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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Lady of Selva

King Pedro of Aragon could not hold out any longer against accepting de Montfort’s homage. Not only was the Frenchman carrying the titles that had belonged to Viscount Trencavel, he was now the master of Minerve and Termes. During the long siege of Termes, where fortune had wavered from one side to the other so often, the eyes of the south had been on the fortress and its fate.

And then had come the sudden victory. The old Lord of Termes was now incarcerated in the dungeon at Carcassonne and his forces scattered. Only Cabaret remained of the three once impregnable rebel fortresses.

In late January, King Pedro was on his way to Montpellier, when he was waylaid at Narbonne by a serious deputation. The Count of Toulouse was there, along with the Abbot of Cîteaux and Simon de Montfort. The Abbot begged the King to accept de Montfort’s homage.

Pedro didn’t like it; it would mean he had accepted the French overrunning his territories in the south. But reluctantly he agreed and let de Montfort kneel to him. Then he decided to go even further than this and spurred to Montpellier and his wife in haste.

The Lady Maria was astonished by her senescal bursting in to tell her that her husband was in the bailey with a hundred knights. In moments he was in her room.

‘Madam,’ he said, bowing low.

But Maria was used to his grand courtesies.

‘What do you want?’ she asked.

‘My son,’ he said.

Maria felt winter enter her blood.

‘What for?’ she demanded, instinctively shielding little Jacques with her body. But the boy, who was not yet three years old, was fascinated by the big man in armour, with the gold circlet round his head. And now this grand figure was bending down and holding out his arms to him; he was irresistible.

‘Come here, Jaime,’ said his father, using the boy’s Spanish name. Maria watched like one drugged as her son willingly put himself in his father’s embrace. His chubby hands reached for the crown and Pedro, laughing, let him take it.

‘Do you suppose I mean him any harm?’ he asked, turning to Maria. ‘He is my son and heir. I merely want to give him, briefly, into the care of his future father-in-law, Simon de Montfort.’

This was not news to reassure a mother.

‘De Montfort?’ cried Maria. ‘The French wolf?’ She reached for the child but the King swung him up into his arms.

‘I am going to pledge him in marriage to de Montfort’s infant daughter,’ said Pedro. ‘I have accepted his homage and it will strengthen my alliance with France.’

‘And do you not care what happens to our child?’ asked Maria, now sobbing freely. She had seen in an instant there was nothing she could do against the King and a hundred knights.

She could grab the child and make Pedro tear him from her arms but that would only frighten Jacques and make him scream. She did not want that to be her last sight of him.

‘Nothing will happen to him,’ said Pedro. ‘De Montfort is a family man. His wife Alice is with him and they have a brood of children.’ He tickled Jacques under the chin. ‘How would you like to meet a nice little French girl to play with?’ he asked.

‘Play,’ said the boy, still fascinated by the gold crown in his hand.

‘You see,’ said Pedro. ‘He will be fine. Now, get your women to pack his clothes and toys and prepare your farewells. You will see him again soon. And Alice de Montfort will be like a mother to him.’

He could hardly have thought of a worse thing to say.

Spring came to Monferrato and when it did, Lady Iseut of Saint-Jacques married Lord Berenger of Digne in the great cathedral of Chivasso. The Marchese gave her away and Elinor, Alys, Clara and Berta were all her attendants. She was twenty-six, very old for a bride, but of course she had been married before.

As soon as the feasting was over, they moved to the castle given to Berenger by the Marchese. They renamed it Castelnuovo – the new castle – and with the money they had both managed to rescue from their own bastides, together with further handsome presents from Guglielmo, they were able to furnish it in style.

They took with them Elinor and Huguet, Clara and Alys. And of course, the child, Peire, who was now nearly eight. The Marchesa was devastated to see them go, especially Elinor, of whom she had become very fond.

‘You must come and see us often,’ said Iseut. ‘And bring baby Beatrix. I think that Castelnuovo will be a good place for children.’

Elinor was happy for the first time for many months. The war in the south seemed very far away, even though she knew there were battles and skirmishes right on their doorstep. That warfare was about feudal loyalties not about persecuting people who believed something different from the Pope in Rome. It didn’t make it less bloody but it seemed less personal to Elinor. And she had her mother and sister back; they were a family at Castelnuovo.

