‘I don’t want them getting soft,’ he said. ‘How many joglaresas do you know who can ride? But then perhaps in Ademar’s troupe everyone has their own mount?’
‘No, sir,’ said Elinor. ‘I was given the pony by a lord.’ That was true enough.
‘Hmm,’ said Lucatz. ‘We will not enquire into why.’ He glared at the joglaresas, who were cackling with lewd laughter. ‘Now we have delayed long enough. On your way.’
While Lucatz and his troupe travelled slowly east towards Montpellier, Bertran was working his way from court to court in the west. From Narbonne he crossed the River Aude and headed for Minerve, calling at the hill towns in between: Aigne, Aigues-Vives and La Caunette.
After many weeks on horseback he rode unchallenged through the gates in the double curtain wall round the town and over the bridge into Minerve. The River Cesse disappeared into a large natural tunnel, affording a good water supply for the castle. And from here he could see the tall candela, the central tower. From here it looked impregnable, standing on a high spur of rock.
The town was built on the site of an old Roman temple to the goddess Minerva, who had given it her name. In ancient times, the locals would have prayed to the warlike goddess to protect them, but what could save them from the battles to come now that the Midi was Christian but the Church itself was about to take up arms against them? Bertran hoped that the town’s many natural advantages would hold the answer.
He sang his song himself that night at the court of Viscount Guilhem. There were no other troubadours or joglars in the castle so he took his own lute from his saddlebags and sang to all who would listen about the love that was like war, the battles that would be fought and lost or won depending on the readiness of the beloved.
After dinner, he had an interview with the Viscount alone.
‘Where will you go next?’ asked Guilhem.
‘West, to Carcassonne,’ said Bertran. ‘I must talk to Viscount Trencavel.’
‘Do you think he understands the gravity of the situation?’
‘I think not,’ said Bertran. ‘He will see it as a problem only for his uncle in Toulouse. But once the lords of the north take up the Cross against the south, it will not be the Count of Toulouse alone who will suffer.’
‘You really think that an army will invade the Midi?’ asked Guilhem. ‘That the northerners will besiege our castles and bastides?’
‘I do indeed believe that, my lord,’ said the troubadour.
‘But look how we are placed here,’ said Guilhem. ‘We have the outer walls and the tower and enough men to defend them. Even if they come in their tens of thousands, we could withstand them.’
‘Then prepare for that,’ urged Bertran. ‘Build up your stocks of armour, weapons and food. And make sure that the people are loyal to you and willing to defend the Believers.’
Bertran did not know whether the Viscount of Minerve shared his secret religion; he had given no sign. But he did know that if the Church moved against the south, an army hungry for blood and land would not distinguish between heretics and the faithful.
It took the troupe several more days to reach Montpellier and Lucatz was so keen to be in the city in time for Easter that he hired a cart to carry all those without mounts. The three joglaresas sat in the back with their legs dangling over the edge, chatting and laughing and greatly enjoying the treat. After the long winter in Sévignan, they were out of practice in walking the roads. Perrin and Huguet sat next to the carter on either side, playing on a flute and fiddle to keep him entertained on the journey. The jugglers and dancers huddled up together on the straw in the back of the cart improvising raucous and rude lyrics to the joglars’ tunes. Lucatz rode well ahead but Esteve kept the pony alongside the cart.
Elinor was getting used to being Esteve the joglar. She had hardened to riding in a man’s saddle and had not found the change in her life too difficult. It helped that the weather was warm and the nights mild, since the troupe usually slept in the open. Their food was homely and without the refinements that Hugo had applied in the castle kitchen at Sévignan, but Elinor throve on it. Riding in the fresh air and performing at country fairs gave her an appetite much greater than her restricted life in the castle. And now that she was no longer afraid of being made to marry, her heart was light.
