The troubadour's song (6 page)

"Pray continue. Your music will soothe my . . . cousin and myself."

Since the French guards were just on the other side of the door, she and Allesandra still had to be careful. They retreated to stools by the fireplace to talk softly out of anyone's hearing. The music conveniently proved a distraction.

The two women clasped each other's hands and spoke urgently. Though ail had been planned in the afternoon before they'd had to garb themselves for supper, there seemed so many words to exchange now that the night was upon them.

"Are you sure you will feel safe?" whispered Marguerite. "I have done everything I could think of. Your squire has readied the horses, and my steward has seen to extra food."

"Yes, yes, of course. I am only anxious to be on my way," answered Allesandra. "But we must pretend to go to bed."

Marguerite nodded, for she knew the plans.

"And you will send me word of Raymond?" said Allesandra. "I will warn the believers, though we cannot expect the parfait to do other than martyr himself if it comes to it."

Marguerite gave a deep sigh, lines of concern on her face, her shoulders sloping forward as if releasing the weight she'd carried all evening. "No, I suppose not."

Allesandra was not herself a Cathar, one of those heretics the crusade sought to reveal and eliminate. But like most noblewomen in the South, she knew of groups of believers who gathered around a teacher, a parfait, who lived a life of self-denial and preached doctrines abhorrent to the Catholic Church.

And southern Catholicism was considerably less strict than their co-religionists in the North. By custom and way of life, the people of Languedoc were a culture first and Catholics second. Catholics and heretics lived side by side in complete harmony and friendship here. But gone were the days when priests and heretics debated in public, each side enjoying the intellectual stimulation of the questions posed. All that had become dangerous. Now when heretics were identified by the bishop's courts, they were imprisoned, their property confiscated. - Allesandra did not want to think of the horrors that had plagued them since Pope Innocent III had taken up this crusade more than two years ago. She dared not think of it because the anger would prevent her from thinking clearly. And think clearly she must if she were to evade the French guards this night.

She squeezed Marguerite's hand. "Do not fear for me. My squire will see me safely back to my demesne."

"I will keep you in my prayers," said Marguerite.

"And you will be in mine," said Allesandra.

Then because she could not stand the apprehension, she gave her friend an ironic smile. "You will have the worst of it, I fear. For you will have to dine with Simon de Montfort day after day, unless he tires of your hospitality."

Some of the grim expression left her friend's face, and Marguerite smiled. "I think he is a man who is easily bored with feminine company. I have no doubt he will take to dining with

his men in the knights' hall. Especially if I make sure they get the best of victuals."

Above the hall, the great bedchamber had been turned over to Simon. Gaucelm warmed his hands in front of a fire that awaited them when they had retired there. A retainer followed them into the room, and at Simon's direction, deposited a rolled parchment on the wooden table in the center of the room. Above them, oil lamps flickered in a wrought-iron wheel suspended from the ceiling beams by heavy chains.

Simon divested himself of his fur-trimmed mantle and then stepped to the table and unrolled the parchment. The fact that the general had business on his mind did not surprise Gaucelm. He turned his attention away from the pleasant evening they had just spent and looked to see what Simon had to show him.

"Tomorrow," said Simon, without preamble, "you will lay claim to one of the substantial demesnes in this district."

Gaucelm's spirits picked up. One of the reasons he'd come on this crusade was for the reward of fiefs that could increase his wealth. It seemed that his general had found one for him as a result of their victory today.

"The Valtin lands lie fifteen leagues southwest of here," he said, pointing to an X on the parchment map. "In a bend of the Garonne where it turns northeasterly for some distance, the fortress castle commands one of the routes to the kingdom of Aragon."

"Hmmm," said Gaucelm with genuine pleasure. He smiled as he studied the castle's position. "Yes, I see. An important demesne. If the castle is well fortified, it would be a place to hold off the mountain counts, should they become unruly."

"Exactly," said Simon, straightening. "That is why I trust you to it."