Berenger claimed to be no more than a farmer now, taking a minute interest in the lands that had come with the castle as part of Guglielmo’s gift. He and Iseut often talked of going back to the mountains in Occitania when the war was over but no one knew when that would be. The Lord and Lady’s two senescals had settled down to a good understanding and Nicolas had shared with François a plan that one day they would go back to the ruins of Saint-Jacques and dig up the plate and valuables buried there.

But for the time being, they were all content to live at Castelnuovo, and that contentment only increased when, in the summer, it was clear that Iseut was expecting a child.

By then the news had reached Piedmont that Pedro, the King of Aragon, had formed an alliance with Simon de Montfort.

‘That poor child!’ exclaimed Elinor, when she heard that the little boy had been handed over to Simon de Montfort by his father. ‘And his poor mother! He was all she had left.’

‘Well, and the Seigneury of Montpellier,’ said Berenger.

‘And I wonder how long she will have that,’ said Iseut.

The next piece of news was that the Count of Toulouse had fled from the council at Montpellier and been excommunicated again. Finally they heard that Cabaret had surrendered. The heart had gone out of the rebels after the French victory at Termes. The Lord of Cabaret did not want to spend his last years languishing in a dungeon like the Lord of Termes and had negotiated a deal with Simon de Montfort.

But in all this time there was no word of Bertran or of Gui le Viguier. Gradually, Elinor began to accept that she would never know what had happened to either of them.

Then one night a richly caparisoned horse rode into the bailey at Castelnuovo and Nicolas announced the Lord of Selva. Elinor had been playing the flute while Huguet sang and played the fiddle and Alys was teaching Peire to dance the estampida.

The boy was tripping over his feet and Elinor had to put down her instrument in order to laugh.

‘I know just how you feel, Peire,’ Elinor was saying. ‘I could never master the steps.’

And then she looked up and saw Nicolas and behind him, Alessandro.

He looked older and a little more careworn but the smile that lit his face was entirely for Elinor, even though he had first to pay his respects to the castle’s lord and lady.

At dinner, he was seated next to Elinor.

‘You are a difficult lady to find,’ he whispered, showing her that he still wore the green girdle under his jerkin.

‘Not by choice,’ said Elinor. ‘And I’m very glad you have found me.’

Bertran passed a miserable winter after the capture of Termes. He felt wretched that he hadn’t been able to save Lord Raimon but Gui had convinced him there was nothing they could have done. They went to Cabaret and spent the cold winter months there. Physically, they lived in reasonable comfort; Cabaret was a well-provisioned castle. But it was hard to believe that the French would ever leave the south now.

The pattern had been set of fresh recruits joining the army every spring from the north and there was no reason to believe that this wouldn’t carry on for years, until not just the heretics but all the landowners of the south had been dispossessed.

When Bertran heard that King Pedro had accepted de Montfort’s homage, he knew it was all over for the resistance. It was about then that he decided to go to Italy but it was many months before he set out. He slipped out of Cabaret just before the surrender of the city, bidding Gui farewell. The young knight was sorry to part with him.

‘What will you do?’ he asked.

‘Become a troubadour again,’ said Bertran. ‘In whatever castles and palaces still value poetry and music. And you?’

Le Viguier hesitated. ‘I’ve half a mind to come with you,’ he said. Then he grinned. ‘Only my voice would scare your patrons away! No, I’ll stay till Cabaret yields to the French, then go with Peire-Roger or with any faidit that needs a fighting arm. I’m a knight-mercenary now.’

‘Never that,’ said Bertran. ‘You wouldn’t join forces with de Montfort or the Bloody Abbot.’

Gui spat contemptuously. ‘Perhaps I’ll see you in Monferrato one day?’ he said. ‘You will go there, won’t you?’

‘One day,’ said Bertran. ‘I’d like to see Huguet once more.’

‘Huguet,’ said Gui. ‘Yes, of course. Take the joglar my greetings. And the child. And any other friend you find there.’

As Bertran rode away, Gui watched him go, fingering the handkerchief in his jerkin, which was now tattered and stained.

