But the Bishop’s mind was in turmoil. This encounter was all very well and polite, but it did make it awkward for him to question Bertran as a possible criminal.
He cleared his throat. ‘I have been sent by His Holiness, Pope Innocent the Third, to continue his work in the Midi and to root out heresy,’ he began. ‘You have heard of the heinous murder of my fellow Legate, Pierre of Castelnau?’
‘Indeed I have,’ said the Viscount not looking at Bertran.
‘I was there, Your Grace,’ said the troubadour. ‘You might not remember, so sudden and terrible was the deed, but I gave chase to the assassin.’
This was better; the man was volunteering information.
‘Yes,’ said the Bishop. ‘I do remember you. What happened afterwards? Did you catch up with the man?’
‘I am afraid not,’ said Bertran. ‘He had a good start on me since my horse had to be got off the ferry-boat. I rode hard after the man but lost him near Beaucaire.’
‘Do you know the man’s name?’
‘No, Your Grace. I should of course have passed that information on if I had found it out.’
‘And have you heard the name Guilhem de Porcelet?’
‘I have heard it, Your Grace, but know nothing of him save that he owns lands near Arles.’
‘The Pope has received information that this man knows who the real killer is,’ said the Bishop. ‘And he wishes me to find him.’
‘I’m sorry that I cannot help you, Your Grace,’ said the troubadour. ‘Perhaps you would find out more in Beaucaire or Saint-Gilles?’
The Bishop looked relieved. ‘Yes, I might. And that will be convenient, for my next mission is to go eastwards.’ He coughed and stammered before saying, ‘However, I have to ask you to accompany me there. The Pope has asked me to take you to Saint-Gilles.’
There was nothing menacing about this Legate but Bertran understood that he was, in the politest way possible, being taken prisoner.
From the moment that the joglars took her into their confidence, Elinor became more thoughtful. This adventure, which had started as an escape for her and had brought moments of longed-for freedom and exhilaration, had become something different, a flight from more than marriage.
Her thoughts turned increasingly to her old home and the dangers that her family might be facing. Sévignan was a well-defended hill town, with thick strong walls and battlements and a good company of knights and warriors, including her father and brother. It had its own wells and enough storerooms and barns that could be stocked to withstand a siege. She had grown up feeling safe and secure within its walls.
But what if an army of thousands or even tens of thousands, as the joglars seemed to think possible, were to arrive, with equally experienced soldiers and the siege engines and catapults that she had heard about? She wished now that she had paid more attention to Aimeric’s talk of battles.
And what could the women do in such a situation? Would there be any role for Lady Clara or Alys during a siege or while the men went out to fight? Images flitted across her mind of bloody and broken bodies. Of course; that’s what the women would do: tend the wounded and dying. It made Elinor shiver, even in the warm southern sun.
Many times she thought of going back but it was impossible. A lone girl, even one dressed as boy, would not be safe in these turbulent times in the south. And Perrin had told her, very seriously, that Bertran would not want her to do anything but continue her escape. He knew the power of that name with her.
Bertran. She had loved him for so long that he was a part of her mind; her first thought in the morning and her last at night. He was her idea of the perfect man – like the heroes of the cansos de gesta she had been brought up on and the northern lays – her Alexander, Roland or Tristan. The irony did not escape her; ‘perfect’ was what Bertran aspired to be and that meant there could be no future for her with him, except as a loyal friend.
Then if that is all I can be to him, I will be that, she thought. For I must be something to him – at least if I am ever to see him again.
At last the troupe left Montpellier, richer by far than when they had arrived. Their road took them towards Lunel and the journey was long, without the luxury of a cart, even although Lucatz could now afford it. Their steps were accompanied by the low level grumbling of the joglaresas, who didn’t want to walk and complained that they had to associate with acrobats and jugglers.
Lunel was not a hill town; it sat at the foot of the Cévennes Mountains and was surrounded by scrubland. But it had a fine Saturday market and that meant rich pickings for the troupe. It was May before they got there and the weather had turned very warm.
By now, Esteve had been accepted into the troupe and there was no more talk of finding his old troubadour. Lucatz valued his high clear voice and his knowledge of all the popular songs; he didn’t know that the other joglars coached him every day, as they walked beside his pony.
The joglaresas were the only other members of the troupe who knew Elinor’s secret.
Once, when they were camped at a little village on the way to Lunel, Pelegrina had probed her about her plans.
‘What will you do when you become a woman?’ she asked. ‘When you start to bleed every month and grow breasts? Will you wait for Lucatz to notice or will you look for another troupe as a joglaresa?’
Elinor had been horrified. Joining another troupe was a step too far. She looked at the Catalan, who was biting into a peach with evident enjoyment.
‘I don’t know, Pelegrina. I really don’t know,’ she said. ‘I can’t think further than this summer.’
Pelegrina shrugged and threw the stone of the peach into the trees. ‘Fair enough. It doesn’t do to look too far into the future. And if the rumours we hear are true, we could all be dead before you come to womanhood.’
