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CHAPTER FOUR

If Wishes Were Horses

It took a few seconds to realise that Elinor was not dying. She was sobbing but with frustration rather than suffering her death agony. The wounds she had managed to inflict with Hugo’s knife were superficial only and soon staunched. Huguet, white-faced, did all that Alys told him, swiftly fetching cold water and cloths and even some spiced wine from the kitchen. He took that opportunity to restore the knife, dropping it under a table so that it might look just mislaid and not stolen.

‘I couldn’t do it, Alys,’ sniffed Elinor, sipping the wine. The colour was returning to her face.

‘I’m glad, sister,’ said Alys seriously.

They all kept their voices low; if Huguet had been found in the girls’ chamber, their reputations would have been ruined. He held his face averted from the tending of the donzela’s wounds but he had been shocked to the soles of his feet to realise that she would rather die than be forced into marriage against her will.

‘What shall I do?’ whispered Elinor. She was calmer now but her situation had not changed and her future seemed just as bleak as before.

Alys felt that their roles had been reversed and she was the older sister now. But however hard she cudgelled her brains, she couldn’t think of any advice to give Elinor. In desperation she turned to Huguet.

‘What shall she do?’

‘I can’t marry le Viguier,’ repeated Elinor. ‘I shan’t.’

‘Is there no other way?’ asked the joglar.

‘I thought of joining the sisters,’ said Elinor. ‘You know, the Perfects. But from what I have found out about their lives, I can’t imagine that I could endure that existence for long. It would be small improvement on being Thibaut’s wife.’

‘But is there nowhere else you could go?’ asked Huguet, who was well aware of what the life of the Perfects was like and silently agreed that Elinor would not be suited to it.

She shook her head. ‘Nowhere. My parents would not let me go anywhere else.’

They were all silent for a few moments. Then Huguet hesitantly put forward an idea.

As he spoke, Elinor and Alys listened intently, the older girl with eyes wide and shining.

‘Would it work?’ asked Alys.

‘Would you dare do it?’ asked Huguet.

‘I was willing to die, Huguet,’ said Elinor. ‘I wasn’t brave enough to do it to myself but this I could do. It would be less hardship than joining the Holy Sisters and less painful than all the ways I have planned to leave the castle.’ Her face brightened. ‘And we could find Bertran!’

Huguet sighed. He had wondered how long it would take the donzela to think of that.

The barons of the north received messengers throughout March. The Duke of Burgundy, the Count of Nevers and many others who had knights at their disposal read the Pope’s letter.

‘Forward, volunteers of the army of God!’ it said. ‘Fill your souls with godly anger to avenge the insult done to the Lord.’

The language was flowery but the meaning was clear: the Count of Toulouse had at the least allowed and at worst encouraged the murder of the Pope’s faithful Legate while he was going about his lawful business. So the Count must be punished. The reward for any crusader from the north who took up the Cross against Toulouse and the heretics was huge.

First there would be a plenary indulgence from the Pope, which meant that they would be absolved of any sin committed so far and not receive any punishment in this life. All the interest on their debts would be cancelled too and, best of all, if they seized Raimon of Toulouse they could appropriate his lands.

It was customary for a crusader to sign up for forty days so, although the Pope didn’t spell it out, the barons and knights of the north knew that they could be back in their own demesnes in a little less than two months, with their saddlebags full of southern booty. And they wouldn’t even have had to cross the seas to get it. It was an attractive proposition.

Burgundy and Nevers between them could muster five hundred knights – a good basis for an army. They didn’t expect much resistance from the southerners. Wasn’t it a part of their unnatural beliefs that fighting was wrong? The lords of the north whipped themselves into a state of holy outrage about Pierre’s murder. Rumours abounded about the Count of Toulouse. The memory of Saint Thomas Becket’s death was still current in northern Europe and everyone knew that the English King was supposed to have asked ‘Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?’ before four of his knights stabbed the Archbishop at his own altar in Canterbury.

