But Elinor knew that there was a house of sisters nearby who were always referred to as Perfects and that was not just because they were devout Christians. She had heard the word applied to them and it sounded so peaceful and welcoming. As yet, Elinor had no idea what you had to do to become a Perfect but if it was something her father would approve of then it might soften the blow when she refused old le Viguier.
It was at dusk that she thought about the other way out. How on earth could she, a healthy young girl, bring about her own death, even if that was what she chose to do?
I could starve myself, she thought, looking down at her gown, which had become quite loose on her of recent days. But there was a difference between losing one’s appetite and letting oneself waste away till the last breath left the body. Surely that would be a horrible way to die? But what was a good way?
Elinor thought about death by drowning, burning, poison or a sharp dagger to the throat or wrists. She didn’t have a dagger and she doubted that the pin on Bertran’s brooch would be a sharp enough or deadly enough weapon. To cast herself in the well would pollute the whole castle’s water supply and she shuddered at the thought of the dark stone walls enclosing her while her head sank under the surface.
She could escape the castle and walk down to the River Orb and jump in; she couldn’t swim. But would it be deep enough and fast enough to take her away from the bank and whirl her to certain death? And what about being bruised and battered by the rocks?
As for poison, Elinor had no idea how to get hold of any. And burning? The only fires in the castle were in the kitchen and the great hall, but pitch-covered torches were lit regularly at those flames. She could steal one and set light to her loose gown. But the very thought made her want to jump in the well after all.
To burn, to feel flames licking at your flesh as they did the poor animals turning on the spit! And those creatures were dead and felt nothing. Elinor could imagine all too vividly the smell of her skin beginning to crackle, her flesh spitting and hissing with melting fat. Her hair would be aflame in seconds – a torturing, blazing crown around her head. Could she bear it? Would she pass out quickly and not suffer too much torment? She dared not hope so.
And so another sleepless night would pass and she would rise with the day and think that it would be better to become a Perfect sister after all.
Bertran did not linger in Béziers. His meeting with the Bishop had been strained on both sides. The troubadour was careful not to reveal that he had witnessed the Legate’s murder, portraying himself as a messenger only, reluctantly bringing news.
Bishop Ermengaud had crossed himself and prayed and Bertran had joined him. But he noticed that the old man had a fanatical glitter in his eyes when he rose from his knees.
‘We shall hear soon from Rome, I think,’ he said. ‘The Pope will not let the Count of Toulouse get away with this crime. He has gone too far this time. This means the end for the heretics.’
Bertran had been glad to leave without having to express an opinion. He had gone straight to the leader of the Believers in the city. The one thing that he had in common with the Bishop was that they both knew the murder marked a change in the persecution of the heretics.
It was vital to spread the word among their other communities in the south. Bertran had some hard riding ahead of him. Puisseguier, Saint Pons, Narbonne, Minerve – all the towns on the way to Carcassonne would have to be visited. And with every day that passed there could be orders from Rome against the Believers, rushing north and west and overtaking him.
But Bertran was welcome at every court. His life as a troubadour was not a disguise but his real profession and even though it was unusual to get a visit from a lone troubadour in winter without a train of joglars and joglaresas attending him, the many lords and castellans of the Midi would be sure to open their doors to him.
He might have private audiences with a few nobles, like Lanval de Sévignan, who were known to be Believers, but even more people would hear the message through his new song that spoke of war when it appeared to be about love. The heretics of the south were well attuned to every nuance that carried a threat to their religion and their lives.
But there were two problems, only one of which Bertran was aware of. The Believers were peace-loving and would not willingly take up arms to fight for their rights and their homes and families. The troubadour respected that; he was of the same persuasion himself. But he must encourage them at least to hide a portion of their wealth and goods in far off places so that if they had to flee they would not wander penniless in the world. And also to build up their defences. The hill towns and cities of the south were all fortified with strong walls and, if only the inhabitants had enough warning, could store defences and water enough to withstand a long siege.
The second problem was that, as Bertran rode towards Puisseguier, messengers from the Pope were on their way to Saint-Gilles charged with finding out the name of the unknown witness to Pierre of Castelnau’s murder.
‘No, really? Is that what it’s like?’
Elinor was talking to Miqela, an old serving-woman in the castle. She had been wet-nurse to all the children but now helped with sewing and other light duties. She had a sister who was a Perfect in a sister house nearby and Elinor had come to ask what the life there was like.
‘Oc,’ said Miqela. ‘I wouldn’t lie to you, my dove. It is a hard life for a young woman to bear. But like many of us,’ she lowered her voice, ‘I hope to come to it at the end.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Elinor.
They were sitting in the solar, Miqela benefiting from the light while she hemmed a sheet with Elinor threading her needles for her and snipping ends with her little scissors to save her old nurse’s eyes.
‘Only that I will come to perfection on my deathbed,’ said Miqela calmly. ‘I hope to receive the consolamentum then before I die. But I don’t think I could live like Joana before then.’