It was not a cheerful prospect, though Elinor recognised it could be true. Every day, she thrust such gloomy thoughts down and taught herself to live in the moment, enjoying the sun, her food, the applause when she performed as Esteve – and her memories of Bertran. From then on she looked backwards more often than to the future.
What she would have thought if she had known Bertran was on his way back through the south and not so far away was another matter.
The troubadour and the Bishop had spent one night under Viscount Trencavel’s roof and then set off for the east. Bertran was allowed to ride his own horse. He was not even bound, but the Legate had his own small band of guards to accompany them and, if Bertran had tried to escape, they would have caught him straight away.
As it was, the two men fell into the habit of riding alongside each other; they were the best educated and highest born of the company and it was natural that they should enjoy each other’s conversation, as long as they kept off the dangerous subjects of religion and politics. No one passing them on the road would have guessed that they were captor and prisoner.
Their route back to Saint-Gilles was more direct than the one Bertran had taken when travelling the other way. He had been aiming for the hill towns, so that he could talk to the lords of the bastides and advise them to prepare for war. Now they took the low road and passed through Lunel within a day of the arrival of the troupe from Sévignan.
But Bertran did not see them. Civilised as his custody was, he was not likely to be allowed to attend a market and hear joglars perform. But the music did reach his ears from a distance and he wondered about the clear treble voice he heard over the rebecs and fiddles. Something about it touched him deeply.
The troubadour was under no illusions about what might happen to him at Saint-Gilles. I wish I could write a new poem for that voice, he thought. Something with no word of war in it, to be worthy of that innocence and purity.
But the Legate’s group travelled on towards Saint-Gilles without the troubadour’s knowing that it was his friend
s who performed in the market square of Lunel.
They reached Saint-Gilles all too quickly and Bertran was taken to the castle. And this was where the courtesies came to an end. With great embarrassment, the Bishop informed him that he was to be escorted to the prison under the castle, to await further questioning when another representative should arrive from Rome to join them.
As the key turned in the door of his cell, for the first time Bertran felt fully the reality of his situation. He was a heretic, under suspicion of involvement in a Papal Legate’s murder, and he wondered if he would ever see the light of day again.
‘Here, in Saint-Gilles?’ said Elinor, her eyes wide. It was the first news of Bertran since they had set out and now Perrin was telling her that the troubadour was in the same city where the troupe had just arrived.
But his face was serious as he imparted the news.
‘He is in the castle dungeon,’ he said. ‘A prisoner of the Pope’s man. At least that’s what I believe.’
‘A prisoner!’ said Elinor. ‘But on what charge?’
‘We don’t know,’ said Perrin. ‘But I doubt whether the exact charge is important. It will be to do with the Legate’s murder, I am sure of that.’
‘Can we visit him?’ asked Elinor.
‘Perhaps,’ said Perrin. ‘The man who gave me the information was a Believer like us – best you don’t know his name. This city is a dangerous place. All he said was a troubadour had been brought into the city a few days ago by the Pope’s Legate, a bishop, and he was taken straight to the castle.’
‘The rumour is,’ said Huguet, ‘that another interrogator is coming from Rome.’
Elinor had heard what ‘interrogators from Rome’ were likely to do and she could not bear to think of it happening to Bertran.
‘We must go to the castle,’ she said. ‘Immediately.’
‘Hold on,’ said Perrin. ‘We can’t just turn up at the dungeons and offer to entertain the guards.’
‘Why not?’ said Elinor. ‘That seems a very good idea. Then we could rescue him while they are distracted.’
Both the joglars were startled. Much as they valued the troubadour and as appalled as they were by his situation, their ideas had not stretched to rescue, only to comforting him in his distress.
‘You teach us our duty, lady,’ said Perrin. ‘But if we really do intend a rescue, it needs more planning. We can’t just rush in at hazard and expect to leave with a prisoner.’
He was right but it did not take Elinor long to come up with a plan, one that would involve the joglaresas too. The tricky thing was how to carry it out without Lucatz’s knowledge.
The guards at the castle prison were old hands. They had looked after many prisoners in their time and were inured to cries of both pain and grief. But the troubadour was quiet and gave no trouble. He hadn’t had any visitors since his arrival, which was good news for him, because the only visitor he was likely to receive would probably not wish him any good.
So it was a surprise to them when suddenly the outer room of the guardhouse was filled up with a gay troupe of singers and dancers. They came out of the night and into the prison bringing with them a couple of flagons of wine.
‘It is our tradition,’ said Perrin, who had made the tradition up with Elinor a few hours earlier. ‘Whenever a troubadour or a joglar is in prison, if there is a troupe like ours anywhere near, we come to entertain his jailers. That way we hope our friend will receive better treatment.’
It was a dull life stuck inside the castle’s thick stone walls all day and there was no doubt that the joglaresas in particular brought a touch of colour to the grey world of the prison. And free wine made the jailers even more cooperative. They did not notice that all their wine came from one flagon while the troupe drank sparingly from the other.
The joglars played and sang for them and the women danced, whisking their long bright skirts round the room. By the time the two jailers had drunk deep, they were willing enough to take a brooch to the troubadour as one of the joglaresas asked.