She missed Alys, of course, and her brother, but she was not lonely. Perrin and Huguet were as friendly as always and protective too, and the joglaresas, though they kept up a stream of mockery, were not hostile. Lucatz was a bit remote and prickly but he nodded in approval at Esteve’s singing and playing. It was hard work, keeping up with the professional musicians but Elinor was thrilled to find that here was something she could do. She even managed a passable dance when surrounded by the rest of the troupe and her fine leg was commented on by many maidens in the villages they passed through.
Of Bertran, she heard nothing. Perrin went extremely vague when she tried to press him about the troubadour’s movements.
‘He was going east, that’s all I know,’ he said but he seemed uneasy and Elinor was sure he knew of some danger to Bertran that he was keeping from her.
As they approached the walls of Montpellier, Elinor looked up with interest. She had never been in such a great city and the furthest she had travelled away from her home before had been to the market in Béziers. Montpellier had a market too, much larger, and that was where Lucatz was heading.
It was like nothing Elinor had ever seen and Huguet had to nudge her knee to stop her looking like a gaping carp at all the sights.
‘Surely Esteve has seen a market before,’ he whispered. ‘They must have them in Albi.’
She tried to seem less impressed but it was difficult. The central square was filled with more stalls than she had ever seen before. It was Holy Saturday and the city was brimming over with visitors as well as the local population, come to spend their money and go to Mass in the cathedral for Easter Day. Lucatz told the carter to tie up at the edge of the market and look after the horses and signalled to his troupe to follow him on foot.
Montpellier was known as the ‘golden city’ of the Midi because of all its goldsmiths and there were stalls glittering and glinting in the sunshine with all kinds of chains and rings and seals. They sat alongside the wares of glassworkers, parchment-makers, haberdashers and dyers.
In the food part of the market smells of raw fish and eels and game made Elinor’s gorge rise but there were also stalls selling sweet spiced bread and tarts and chestnuts and roast mutton. She had never seen such a range of different kinds of food, not even at one of Hugo’s best feasts in the castle.
At the far end of the market was a raised platform, not much more than a cart frame on barrels instead of wheels, which Lucatz had his eye on. The troupe followed him slowly, threading their way through the many delights being offered on each side. Perrin bought spiced biscuits for the joglars and Elinor thought the mixture of cinnamon, sugar and almonds was the most delicious thing she had ever tasted.
‘This is where we’ll perform on Monday,’ said Lucatz. ‘And I will go to the court and see whether the Lady will give us hospitality.’
‘So we can explore the market now?’ asked Bernardina.
The troubadour frowned. ‘Very well. But I shall expect to see all of you in the cathedral for the Easter Vigil tonight. Then I’ll let you know where we’ll be sleeping. You, Esteve, come with me.’
‘Me?’ asked Elinor, dumbfounded. She was torn between longing to explore the market and curiosity about what the inside of a grander court than her father’s would be like.
‘Yes, don’t dawdle like a halfwit,’ said Lucatz. ‘If you behave like a normal person, I think you might impress the Lady.’
As they walked up to the castle, the troubadour stopped to pick up useful pieces of gossip on the way.
‘So,’ he said, when th
ey had at last left the market and the winding streets around it and were heading up a broader approach to the citadel. ‘It appears we have come at a fortunate time.’
He was unlike his usual self, almost gleeful at the prospect of gain to be had in the golden city.
‘It seems that the Lady has an heir,’ he said. ‘The new little Senhor was born in February. Jacques they call him and he is but two months old. That means the Lady will be recovered from her lying-in and full of joy and, we hope, largesse.’
‘That’s good,’ said Elinor uncertainly. ‘I’m sorry but I know nothing of the Lady of Montpellier. Has she no Senhor?’
‘She is married to King Pedro of Aragon,’ said Lucatz, ‘but is Lady of Montpellier in her own right. She got the title back from her half-brother only four years ago.’ He lowered his voice. ‘But there’s a rumour that Pedro is trying to divorce her and marry someone else. He wants Montpellier for himself but I don’t think the domna will let him have it easily.’