And now word was circulating that the Count had publicly said of Pierre’s assassin that he was ‘the only man loyal enough to rid me of my enemy’. It was open knowledge in the South who the man was, but instead of punishing him, Raimon of Toulouse had praised him. Didn’t that make the Count guilty? It was as good as admitting he was a heretic himself. The impious Count should feel the wrath of the Pope through the strong arms of the northern nobles.

But these things took time. First the barons had to get permission from the King, Philippe-Auguste, to leave their lands and set out for the south, and he hadn’t been very receptive to the Pope so far. Who was going to pay the expenses of what was a crusade in all but name? An army of many thousand strong would need a patron with a deep purse.

But the seeds of the idea had been planted and it seemed certain that the Pope would have the revenge he wanted.

It was part of the plan that Elinor should now get to know the joglaresas. She had always been friendly with Perrin and Huguet, sometimes too friendly, in her mother’s view, but she had held apart from Pelegrina, Maria and Bernardina. Joglaresas did not have a good reputation; they were loud and flamboyant and most people thought them loose in their morals. But if Elinor was to escape from the castle, these three women had to be in on the plot.

Pelegrina was a Catalan, dark-haired and sullen. Maria was of a sunnier temperament and was the youngest of the three – not much older than Elinor herself. Bernardina was the oldest, a woman in her late twenties who had run away from a violent husband. She had a crooked arm, which he had broken and which had set badly. Bernardina had made a new life for herself, travelling from castle to castle, and her husband had no means of chasing after her.

It was to Bernardina that the plan was first disclosed.

‘So you see,’ said Perrin, who had accepted Huguet’s idea without hesitation, ‘the donzela must leave the castle with us in the spring. We have to welcome her into our troupe.’

‘As a joglaresa?’ asked Bernardina incredulously. ‘She will never pass as one of us.’

‘No,’ said Perrin. ‘As a joglar. She will wear boy’s clothes and has agreed to cut her hair.’

‘That could work, I suppose,’ said Bernardina. ‘The donzela doesn’t yet have a woman’s figure. But can she sing? Can she play an instrument? We know she is not much of a dancer.’

‘I am already teaching her the flute,’ said Huguet. ‘And I’m sure she will be able to play the tambour.’

‘And she has a sweet voice,’ said Perrin. ‘We must all teach her the songs. She must have the full repertoire of chansons de gestes and cansos if she is to pass as a joglar.’

‘As for the dancing,’ said Huguet, ‘she is sure to improve. I think she will like to lead better than to follow.’

Maria and Pelegrina took some persuading. The Catalan was forthright in her objections.

‘What will happen to us if the disguise fails and she is recognised as a runaway donzela? We will all be punished and never be able to return to Sévignan. Why should we risk our livelihood for a spoilt young noblewoman?’

‘Listen,’ said Perrin. ‘We shall all be in danger soon, whether we do this for Lady Elinor or not. Everyone associated with the Perfects, especially the troubadours and their troupes, is suspect as far as the Church is concerned. And what makes you think that Sévignan will be here to come back to, even by next winter?’

‘Is it really as bad as that?’ asked Maria. They had all heard rumours and they had picked up the hidden message in Bertran de Miramont’s new song.

‘It could be,’ said Perrin. ‘Bertran advised me to go east, maybe even as far as Italy. The Midi will not be safe for us much longer.’

‘Besides,’ said Huguet, ‘can’t you understand that Elinor does not want to marry Thibaut le Viguier?’

Pelegrina thought about it. The question of marrying a nobleman did not arise in her case; most women of her class didn’t bother with marrying at all. That was for the nobles, who had land to leave and property to worry about. But they still had men they liked and men they didn’t. There were boisterous young knights like Gui le Viguier and older lords in some of the castles they visited who were free with their hands and difficult to repulse if they were the troupe’s paymasters.

The joglaresas had their reputation unfairly; it was not that they willingly gave their favours to any who desired them, but that they were often not in a position to say no. A song, a dance, a tune, or a night in a nobleman’s bed were all something to be bought and sold.