‘We think we might know him,’ she said. ‘If he recognises this token, he is our friend.’ It felt strange to Elinor to be in a woman’s dress again. Her boy’s haircut was hidden by a white coif but her legs felt awkward with all the extra material swirling round them and she had to stop herself striding as if she were in her breeches.
One of the two guards set off to Bertran’s cell with the brooch, a bit unsteady on his legs. The other, older one, sat happily with Pelegrina on one knee and Maria on the other. His friend was soon back with the brooch.
‘He says he knows it,’ said the jailer, ‘but that he gave it to a lady.’
‘That’s right,’ said Elinor. ‘Am I not a lady?’
The jailers thought this was a fine joke and laughed loudly. But Elinor was more agitated than she showed. Not only did this prove the prisoner was Bertran; he knew that friends from Sévignan were near.
‘Have another drink,’ said Perrin.
‘Can we see him?’ said Maria, twisting a lock of the older guard’s greasy hair round her finger.
The two men looked at each other.
‘Well, what harm is there in it?’ said the older one. ‘He’s not a dangerous criminal and why shouldn’t he hear some music?’
The younger one still had Bertran’s brooch in his hand. He closed his fingers round the red stone. ‘I reckon we should have something for breaking our orders,’ he said. ‘My girl would like this trinket.’
‘So would my wife come to that,’ said the older man. ‘But we can decide that later. Take them to see their friend but don’t leave them with him for long.’
‘We’ll stay here and keep you company,’ said Perrin. ‘Let the girls go.’
So the four joglaresas, whispering and giggling, went with the young jailer to Bertran’s cell. But Elinor lagged back and swiftly stripped off her coif and her dress, rolling them into a bundle. She had her joglar’s clothes on underneath. Slowly, she crept back along the passage to where Perrin and Huguet drank with the older guard.
‘I must just step outside for a moment,’ said Huguet. ‘Too much wine. I’ll be straight back.’
The jailer assumed he was just going outside to relieve himself and Huguet passed Elinor in the passageway. She handed him the bundle of her clothes, which he stowed in his pack. Then he went to stand watch outside the guardhouse door while she, as Esteve the joglar, slipped back into the inner guardroom.
If the jailer noticed any difference, he didn’t say anything. Elinor and Huguet were much of a height and size, since he was short for a boy and not much older than her. Elinor was careful to say little and even the younger jailer didn’t seem to notice when he came back. He hadn’t registered either that he had let only three women into Bertran’s cell, even though four had gone down to it with him.
Both men were much the worse for all the doctored wine they had drunk and the man coming back from the cell saw what he expected to see: his fellow-jailer drinking with two joglars, a man and a boy.
In the cell, an astonished Bertran was being made to put on the outer layer of clothes that Bernardina quickly stripped off. She was the largest of the joglaresas and had looked even bigger when wearing two layers of clothes. Bertran was not a very heavily built man but the woman’s clothes were a squeeze.
‘Good job you don’t wear a beard,’ said Pelegrina, efficiently tying a brightly-patterned scarf round his head, while Bernardina bundled his hat under her apron.
‘Is Perrin here?’ asked Bertran, scarcely able to believe he was being rescued.
‘We are all here,’ said Maria, applying rouge to Bertran’s lips. ‘But it’s the Lady Elinor who thought up the plan.’
‘Please God she was right about it,’ said Bernardina fervently.
‘Elinor?’ said the troubadour
. Could she really be here?
‘Now,’ said Pelegrina. ‘This is the difficult bit. When the jailer comes to let us out, you must bow your head and weep into this kerchief. That way he won’t look carefully at your face. Try to slouch a bit, to conceal your height.’
Maria and Pelegrina were stuffing their petticoats under the blanket on Bertran’s straw pallet, to look like the figure of a man. It was dark and the flickering light from the jailer’s torch, together with his drink-fuddled brain, was what they were trusting to.
‘Ready?’ asked Bernardina.
Then Maria called out for the jailer.
By the time he came, his feet wavering down the stone steps, the powder they had put in one of the flagons of wine was taking its effect. He let the four joglaresas out of the cell, just as he had thought he let four in to visit the prisoner. And one of them was making such a lamentation he could scarcely think straight.
‘She’s upset,’ said Pelegrina. ‘He’s her sweetheart.’
That was right, thought the jailer, one of them had carried the troubadour’s love token. Pretty thing it was. Where had he put it? Blowed if he was going to let old Victor have it for his harridan of a wife. The prisoner was quiet enough; maybe he was weeping too, on his pallet, for his joglaresa. Well, they were all good-looking women, even if he couldn’t at the moment tell one from another.
The troupe burst out of the prison, singing raucously, as if they had all had a bit too much to drink. Huguet joined them and they weaved their way across the castle yard, arms linked.
And no one who had seen them go in an hour before had any notion that there was now an extra member in their midst.
.
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Part Two
Trobairitz
Kill them all; God will know his own.
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Attributed to the Abbot of Cîteaux at the siege of Béziers and still quoted as fact throughout the Languedoc.