Elinor was amazed. Here was a woman ruling a city in her own name and defying her husband even though he was a powerful king and Elinor’s father’s own suzerain. It made her own attempts at independence seem rather puny.
‘It’s not the first time she has married a scoundrel,’ said Lucatz and Elinor was astonished at the casual way he referred to their sovereign lord. ‘Maria’s first husband married her and gave her two daughters. But the Pope annulled that match because he had two wives alive already!’
By now they had reached the castle, with its silver shield with a red circle on it hanging over the gate. Elinor was a bit disappointed that they were not ushered into the presence of Maria of Montpellier herself. But they were well entertained by her senescal, who was courteous and welcoming. Elinor kept very quiet throughout the interview, saying little except for thanking the man for the sweet wine and biscuits and giving her assumed name.
By the time they left, Lucatz was in a very good humour.
‘Monday morning in the market and in the evening entertaining at the child’s Christening feast,’ he said. ‘What could be better? I didn’t know about the child but I made the right decision leaving Sévignan when we did, even though there was a betrothal feast in the offing.’
Elinor realised with a shock that he was talking about her own possible troth-pledging to old le Viguier. Was it really less than a week ago that she had stood in the solar and heard his proposal?
To cover her confusion, she asked whether the Lady would not have already arranged the entertainment for her son’s important day.
‘We can’t expect to be the only troupe in Montpellier,’ said Lucatz. ‘You must know that from your time at Albi. But we will have the charm of novelty. I’m sure we will be the crown of the evening. I must tell the other joglars to match our songs to the Lady’s circumstances.’
The cathedral was ablaze with light. And in the choir stalls sat all the nuns from a nearby convent. Three of them came down into the main aisle, each carrying a candle, a towel and a box.
‘What are they doing?’ whispered Elinor.
‘They are the three Marys,’ Perrin whispered back. ‘They go to the tomb to anoint the dead body of the Lord.’
The three nuns walked towards the altar, where two choirboys dressed in white stood like guardian angels and warbled in their high voices: ‘Quem queritis?’ – ‘Whom do you seek, O servants of Christ?’
‘Jesus of Nazareth crucified, O inhabitants of heaven,’ sang the nuns.
‘He is not here, he is resurrected as it was foretold.
‘Go and announce that he is raised from the dead.’
It was surprisingly moving. The priest took up the Host and processed round the cathedral with the two ‘angels’ on either side of him and the three ‘Mary’s walking behind.
And then the true Mass began. Perrin and Huguet slipped out and Elinor noticed that two of the joglaresas left quietly too. So they were also heretics, she thought. She knew that those who practised her father’s religion would not receive the Sacrament.
Elinor strained to see the Lady of Montpellier, who sat in her own special stall at the front of the nave. She was tiny, a dignified and indomitable figure with a very straight back and a mass of dark hair. But she was surrounded by ladies-in-waiting and guards, so that there was not much more than a glimpse of her to be seen, in a cloth of gold robe.
Elinor would get a closer view tomorrow.
.
CHAPTER SIX
Honeysuckle
Innocent III celebrated Easter in Rome with the usual magnificence and pomp. By the end of Easter Sunday, he was tired and elated in equal measure. When he had disrobed and taken a light meal, he sat down to ponder the news that his messenger who had been sent to the Midi had brought him. The Pope had been thoughtful when he heard his information. What did the troubadour’s lack of enthusiasm for women mean? The ferryman had been sure he was not abnormal in his desires and perhaps he was just a clean-living man? As Pope and a celibate Christian himself, he could hardly condemn Bertran for that. But just possibly the troubadour was a heretic, who either was a Perfect already or was planning to become one before he died. That would account for his abstinence from female company.
But the life of a troubadour would not really be compatible with that of a Perfect; he would have to pray too many times a day to be at his lord’s beck and call for poetry and he’d have to eat whatever the lord he was serving put before him. So Bertran de Miramont was possibly just a Believer who was on the heretics’ side. But wasn’t it a bit too much of a coincidence that this troubadour should have been there at the very moment when the Pope’s Legate, acting against the heretics, had been murdered?