The troubadour journeyed slowly eastwards, avoiding every sign of French activity. From Cabaret, he skirted Minerve, now in French hands, and went on to Narbonne. There the Viscount told him about Clara and Alys and how they had left his court the previous spring. Bertran did not stay long; the court was too full of Frenchmen.

When he reached Béziers, he drew up his horse and sat for a long time contemplating the ruins and thinking of Perrin. He wondered where Nahum the Jew was now, and whether he still kept the key to his house of ashes. The charred skeleton of the cathedral of Saint-Nazaire stood stark against the sky. From here Bertran chose the low road, on which he had travelled as a prisoner with the Papal Legate two years before. But after Montpellier, he turned further south along the canal and into the marshes, wanting to keep a good distance between him and Saint-Gilles where he had been rescued from prison by the joglars and joglaresas and where he had witnessed the Count’s humiliation.

It was a lean few weeks, since the low-lying land was home only to wading birds and reed-cutters, and it took a long time to get through the delta and into Provensa. By the time Bertran reached Marseille it was nearly winter.

The cold weather seeped into his bones but after a few nights’ rest he carried on along the coast road. Then a racking cough engulfed him and he decided he must overwinter in some sympathetic noble’s court.

By the time Iseut’s baby daughter arrived in the depths of winter, Elinor was Lady of Selva. She had married Alessandro in Chivasso, with the Marchese of Monferrato standing in place of her father. Alys was her only bridal attendant and there were tears mixed with the joy of all three women from Sévignan as they missed the people who should have been there.

But for Alessandro the happiness was unalloyed. He gave his bride a beautiful grey mare as his wedding gift; Elinor had long outgrown Mackerel, who was now more of a mount for Peire. She stroked the horse’s soft white nose and thanked her new lord.

‘What can I give you, Sandro, to match such bounty?’ she asked. ‘You have known from the beginning that I have no dowry, if Sévignan is lost.’

‘I want no dowry,’ said Alessandro. ‘Just you to be my lady for ever.’

He had persuaded Elinor to bring her mother and sister with her to the court where he was now lord. But he had to let her go again for Iseut’s confinement. Their castles were only one day’s ride apart.

And Elinor would not have missed it.

‘You have what the Marchesa of Monferrato would call a treasure,’ said Elinor to her exhausted friend, cradling the warm soft newborn in her arms.

Iseut smiled weakly. ‘I hope Berenger won’t be too disappointed,’ she said.

‘He will be delighted that you and the baby both survived the birth,’ said Elinor. ‘What shall you call her?’

‘She looks so peaceful,’ said Iseut. ‘I’d like to call her Serena. But perhaps her second name could be Leonora?’

That was Elinor’s new name in Selva; the servants had all converted it to a form easier on Piedmontese tongues.

So when Berenger was allowed to meet his daughter, he was introduced to her as Serena Leonora. And he thought she was as beautiful as her mother.

A few days later, Elinor was back in her own castle. As she arrived on the grey mare who had been her bridal gift, she rode into the bailey scarcely able to believe her luck. Of all the futures open to her when she had left Sévignan four years earlier, she would never have guessed that she would be married to an Italian lord, let alone one she could love. Alessandro had heard the horse’s hooves in the courtyard and came running out to meet her like an eager boy; Elinor saw more than one castle servant turn aside to hide their indulgent smiles. The young Lord was popular and his people had taken Donna Leonora to their hearts.

‘How is Lady Iseut?’ asked Alessandro, after he had kissed her. ‘And the baby?’

‘Iseut and Berenger have a healthy daughter,’ said Elinor. And it counted entirely in Alessandro’s favour that he didn’t look disappointed – even by proxy.

‘You wouldn’t mind a little girl?’ she asked him, smiling.

‘Not at all,’ said Alessandro.

‘Good,’ said Elinor. ‘Because I cannot guarantee that I am carrying a son for you.’

It was perhaps not how he should have been told, out on the cobblestones, with his wife smiling down on him from the fine mare he had given her, but Alessandro was far too happy to mind.

Bertran got to Piedmont in the spring. He was much thinner and had barely survived his marsh fever of the winter. But the warm sunshine helped heal him faster than any poultice or tisane. He rode the same horse he had bought after his rescue from Saint-Gilles. She had seen him well through raids and battles and his long journey through the Camargue.