The two men clasped each other's hands, and Gaucelm gripped Simon's forearm with his other hand. The reward he had just been given was greater than he expected, and the responsibility

of watching the southeast border of Simon's newly conquered lands, one that he could relish.

"And the baron whose castle it is?"

"Dead. The castellan is the late baron's widow. Her household retainers should be easy to subdue, her knights a trifle for one of our disciplined corps. I'll need the other two corps here in case Count Raymond and his friends try again."

"And the widow?" Gaucelm asked. "Is she in residence now?

"Alas, the word I had from my sergeants who inquired was that she is nowhere to be found."

"Curious. Perhaps she has come to some harm. I will make plans to leave before dawn. We will search for the missing widow as soon as we set foot in the demesne."

Four

Allesandra was again dressed in masculine clothing for her escape that night, the better to conceal her identity should they be stopped on the road. Her late husband's squire, Jaufre de Vilela, who had accompanied her here, had managed to slip out of the castle and out of the city gates during the confusion earlier in the day when the French soldiers were securing the castle.

Not hoping to be able to get horses out from under French noses, Allesandra had instructed Jaufre to purchase horses from some of the villeins in the forest, or better yet to catch horses who had lost their riders during the battle and now wandered the countryside until the French soldiers could round them up.

She prayed that all had gone well, for there had been no way to get a message from her squire since her hasty conversation with him that morning. He was to wait for her at the forester's cottage where she had told Simon de Montfort she'd been that morning tending the sick.

All the exits from the castle were guarded, of course, and guards kept watch along the town walls. There was only one way out, a method Marguerite thought was far too risky. But it was a trick Allesandra had cultivated as a young girl at her father's castle when playing with her brothers, before they'd been sent away to train as squires elsewhere.

Now making their preparations in the women's solar, Allesandra carried a large bundle. Marguerite made sure she had flint and steel in the pouch tied to her girdle and then picked up a lantern that they would not light yet.

"It's been some time since these secret passages have been used," Marguerite whispered as they moved toward the door to the solar. "But I've had them kept in good repair."

Then Marguerite laid a finger to her lips, signaling that they should not talk again until later, when they would reach their destination on the castle walls.

They paused by the door and Allesandra strained her ears, but they heard nothing on the other side. Either the guard keeping watch on the other side had moved on, or he waited silently. Marguerite then moved to a woven wall hanging and reached behind it. Finding the lever, she pushed it in, and then gave a shove.

A door creaked, sending a spike of dread through Allesandra. But the steward must have kept the hinges oiled, for they gave only a slight whine and then were quiet enough. The warp of the door made it scrape against the floor, but with another shove it settled back, revealing a dark inner passage.

Allesandra slipped through and flattened her back against the cold stone wall, while Marguerite closed the door as quietly as she could. They were in pitch darkness until Marguerite struck flint to the steel, and a flame came to life. Quickly the horn lantern was lit. Holding the light to show the way, Marguerite started down a set of stairs.

As Allesandra well knew, any well-built castle had these secret passageways. For ever since the Moslems had encroached on their lands five centuries ago, the people of the Languedoc were

prepared to fight treachery. Still, Allesandra's heart beat against her chest. They did not know what or who might await them at the other end. At the bottom of the stairs they passed along a level corridor and then came to another set of stairs.

"These lead to the servants' sleeping quarters," Marguerite whispered.

When they reached a solid door, Marguerite hesitated only a moment, as if girding herself in case it was not the steward but a French soldier who waited on the other side. Finally, she knocked.

To the two women's immense relief, the door moved inward quietly. The round, bearded face and balding pate of Marguerite's steward peered in at them.

"No trouble?" Marguerite whispered.

"The way seems clear, madam," he said.

Without more ado, they slipped through, and Pantier led them between the pallets where the male household servants' deep snores accompanied their dreams. On the opposite side of the circular tower room was yet another door.

Then the steward paused and glanced at Marguerite, who nodded. They were ready. For on the other side of this door lay the walkway atop the curtain wall, from whose crenelations the French bowmen had shot their arrows that morning.

