Troubadour Read online

  Troubadour

  Isolde Martyn

  www.harlequinbooks.com.au

  For Carla Molino, Caroll Casey, Christine Stinson, Elizabeth Lhuede, Jaye Ford, Kandy Shepherd, Melinda Seed and Simone Camilleri,

  a wonderful critique group who have always been part of the journey—so grateful to all of you!

  Contents

  List of characters in order of appearance 1208–1209

  History Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Glossary

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  List of characters in order of appearance 1208–1209

  Those marked with an asterisk are historical people.

  AT CORFE CASTLE

  ADELA DE HANDLEY Hairbraider to Isabella, Queen of England

  RICHART DE MIRASCON Grandson and heir of the Vicomte de Mirascon

  JOHN PLANTAGENET* King of England, nicknamed ‘Jean-sans-Terre’

  SIR TIBAUT Richart’s cousin

  PÈRE ARBERT Richart’s chaplain

  ISABELLA D’ANGOULÊME* Queen of England

  DERWENT King John’s fool

  AT BORDEAUX

  SIR REGINALD DE PONS* Seneschal of Bordeaux

  LADY ALYS FITZPOYNTZ Bride to Richart, widowed ward of King John, heiress of lands in Gascony and Gloucestershire

  HERLIVA Alys’s tiring woman

  MAUD Alys’s laundress

  SIR WILLIAM DE HEREFORD Knight in charge of Alys’s retinue

  AT MIRASCON

  SIR HENRI Castellan of Mirascon

  MARIE Sir Henri’s heretic wife

  LADY BLANCHE Dowager Vicomtesse de Mirascon, Richart’s heretic grandmother

  SIR JAUFRÉ DE MIRASCON Richart’s heir and half-brother

  SEGUINUS, BISHOP OF Richart’s uncle, supporter of the

  MIRASCON pope’s crusade against heretics

  LADY YOLANDE A noble widow, Richart’s former mistress

  FABRISSE Handmaiden to Lady Alys

  JEANNE D’ATHÉE (L’Aiguille) One of the notorious Athée* family

  GISO DE PONTHIEU Mercenary

  MIRÓ BARTHÉ Richart’s friend and cloth merchant of Mirascon

  WEDDING GUESTS

  LEONOR, COMTESSE DE TOULOUSE* Fourth wife of Raymon VI, Comte de Toulouse

  ESCLARMONDE DE FOIX* Heretic, sister to the Comte de Foix

  ROGIÈR DE TRENÇAVAL* Vicomte de Béziers, Carcassonne and Albi (also called Raymon-Rogièr), nephew to Raymon, Comte de Toulouse

  THE COMTE AND COMTESSE DE FOIX*

  TROUBADOURS

  PEIRE CARDINAL*

  RAIMON DE MIRAVEL*

  LISETTE DE MINERVE

  OLIVAR DE LA SALVETAT

  PONÇ DE LIMOGES

  AT BÉZIERS

  BERTRAN Under-cook of the Vicomte de Béziers and Carcassonne

  ONPROI Kitchen clerk of the Vicomte de Béziers

  SIR SIMON DE MONTFORT* Crusader, Norman baron, styling himself Earl of Leicester

  RAYMON VI, COMTE DE TOULOUSE* Richart’s overlord

  ABBOT ARNAUD AMAURY* Head of the Cistercian Order, papal legate and spiritual leader of the Crusade

  OTHERS MENTIONED

  POPE INNOCENT III* Enemy of the heretical sect known as Cathars or Albigensians

  PHILIPPE-AUGUSTUS* King of France

  PIERRE DE CASTELNAU* Papal legate murdered by followers of the Comte de Toulouse; declared a holy martyr

  ANDREAS CAPELLANUS* Author of works on Courtly Love and Divine Love

  GIRARD D’ATHÉE* A mercenary high in King John’s favour

  History Note

  In 1209, southern France was made up of many fiefdoms or seigneuries. The region was the heartland of the troubadours, but it was also known for its religious tolerance, particularly of a heretical sect known as the Albigensians or Cathars, and the pope at this time, Innocent III, sent various preachers to bring these sinful lambs back into the fold. When that did not work and one of his legates was ambushed and killed by the followers of the Comte de Toulouse in January 1208, Pope Innocent started calling for military action and promising that any knight who joined would be absolved of past, present and future sins and forgiven any debts. However, such a crusade needed the assent of the King of France. For the lords who lived in the region we now know as Languedoc, the future of their culture and way of life faced a tremendous threat. For one particular lord, a marriage alliance was perhaps the only way to save his people.