And now they were approaching a fine-looking castle, where Bertran hoped to receive a good welcome. Italy had been kind to him so far and he was glad to have left the troubles of the Midi behind him. He knew there had been fierce fighting between rebels and Frenchmen through the winter but it all seemed far away and dreamlike now.

There was no longer any pretence that the Count of Toulouse was on the French side though his great city of Toulouse remained technically in his hands. But Bertran, who had once been willing to fight for Raimon as his overlord, no longer cared what happened to the traitor count. Still, he was glad that the rose-pink city had not yet fallen.

He pulled his mind back to his present situation. As he approached the castle, he asked a passer-by what bastide it was.

‘Selva, Sire,’ was the answer. ‘In the Seigneury of Lord Alessandro.’

The names meant nothing to Bertran but he announced himself at the gate as a troubadour from the Midi and was courteously admitted. Once he had stabled his horse, he asked if there were other troubadours and joglars at court and was taken to where the musicians were housed.

There he received a warm welcome; although there were dancers and musicians, there was no resident poet currently.

‘The Lady herself writes poetry,’ said one of the joglars.

‘Who is your domna?’ asked Bertran. ‘And what sort of lady is she?’

‘Lady Leonora da Selva,’ said the joglar. ‘Married to the young Lord only a few months. As for her sort, the very best – young, beautiful and very favourable to our calling.’

‘So I shall not find it hard to compose a song for her?’ said Bertran, smiling.

‘I think not,’ said the joglar.

Bertran decided to compose a new poem. There was something about the atmosphere at Selva that lifted his heart. Perhaps because he was so near Monferrato, he thought of a poem by Raimbaut de Vaqueiras, who had been the old Marchese’s favourite troubadour:

‘All good usage rules in your court: generosity and courting, elegant clothing and handsome armour, trumpets and games and rebecs and songs, and at dinner-time it has never pleased you to have a keeper at the door.’

Now he set himself to think of a new canso. He hadn’t yet set eyes on the Lady of Selva but that never presented a problem for a troubadour. As he started to compose, Bertran thought of all the women he had written love songs for, the domnas of so many castles and bastides. They had never been written from the heart but were more exercises of his skills.

And then Bertran began to think of Elinor. He wondered where she could be now and whether he would find her at Monferrato. Gradually thoughts of her began to influence his choice of words and he found himself writing for a dark lady.

After two days, the canso was ready and Bertran had given it to a joglar to put to music. There were several standard tunes that could be used for new love songs.

Until then, he had not attended dinner in the great hall, though the Lord had sent him a message of welcome and a servant with specially chosen delicacies.

When he entered the hall, his eyes were dazzled for a while by all the candles and torches but it was a cheerful place. It reminded Bertran of Sévignan, before the war came. He looked at the nobles gathered at the main table and identified the Lady whose praises he had written for the joglar to sing. He was relieved to see that she was not only very beautiful but also dark.

Bertran rubbed his hand over his eyes and wondered if the marsh fever were returning. He kept thinking he saw people he knew. Perhaps it was just his memories of Sévignan but he thought briefly that the Lady Clara was there, and Huguet.

Elinor had recognised him straight away. Her heart tilted to see how much grey there was now in his dark hair. But something stopped her from sending for him. She waited until after the platters were cleared away and the musicians had played. Then a joglar stepped forward and indicated the troubadour. He took up his rebec and sang the new canso.

Elinor listened to the praises of the dark domna; it was just as beautiful as the love song she had wished for when she was thirteen. But it was like a distant view of a high mountain – something fine and admirable but remote.

The court was very pleased with it; they applauded both Bertran and the joglar. And then Huguet came down and embraced him and took him over to Lady Clara and Alys. Bertran was bewildered.

‘It is wonderful to see you, my ladies,’ said Bertran. ‘But why are you all here? How do you know the Lord of Selva?’

‘He is my husband, Bertran,’ said the Lady of Selva, coming down to take his hand.

Bertran did not know her at first and then he saw the brooch. Elinor always wore it on her dress, in memory of her first love and her old life.

When the troubadour saw it, he knew at last who Lady Leonora must be.

‘It was for you,’ he said quietly. ‘It was your own song, no one else’s.’

Elinor thanked him with a full heart.

‘And now let me present you to my lord,’ she said.