From the other side, Marguerite had explained to Allesandra, the walkway appeared to end at the circular tower wall. But if one carefully inspected the lines of masonry blocks, it could be seen that a door had been carved. However, either the French had been too busy, or had taken the solid-looking tower for what it seemed. For so far, none had demanded entry there.

Now the steward eased the door open, and the night air floated in to bathe their faces. A torch lit the walkway halfway to the tower at the other end. French guards could be seen sitting or sleeping, their legs stretched before them, their backs against the wall under the torch.

Allesandra swallowed. Hers was a daring plan. For a glimmer of a second, she hesitated. What if she remained in the warmth

of the castle and simply stayed under house arrest? But she summoned her resolve. She must go ahead with her plan.

The trio acted in well-rehearsed silence now. Pantier took the bundle Allesandra had been carrying and slipped outside. He knelt by an iron lever buried in the masonry that was normally used to hold a crossbow when loading. Around it he knotted one end of a sheet from the bundle. While he did this, Allesandra crept to the wall and peered over the parapet.

Below and to the left, torches were lit on the bridge. The occasional footstep and murmurs of guards came to her from there. But directly below was a straight drop to the Louge, slowly emptying into the swifter Garonne to their right. Only a small lip of bank edged up to the castle wall, and then the wet sand and water.

Now Marguerite risked a whisper into Allesandra's ear. "Try to stay away from the open windows in the tower rooms." She pointed downward to one such narrow slit, just wide enough for an archer to aim an arrow. "No light will come from this tower, but you can't be sure someone won't be awake."

Allesandra nodded. The French soldiers were garrisoned in the opposite tower. The near one housed Marguerite's own retainers. But if one of them could not sleep and was surprised by an apparition gliding down the castle wall, he might give a cry. She turned and gave Marguerite a brief hug and then nodded to Pantier.

He picked up the bundle of sheets now tied to the iron lever and hoisted it to the edge of the battlements. Then he carefully unfurled it. Their calculations had been correct, the bottom sheet just brushed the bank like a white wraith. With trepidation, Allesandra glanced along the walk, but their business had not roused the French soldiers. Nor was there any disturbance from the bridge. No shout greeted her ears as she clambered to the edge of the parapet, swung her legs over, and grasped the sheets between her hands.

Pantier and Marguerite knelt to hold the taut sheet, helping to secure it as if not quite trusting the ancient crossbow lever. Then, without allowing herself to think further about what she was

THE TROUBADOUR'S SONG 51

doing, Allesandra clamped the soft leather of her boots about the sheet and eased herself down the wall.

She grasped the sheets with a death grip, but then as soon as she felt herself truly over the great drop, her shoulder touching a wall that now offered no support, she loosened her grip and began to slide gradually downward. She hung on as the sheet rope began to twist, spinning her around. She touched the wall with her foot for balance and continued downward. Fear clutched at her heart, but she tried to concentrate on what she must do. Any moment could bring a shout from the soldiers, an arrow, death in the water below.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the lights and the soldiers on the bridge. But the night was moonless, and no light reflected up from the stream below. The last time she'd tried this trick, she'd been a decade younger, and perhaps the height not so great. She tried to look only at the rough stones of the curtain wall, for when she looked down, the stream seemed to taunt her with its distance.

Faster now, she slid along, passing one tower window, then another. Finally the ground seemed closer, and then with another movement, she was down, and breathed at last. She stepped free of the sheets and then looked up, unsure if she saw Pantier and Marguerite lean over to see her on her way, or if it were imagination. She daren't even wave in case it was neither but a guard, so she eased herself onto her knees, sat back on her heels on the bank, and caught her breath. In a moment the sheet began to crawl upward and away from her.

Fortunately it was still late summer, and the Louge only waist deep. For now she unbelted her short man's tunic and lifted it over her head. Then she took off her boots and wrapped them in the tunic. With her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she found a place where the bank was not too steep. She must be careful of disturbing loose rocks that would give her away. But she managed to make her way down the sandy bank to the water, drifting slowly along.