  Back then, the language of the common people in England was Middle English, but the nobility spoke Norman French. The southern part of France spoke langue d’oc, also known as Provençal or Occitan. Some of my characters can manage all of these.

  Readers may find this novel non-PC at first in regard to Derwent, a short-statured person, but please be aware this novel is set in a time when attitudes were different.

  At the back of the book, you will find a glossary to help with medieval terms. I have used quotes from the eleventh and twelfth centuries at the start of each chapter. Some are from the songs and poems of the troubadours; others are drawn from the letters of the famous lovers, Peter Abelard (1079–1142) and Héloïse (d.1163). It is a marvel to be able to use their feelings almost a thousand years later to underline the love between my main characters.

  Enjoy …

  Chapter One

  What wife, what maiden, did not yearn for you in your absence or burn in your presence?

  Héloïse to Abelard

  Corfe Castle, Dorset, England, October 1208

  The stranger cursed in a foreign tongue as Adela, the queen’s hair-braider, collided with him. Her fingers encountered silk woven with metallic thread and beneath that, a hard body tempered by combat. She stumbled back with a muttered apology, but the man reached out swiftly, willingly, to steady her.

  The unwelcome support beneath her elbows betokened trouble. Servants were not supposed to use the passageway between the gloriet and the great hall of the castle, but Queen Isabella disliked being kept waiting and this way was free of rats (unless you counted the human ones).

  The stranger said something more, amusement in his voice. He shook Adela gently, expecting an answer. She knew now she would have to look up at him. Intelligent eyes, darkly lashed and as green as peridot, were staring down at her. His chin, newly shaved and barbered, smelled of Spanish soap and the damp tips of his dark hair clung at jaw level. A few years older than her, Adela estimated, before she lowered her gaze virtuously, relieved that he did not seem to know the unspoken rules of Corfe, that women like her could be thrust against the wall and ravished.

  He spoke again, this time in clear Norman French and the breath that reached her face was clean and fresh. ‘You must be careful, girl. If I had been in armour, you could have been badly bruised.’ When she nodded gravely, he loosened his hold on her and gestured that she should be on her way.

  Adela curtsied, her swift tilt of thanks both modest and grateful. However, eve
n though it was unsafe to linger, she succumbed to temptation, turned and watched him as he strode towards the great hall. For an instant, she dared to imagine the sinful excitement of a liaison with such a man, after all she was not peasant get, she was a gentlewoman’s daughter. Alas, best to stuff that reckless dream back in its sack. She would lose her position in the queen’s household. But it was then that the stranger turned his head and smiled—a smile of appreciation that dusted Adela from her coif to her sandalled toes—a smile without the usual leer that she could expect from any man at Corfe. Was it possible to fall in love in an instant?

  Like a lover’s flower tucked between her breasts, the memory of the stranger’s admiration kept her company all that morning, and later, listening to the babble of the maids-of-honour as she gathered the queen’s hair into a jewelled mesh for her highness to look her finest at the banquet, she discovered who he was: Richart, grandson of the Vicomte of Mirascon.

  Mirascon? The name conjured up a city of fable, illuminated with gold and azure in some costly book. However, one of the queen’s ladies knew better: Pah, it was a small fiefdom in the heart of southern France, and this foolhardy fellow was come to seek an alliance. Well, Adela wished that Heaven might lend the foreign lord wise counsel and eloquence. Men said that any dealing with King John Plantagenet was like sharing a repast with the Devil.