‘No meat,’ said Elinor woefully, remembering the turning spits with their fearful but delicious burden. ‘No fish, or cheese, or eggs?’
‘Nothing that has been the result of any coupling,’ nodded Miqela. ‘And of course no coupling for the Perfects either, no love, marriage and childbearing. But I think I shall be past all that on my deathbed. Indeed it is many years since it has been behind me! It is the good food I should miss.’
Elinor looked solemn. She had understood about the living a clean life; that was true for all holy sisters, not just the Perfects. And wasn’t it exactly the carnal knowledge of Thibaut le Viguier she would be fleeing from?
But to be forbidden wine, to pray fifteen times a day, to fast three days out of seven, and for forty days three times a year! Elinor did not see how she could bear all that. It would be better to die swiftly and cleanly than to live out her days in such deprivation.
Miqela looked up at her sharply; her eyesight might be failing but she had known Elinor from birth.
‘Don’t tell me you are thinking of entering a sister house,’ she said. ‘I thought it was a wedding gown I was to stitch for you, not the black robe of a Perfect.’
‘Oh, you heard that, did you?’ said Elinor casually. ‘It might be that I am to be married, indeed. And no, I am not thinking of joining the sisters. I just wanted to know what it was like.’
Later that day, with her blood pulsing loudly in her ears, Elinor crept into the kitchen. Food was being served in the great hall but she had absented herself on the grounds of feeling unwell. The room still smelled strongly of roasted meat and Elinor felt her empty stomach rumble. She tore a bit of bread from an unused trencher and stuffed it in her mouth; it tasted better than anything she had eaten for weeks. Her last meal.
She had to hurry before Hugo and the kitchen servants came back for the date sweetmeats and apples dipped in honey that were spread on a table. Swiftly she crossed the r
oom and took one of Hugo’s knives, with a horn handle. It was an old one, thin in the blade from having been honed against the whetstone so often. And it was sharp as any dagger.
Alys had been allowed to eat dinner with the local nobility in Elinor’s place. She said little but watched and listened. Le Viguier had good manners and was no fool but he was old; she could understand why Elinor would not want to marry him.
And his daughters were cross-grained, froward creatures. Lord Lanval and Lady Clara were polite to them but Alys could see that her parents did not regard the Viguier women as good models for their daughters. Perhaps their mother had been dead too long and they had been allowed too much freedom by their quiet, grey father?
Alys was worried about Elinor. She had seen her wasting away and thought at first it was because she was missing Bertran. But now she was sure that her sister’s decline was because she didn’t want an old husband and had realised it was her parents’ plan to give her one. Alys shuddered and drank some hippocras to disguise her trembling.
Suppose they had such a fate in mind for her too? She had hoped for something better. And what would Elinor do if she were forced to marry old Thibaut? Alys couldn’t imagine her sister just giving up and settling down. She had been watching her and had come to some conclusions of her own.
When the dinner came to an end and just a few men were left drinking and listening to the musicians, Alys passed close to Huguet and whispered that she would like to talk to him on the battlements when the evening’s music was over.
She passed a cold hour walking up and down on the walls, in spite of her fur-lined cloak. She kept herself warm by blowing on her hands and wrapping her arms round herself. After a long wait, a whistle like a bird’s single note told her that Huguet was near.
Alys was suddenly shy. The joglars were Elinor’s special friends and she felt all at once the scandal of meeting a young man alone in a secret tryst. She was very aware of his presence, even though she was still a little girl, and was glad to be able to pull her hood over her face.
‘What can I do for you, my lady?’ he said and his warm and friendly voice allayed her fears. Huguet was a friend.
‘I am worried about my sister,’ she said. ‘She is so unhappy I fear she will harm herself in some way.’
‘She has certainly looked pale and thin of late,’ agreed Huguet. ‘May I ask what you think is wrong? What is it that has taken her appetite away? I thought it was – forgive me – some ailment of women.’
Alys sighed. ‘It is in a way. If marriage is a woman’s ailment. I’m not sure but I think our parents intend her to marry old Viguier. I know that’s what Elinor thinks he has come here for – to ask for her hand.’
‘The Lady Elinor and that stick!’ said the joglar. ‘Never! Besides,’ he hesitated. ‘Forgive me, not my place to mention it, but I have always thought your sister looked with favour on Bertran de Miramont?’
Alys smiled inside her hood; did everyone in the castle know of her sister’s preference?
‘My sister might not be able to act upon her own wishes,’ she said. ‘If our father says she must marry Thibaut, then what else can she do?’
She heard Huguet gasp.
‘No, surely she couldn’t . . .’ said the joglar anxiously.
‘What? What are you thinking?’ said Alys, his panic infecting her own mood.
‘That as I passed the kitchen, Big Hugo was bawling that someone had stolen his boning knife.’
Alys suddenly felt a lot colder.
And then she was flying along the wall to the little chamber she shared with Elinor, Huguet at her heels.
They burst into the room and found Elinor slumped on the bed, the knife in her hand and the front of her chemise stained all red.
.
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 g
ood 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.