May I escort you to your chamber?"

"No, I think I'll sit a while. We did not read from the book as we had planned to."

"Then stay, read by the firelight. My hounds will keep you company. Perhaps a few words of love and poetry will take your mind off these times we speak of."

"Perhaps."

After he was gone, she stared at the dying flames for some time. Her heart was heavy and there seemed no choice for her but a bitter course. She shut her eyes, leaning her head against the stone hearth. It had been eighteen months. She still saw his face, if more clearly in dreams than in the day. But she still trembled to remember what it had been like. It was her secret, and likewise her secret longing. For no one knew what had happened to her, and why the last year had added a harshness to her features.

She used to wear a widow's calm serenity, but now she heard herself turn shrewish when things did not happen to her liking. She had lost patience. Though the threat had been lifted when

Simon de Montfort had died, and all Languedoc had celebrated, she knew in her heart it would not last. How she knew it, she was not sure. Something on the wind told her.

But then there was her longing for Gaucelm Deluc, the man who had claimed her. For days and weeks she would tell herself that she was foolish to hope to ever see him again. She could not wish for him to come, for if he did, he would come to fight her people again. And she could not wish that, did not wish it. She spent many foolish hours imagining that he would sweep down from the North by himself and take her away somewhere, but where? He had told her he had no lands, no fortune. Only his skills as a knight. He wasn't even a poet. No great nobleman of another country would house them in exchange for his songs, for he had none.

But she did. Poetry was her one consolation. From winter to winter and now into spring again, she had scratched away in her chamber, filling sheets of parchment and vellum with her paltry lines. Scratching the vellum clean and starting again. If she wrote of a strong warrior in whose arms she had found ecstasy, she let no one see those songs.

But even when she wrote lighter songs for her friends, and let the jongleurs sing them in public, still there were hints of her long, lost love. And then she would catch the troubadours gazing pensively at her. They pondered which one of them she was writing about, no doubt, and set the gossips speculating. Let them speculate. Only Peire knew she'd seen Gaucelm the night he'd sneaked into the castle, and Peire kept silent. Surely no one would guess that the lady Allesandra Valtin was hopelessly in love with one of their hated erstwhile conquerors. She sometimes feared that they could read her thoughts. And then she tried not to think of him. For if they guessed the truth, or if someone of her household knew and spoke of it, she would not be able to face them for the shame of being called a traitor.

On some days, she did not think of love. There was much to do in such a busy household. And when their own demesne was prospering, she took servants and strong men to help rebuild the

towns and the other castles that had been destroyed by Simon's forces. Crops were sown, a harvest brought in. And then the winter feasts had been seen to. The courts of love even flourished again for a time. And now it was spring and the herds were giving birth. The cycle of life seemed almost pleasant again. And yet the people had not forgotten. She could see it in their eyes. When one spoke to her, it wasn't long before there was a shifting of the eyes to look about to see if the threat of the enemy lurked.

No, it was not over yet. She no longer hoped for or expected happiness. She knew now that the best that could happen would be for her to be able to forget. Raymond VII would be her overlord one day. And she did not let their friendship fool her. He would insist that she marry if he found a match that would benefit his kingdom. Or he would marry her himself.

She supposed she could put up with him as a husband as well as anyone else. Unless—and here was where she doubted her resolve. Unless she ever saw Gaucelm Deluc again. And then, if he wanted her, if he came to her . . .

She shook her head, blotting out the vision, placing a hand to her beating heart. She could not bear to relive the fantasy again. For that was all it was, a fantasy with only the substance of a dream.

Sixteen

Gaucelm and Andre met the assembling army in mid-May As they surveyed the troops encamped on the rolling plain from an observation point on a hill, Gaucelm remarked on the army's size.

"The king has demanded full military service from his vassals," said Andre, "and they have come. It is a war to recover what Simon de Montfort lost as much as it is a crusade."

"That is true," agreed Gaucelm. "The war chest swells with fines paid by those who could not serve. This is surely the largest force sent against the southerners."

"Indeed," said Andre. "Its mere size will terrify them. I would not be surprised if many should submit as we advance down the Rhone."

"We will see," said Gaucelm. "We will put your theory to the test."

The army moved the next day, slowly following the Loire southeast for more than a week before leaving it to take the Rhone southward. As they advanced, Andre's theory proved right. Promises of obedience to the king greeted them. The mere size of the army seemed to terrify the Provencals. The towns that had defied Simon de Montfort feared to oppose Louis VIII. One by one, as they heard of the march, the towns abandoned Raymond VII and asked for Louis's clemency and protection.

Allesandra and Raymond VII journeyed east in secret. They had spent the last night at the castle of one of the noble southern lords always generous with hospitality to his countrymen. Now they started out on a fine spring morning, the kind of day that would make a troubadour want to compose songs.

" One can hardly believe we are on a mission of war," Raymond said as they walked their horses along a busy road beside merchants making their way with heavily laden wagons to a fair. "Look about us. The flowers bloom, bees carry pollen. Does not the blue sky above make you think of other things than those which demand our attention?"

Allesandra drew nourishment from the calm surroundings, and yet in the back of her mind, her worries had not left her. "It is deceptive, my lord. The very reason for our journey is to find a way to preserve this peace."

"Yes."

His gay expression turned to one of pensive thought. For Raymond was really more than the gay troubadour he seemed to all