  Mercifully, King John and his retinue had been elsewhere during most of her time in the queen’s service; however, for two weeks here at Corfe the two royal households were joined and all England knew it was not only the deer that the king liked to hunt. Perhaps it had been an error to become the queen’s hairbraider, except it would have been an insult to refuse her highness’s command and, anyway, Adela was no green virgin. She was the same age as the queen, twenty years old and not afraid to say no, but it meant diligently keeping out of the royal pathway, especially as Queen Isabella was six months with child and already there had been speculation in the king’s eyes as his gaze slid over her attendants. It was common chatter that King John was at his most vicious when he had been drinking, and today he would be feasting his new guest.

  The wine flowed generously in the great hall. From her humble place at the women’s table, Adela could not take her gaze from the stranger from Mirascon. As the guest of honour, he was seated on the king’s right hand. The candlelight revealed no hint of silver in his hair and his face was tanned from the southern sun—youthful compared to the ravaged countenance of his host. His clothes seemed exotic, too, brighter than those of the English barons. The folds of a mantle of vivid blue silk, purfiled by a band of gold stitching, draped the upper part of his sanguine tunic and a cross set with precious stones hung upon his breast against an embroidered panel that glinted with golden thread.

  He was eating moderately and drinking very little compared with his hosts. Most wise, Adela approved silently. Although he conversed easily and seemed to be making Queen Isabella laugh a great deal, she guessed by the stiff set of his shoulders that this noble lord was feeling his way like a blind man. Several times she saw him exchange glances with another man in his party, who was sitting further along the table, and then, to her own great joy, there came a moment when the king and his barons were distracted by the antics of Derwent, the king’s dwarf. Free to explore the faces of those who sat below the salt, the noble lord snared her watching him like a dazzled creature and sent her a slow smile that brought a blush to her cheeks and made her bite her lower lip and cast her gaze modestly downwards. Her pleasure was brief. When she dared once more to look towards the dais, King John was observing her like an archer who already had his arrow on the string.

  ‘Eyeing one of our wenches?’

  Richart took a swig of wine, aware King John was trying to goad him and that his queen, Isabella d’Angoulême, seated on the other side of the king, would hear his answer. To reply ‘yes’ and staunch the older man’s jealousy would insult his beautiful young hostess after she had been at such pains to amuse him, but if he answered ‘no’, the king might accuse him of disparaging English women. The last thing he desired was to be the prize in this royal marriage spat. ‘Your pardon, my lord?’ he asked with deliberate vagueness.

  ‘Do you want that wench?’ Clearly, he had aroused the older man’s need to piss his scent and bare his lecherous fangs. Beyond her husband, Isabella sucked in her cheeks and directed a disgusted stare into the smoky air.

  ‘In truth, all her grace’s women are pleasingly fair,’ Richart answered, trying to keep his tone congenial, and divert John’s leering attention, ‘but to be frank, lord king and my most gracious lady, I am far more interested in discussing our respective interests in France.’

  ‘Ah, the purpose of your visit,’ murmured John, his gaze still down the hall. A crook of his royal finger and the cupbearer hastened to replenish their wine. ‘Tomorrow will suffice.’

  ‘As Your Highness pleases.’ Richart raised his mazer in salutation. ‘To tomorrow!’

  Per Crist! He was sorry he had made this royal cur salivate, but maybe the maidservant would welcome the chance to climb the royal bed-steps? Maybe she already had. If she was an innocent, though, he regretted bringing her to the king’s attention. For the rest of the banquet, he took care not to seek her out again.

  All that mattered was the alliance on the morrow.

  The feasting endured for several hours after noon and many times the king called upon his cupbearer to refill his mazer. Afterwards, when the menservants had stacked the trestles and benches against the walls, there was dancing for those who could stand without staggering, but King John soon left the hall, perhaps for the garderobe. Maybe he was feeling his age. His countenance had been hard to read as he watched his young queen dancing blithely with their guest.