It was beginning to look like conspiracy. The murderer could have hidden in the wood and waited till he saw the ferry-boat coming, knowing that Pierre and his companions must cross the river by that route. And it could have been pre-arranged that the troubadour would travel in the first morning boat.
Then after the murder, he could have merely pretended to chase after the assassin, making sure that no one else did so. It made perfect sense. He must investigate this Guilhem de Porcelet named by the ferryman. It was clear that both de Porcelet and de Miramont knew something; they must be interrogated with the strictest rigour.
Innocent sighed heavily. He must now send out other men capable of tracking down the troubadour and carrying out the most severe kind of investigation. This business in the Midi was taking up more and more of his time. But it would be worth it if the heresy could be stamped out.
In Montpellier the joglars were having a successful Easter Monday. The market square was thronged with people, even more than on Holy Saturday, and the customers, after an hour or two of filling their baskets with cheeses and oatcakes, eggs and honey, were ready for some entertainment.
Lucatz stood at the side of the cart-platform, masterminding the troupe’s activities so that jugglers and acrobats were followed by dancers and singers. Perrin, Huguet and Esteve accompanied them all, with scarcely more than a moment to sip at the mugs of ale that market-traders bought for them.
One of the acrobats took round a velvet hat which was filled up often with silver pennies and the occasional larger coin from a rich trader, minted by the lords of Montpellier themselves. Lucatz was well pleased with their haul.
Many of the people who came to watch and listen had a special request for a particular canso or one of the longer chansons de gestes but the troubadour held back on most of the longer poems, knowing that they’d have to perform more of those at the court.
By the time they stopped at midday, Lucatz was able to give six pennies to every member of the troupe and the joglars got a solidus each.
‘He always pays the men more,’ grumbled Pelegrina.
‘Well, we have had to work the hardest,’ said Huguet, before Pele
grina could say anything that would reveal that one of the joglars wasn’t a male at all.
Elinor wondered if she should share her payment with the women but Perrin saw her thought before it flowered into action and shook his head.
They all had a free afternoon now until they were expected to assemble in the castle for the baby prince’s celebration. Elinor had never had so much money of her own to spend. As a nobleman’s daughter, everything had been provided for her and even though she had occasionally visited a market, she had never bought anything from a stall with her own coins, earned by her own work. It was an exhilarating feeling.
The first call on her purse was lunch and she went with Perrin and Huguet to a stall where balls of minced chicken and spices were being coated in batter and dropped into pans of sizzling oil. The smell was heavenly and Elinor nearly burned her mouth on the hot savoury fritter.
As she stood and ate her lunch in the middle of the teeming marketplace, hot juices dribbling down her chin, Elinor had never felt happier. She hadn’t been born a boy but this was the next best thing, to have all of a boy’s freedom and none of a man’s responsibilities.
The only tiny cloud in the blue sky of her new travelling life was that she had absolutely no idea what was going to happen to her in future. She had thought no further than finding Bertran and throwing herself on his mercy. Surely he wouldn’t have sent her his token if he hadn’t loved her? Beyond that she had no idea, not even of marriage to the handsome troubadour. She didn’t want to think about it.
‘Come on,’ said Perrin. ‘When you two have finished stuffing your faces, we should go and explore.’
The Lady of Montpellier knew how to put on a good feast. With her marriage in doubt, she now placed all her hopes of a happy future on her baby son, Jacques. He would be Senhor of Montpellier after her death, and today’s feast was all about proclaiming that fact, which was much more important to her than his inheritance of the throne of Aragon, which was far away over the Pyrenees. All the local nobles had been invited and more than twenty dishes prepared. And the entertainments would be equally splendid. It was a real piece of fortune that a new troubadour had turned up with his young joglar and promised to put on a fine show with his troupe at the end of the evening.