‘She hates him so much?’ asked Maria. She didn’t find the old lord attractive herself but he wasn’t one of the ones who pawed over her and leered suggestively at her while she danced. And the idea of being the domna of a fortified town, with servants to do your will, was not so very terrible in itself.

‘She does not wish to marry at all,’ said Huguet.

‘Huh,’ snorted Pelegrina. ‘She wishes this and she doesn’t wish that. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. When does anyone care about our wishes? If you are determined to do this thing, we’ll have to go along with it, whether we like it or not.’

‘But it would be preferable if you were all kind to the donzela, when she is dressed as a joven, travelling among us. We will be her only friends in the world, her only family.’

‘What does Lucatz think?’ asked Maria.

Lucatz was the troupe’s troubadour, who had been wintering with them in the castle when Bertran had turned up so suddenly. They were rivals and Lucatz had taken the opportunity to visit his ailing mother in Nîmes. He was only recently returned to Sévignan.

Perrin and Huguet exchanged glances; they had decided not to tell Lucatz until the party was well away from the castle and on the road east. It would be possible to keep Elinor out of the way until at least their first stop for the night.

‘We have not told him,’ said Perrin. ‘We shall introduce him to “Esteve” – our new joglar – on the road. Then, if he accepts her as a boy, there will be no need to say more.’

Pelegrina said nothing but all three joglaresas wondered why they had been entrusted with a secret their troubadour would remain ignorant of.

Bertran had reached Narbonne by the time the Pope’s messenger had arrived in Arles to look for the ferryman. The troubadour loved the city of Narbonne, which had a long history of appreciating poetry. One of his predecessors had written poems to Viscountess Ermengarde, who ruled the city for so long.

The present Viscount was Aimery III, a man who had just separated from his wife, causing a scandal in Narbonne. It was claimed she had been married to someone else all along. Such behaviour was not likely to make him popular with Bertran, who thought Aimery’s great-aunt Ermengarde must have been turning in her grave, but he knew the Viscount would receive him courteously.

Aimery was not particularly sympathetic to the Believers but Bertran taught his new song to the joglars at court and saw that his message had once again been understood.

For those who had ears to hear, the canso was both a warning and a call to arms, yet was still on the surface a poem of fin’amor, which no one could take exception to.

And while the joglars were singing it in Narbonne, the Pope’s messenger was in a tavern in Arles, plying Borel the ferryman with strong wine.

‘So you saw the whole thing?’ asked the messenger.

‘I did,’ said Borel, who had been bought many a drink in return for his account of the murder. With each telling he embroidered the story for his listeners with some new detail.

‘It must have been terrible for you,’ said the messenger encouragingly, signalling to the tavern keeper for more wine.

‘Not a night has passed since that I haven’t dreamed about it,’ said Borel. ‘The blood, the Legate’s single scream as the lance went in, the assassin on his horse, the size of a giant.’

‘The assassin or the horse?’ checked the messenger.

‘The ash-ash-sashin, of course,’ slurred Borel.

The messenger called for a trencher of bread and meat for his guest; he thought the ferryman was getting drunk too quickly.

‘Do you know who it was?’ he asked Borel.

The man tried to tap the side of his nose and missed.

‘Best not to mention any names,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know him myself but there are those that do. Guilhem de Porcelet, for one.’

The messenger stowed this information away for future use.

‘And I believe there was someone in the boat with you?’ he asked.

‘That’s right. Troubadour,’ said Borel.

‘Did you know him?’

‘’Course. Always popping back and forth over the river that one. Been coming to Arles for years.’

‘And his name? Do you know that?’

‘As well as I know my own. Bernard, no, that’s not right, Bertran, that’s the fellow. Made off on his horse after the killer as soon as he saw there was nothing to be done for the poor Legate, God rest his soul.’

‘So,’ said the Pope’s man. ‘Bertran the troubadour. Is he known by any other name?’

‘Miraval. No, hang on, that’s the other one. Miramont! Bertran de Miramont. Anyone here will tell you about him. Handsome devil. All the ladies love him.’