  Adela watched, too, feeling the sharp pinch of envy, and wishing with all her heart that she could be the one enjoying the southerner’s palm meeting hers, the clasp of fingers. Her highness was certainly basking in his attention as the dance ended. She even permitted this newcomer to take her hands and carry them to his lips, although he glanced to the empty dais before he did so. Even when he returned her to her ladies, they still stood close, speaking not the French of the north but a more lilting tongue, until with a shiver of her bared shoulders, the queen turned her head.

  Fixing on Adela, she rapped out an order. ‘You, girl, fetch me my grained mantle! The one trimmed with miniver!’ Then she tucked her arm possessively through the southern lord’s. He looked surprised, drew breath to speak and then seemed to think better of it.

  ‘Well, go!’ the queen repeated, with a glare and a head waggle of disbelief.

  No royal command could be disobeyed. Adela hastened out, smiling to herself that the queen could be jealous. She climbed the stairs with Richart of Mirascon very much in mind. Might he send for her? Daydreaming, she found the queen’s mantle, but as she was leaving her grace’s bedchamber, she came face to face with the drunken king.

  ‘At last!’ King John rasped, his hand rubbing his groin through his tunic. ‘You’re an elusive creature, my pretty doe.’

  ‘I am no bondwoman, Your Highness,’ she protested angrily as she edged away.

  ‘You are a servant, so serve me!’ He grabbed the mantle from her and flung it aside.

  Adela struggled fiercely as he forced her back against the wall, but when he let go of her wrists to loosen the belt that held his braies, she seized her chance and fled back through the queen’s chambers. Cursing foully, the king pursued her.

  God be merciful! If she could reach the servants’ stairwell, she might elude him. To her dismay, her escape was clogged by a manservant carrying up the night ale. In panic, she sped back, darted into the darkened room that served the queen’s maidens as a bedchamber and crouched between an oak chest and the heavy curtain that divided off an inner room. The royal feet stumbled past the door, halted and then the latch lifted.

  She hardly dared to breathe as the king lurched in. Fortunately, he did not
thrust open the shutters and let the ebbing daylight through, but he did pause within fumbling distance, so close she recognised the intense scent he used and the smell of spilt wine on his tunic. His foul breath reached her and she nearly retched, remembering how he had just tried to force his tongue into her mouth. It was needful to pray harder. Blessed St Wita, intercede for me. Almighty God, of your great mercy … The wooden rings on the curtain rail jostled as he flung the heavy weaving aside. Aside, but not far enough. Explored, released, the end folds brushed Adela’s shoulder as they fell once more into place.

  She heard him step back, mumbling, ‘N-not here? Ha, I do not know w-where you are hiding, you contrary whore, but … but, by God’s teeth, I’ll have you before the day is out.’

  Have her? She would rather be hanged than let this drunken old lecher force himself between her thighs. Although becoming the queen’s servant had fulfilled her ambition, this was too high a price.

  King John’s unsteady footsteps retreated. Voices beyond the door told her that he was questioning the manservant and she winced at the fierce slap of flesh upon flesh and the yelp of human pain. For a further hundred heartbeats, she crouched, waiting. Then, taking infinite care not to rattle the curtain rings, she tiptoed stealthily across the sweet rushes. Gently easing the latch up, she paused on the threshold. The air was still, so quiet that she could hear the music of the vieles and chalumeles in the great hall, and the cheerful whistling of the masons finishing work below the ramparts. Only when she finally heard the rattle of the lower door to the great hall, did she let out a deep sigh of relief. Life had righted itself.

  Resting back against the wall, she crossed her breast in thanks and beseeched a blessing for the serving man who had not given her away. Would the queen forgive her for her disobedience? All she wanted to do now was to take refuge in the castle kitchen, anywhere that he would not find her. No doubt, the other servants would tell her it was madness to have refused the king. ‘Ah, the next pretty hatchling for the royal cock,’ the king’s dwarf had crudely cackled at her the day the queen’s retinue had arrived at Corfe. But she had been determined to prove the prankster wrong. Now she could see no way out of this dilemma.