‘Not a devil, surely? He tried to help Pierre.’

‘Oc. But he doesn’t love the ladies back, you see.’

‘You mean he is an . . . unnatural, a sodomite?’

‘Nah. Too pure for that or for the ladies. Still he did go after the murderer.’

‘But didn’t catch him, as far as you know?’

‘The rumour is,’ said Borel. ‘That he lost him in Beaucaire but that was my amic Simos told me that. He brought the troubadour back in the ferry a few days later. Simos and me, we take turns on the boat. He’s on it now.’

The innkeeper brought Borel’s food and the messenger sat back and let his informant enjoy it. He had three useful pieces of news to take back to Rome: that one Guilhem de Porcelet knew the killer, that the witness was Bertran de Miramont and that the handsome troubadour was ‘too pure to love the ladies’. It had not been a bad evening’s work.

Winter was finally defeated and the days were beginning to stretch out longer again. Warmth returned even to the hills of the Midi and fur-lined cloaks were folded up and laid in cedar-wood chests. Elinor had tried on her joglar’s outfit in secret and Alys had agreed she could pass for a boy as soon as her hair was shorn. But they couldn’t do that till the day of the escape.

Lucatz and his troupe of joglars normally moved on in April and he had not demurred when Perrin had suggested they might head eastward. He might be jealous of Bertran but he was not fool enough to ignore his advice.

March was coming to an end and Thibaut and his daughters were still at Sévignan. Elinor prayed daily that they would just go back home to their own bastide without any proposal having been made. She had shown him no encouragement. And, in spite of her escape plan, Elinor was in no hurry to leave the only home she had ever known.

But the day came when Lord Lanval summoned her to the solar and she found him sitting with le Viguier. Her father’s expression was set and she felt her mind closing down as the terms were at last offered to her.

‘My dear,’ said Lanval, without any warmth in his voice. ‘Our neighbour and friend, Lord Thibaut, has something he wishes to ask you and I must tell you that he does so with my full consent and approval.’

Both men looked at her expectantly and Elinor managed a small curtsey. Her father looked pleased to find her in such a submissive humour.

‘Lady Elinor,’ said Thibaut and she realised that her father wasn’t even going to leave the room. That would make it easier in case her old admirer offered to kiss her, she thought. She could feign shyness and modesty.

‘I have long been without the comfort of a wife,’ continued Thibaut. ‘Of my daughters, one is married, one betrothed and the third likely to be so soon. It will not be long before my castle is without a feminine presence and my court without a lady. You would do me a great honour if you would consent to be that lady.’

He stopped. Was there going to be more? Shouldn’t he say that he loved or worshipped her beauty or something similar? But Thibaut’s dignified little speech was clearly all that he had prepared.

‘Well, Elinor?’ said her father. ‘You cannot pretend to be surprised.’

‘No, indeed, Paire, Lord Thibaut. But forgive me – I am so young. Can I have a day or two to give my answer?’

Her father was frowning again.

‘There is nothing to think about, surely? It is a fine and gentlemanly offer, nobly made. You would not insult our guest, Elinor?’

‘No, Paire, I would not.’ Elinor gave another little curtsey. ‘I am . . . most grateful to the Lord Thibaut for his handsome offer. It’s just that I should like to talk to my mother and sister before I accept.’

‘Your mother is of one mind with me in this matter,’ said Lanval but he had been mollified by that word ‘before’.

So had Thibaut. ‘Shall we say two days then, my dear?’ he said. ‘Then we could announce our betrothal before I leave Sévignan.’

‘Very well,’ said Lanval. ‘Have your two days of maiden uncertainty. But then come back here and accept Thibaut’s most generous offer. I want to have a celebration before our joglars all move on.’

Elinor ducked her head and left the room quietly but then rushed back to her chamber, where Alys was waiting.

‘Quick, sister,’ she said, all out of breath, ‘the scissors! I must be gone before the sun sets twice. We must tell Huguet. The time has come for me to be a joglar!’