The troubadour's song (11 page)

"Agreed."

There was another knock on the door, and the servant entered again, this time with a tray of sauces for the fish and cooked greens, which he set on the table and then left.

"Let us dine, madam, before our food gets cold."

She took a seat in the high-backed carved chair opposite Gaucelm and picked up the spoon to taste the stew. She found her appetite increased, and had no difficulty doing justice to the food.

After eating in silence for a while, Gaucelm leaned back and began a conversation about the native wines and crops such as any well-bred courtier would. She could not get over the illusion that instead of bitter enemies, they were intimate acquaintances enjoying a pleasurable meal. That after dinner perhaps she would sing to him.

The tingling of her spine when he addressed her, and the gentle ache she felt in her chest awakened feelings she had relegated to

another place. Perhaps he read her mind, for he again brought the conversation around to her late husband.

"Tell me, my lady. Was your late lord one of these poets of whom you speak so highly?"

She suppressed a secret smile. "No, he was not. Though he was a great patron of the courts of love."

"Ah, yes, the court of love. You must instruct me in how it works. You said there were many rules."

"That is true, as you will see when the troubadours arrive. I have sent word since you gave permission."

His eyes gleamed. He smiled and sat back while the servant removed trenchers and platters, then came back again with bowls of fresh strawberries and a pitcher of cream.

Gaucelm rose from his chair and walked to the tall, ornately carved cabinet that stood against the wall at the foot of the curtained bed. It was not locked, for Allesandra remembered that there had been nothing of great value in it. Only things of a private nature, and she felt a rush of apprehension that he so casually reached inside a place that had been privately hers for the last two years.

He extracted several loose sheets of vellum as well as a collection of songs she herself had bound between boards covered with soft kidskin and sewn into the binding with stiff threads. He brought the collection to the table.

"I have not spent all my time reading documents to administer the estate. These, if I am not mistaken, are works of a more literary bent."

She exhaled a breath. "You are right, my lord. They are."

"As I thought. But you can help me here. My Provencal is not fluent. I do not think I can appreciate the poetry as well by reading it to myself. Perhaps on your tongue, the words might flow better."

Her cheeks warmed. "You wish me to read aloud?"

He lifted a shoulder and dropped it. "It is a suitable pastime for an evening, would you not agree?"

She met his gaze steadily as she took the vellum sheets and

then the book he handed her. A knock on the door signaled the entry of the servant waiting on them. And together with two more servants they removed the remains of the meal, gathered the crumbs in the tablecloth, and then folded up the trestle table and leaned it against the wall.

The high-backed chairs were moved nearer the fire and Gaucelm threw himself in his, placing his feet on a low stool. Indeed he had every appearance of a lord in his own castle. Her castle, she reminded herself. But she sat demurely on the other chair and opened the book. If he must hear a song, let him hear something fine, but not too provocative.

"Perhaps you would like to hear the work of Peire d'Auvergne, who was a canon in the Church before he became a jongleur. He served the Spanish monarchs before he died some thirty years ago."

"Please," said Gaucelm, and gestured with a hand that she should begin.

To Allesandra it seemed that Gaucelm was settled in for an evening of entertainment. She had an hour yet before she must attend to her other errand, so why not lull him into a less watchful state that would serve her purposes?

"Near the time of brief days and long nights," she began reading in lilting tones, "when the clear air grows darker, I want my thoughts to grow, branch forth with new joy to bear fruit and blossom, for I see the oaks being cleared of leaves, and the jay, thrush, nightingale, and woodpecker withdraw from discomfort and cold."

She read it in Provencal, and then paused to ask if he desired a translation into French.

"No," he said with a shake of the head as he gazed with a half-smile at the fire. "On your tongue, the words are clear enough. Pray continue."

She read the vision of distant, far-off love, hoping that Gau-celm's ear was attuned to the interwoven text with its alliteration, related rhymes, and nuances of meaning. And from his response, it seemed clear that he mostly understood.

"Very nice," he said when she had finished. "There is a secretive quality to the words. He seems to speak in paradoxes, or perhaps the language is too obscure for a Frenchman to grasp."

"You are right," she said, lowering the book to her lap like a good instructor. But also because with the book on her lap he was less likely to see the shaking of her hands. "Troubadour songs always feature hidden meanings and inner rhymes."

"And unrequited love. Is this a constant theme as well?"

She did not meet his inquiring look as she said, "It is the custom of troubadour knights to sing the praises of the ladies that dispense hospitality toward them."

"Hmmm. I have even read in your literature that a nobleman cannot be a perfect knight unless he loves a lady. Is this true?"

She still did not look at him. "It is believed among our knights that all chivalric qualities are strengthened by worship of a lady."

Allesandra had repeated these principles many times in discussions with both men and women. But telling Gaucelm about the rules of courtly love unnerved her. Perhaps because he seemed to be such a willing student. But sly. If she were not careful, he would do something to trip her up.

"Ah, I see. And does the lady return the favor? Or is this courtly love merely a gesture?"

She gave a subdued smile. "Troubadour love is not necessarily mutual. The knight loves. The lady does not have to reward him."

"Then the ladies in these poems are passive goddesses who are adored whether they wish to be or not." His tone sounded doubtful.

"That is so, my lord."

He gave a chuckle and uncrossed his legs. "And you, my lady, have you many poems written in praise of your own virtues?"

She lifted her shoulders and dropped them. "I would not know, for the lady of the poem is never identified."

Gaucelm dropped his bantering tone and got up from the chair. He stepped toward the fire and placed his hand on the carved mantel above.

"If I loved a woman, I would not be satisfied with worship from afar."

Her heartbeat quickened, but she could not stop her words of explanation. "It is the longing that gives our poetry its appeal. His desire increases the knight's prowess."

Gaucelm seized the andiron and poked the logs, sending up sparks. "And so the knight fights the harder because he thinks of his lady's charms. But never to be rewarded with them for himself?"

She could not stand the throbbing of her pulse at so dangerous a conversation and stood up, setting the book in the chair.

"How can he be, when the lady is most often the wife of another man?"

"And when she is not?"

His words caught her by surprise. He replaced the andiron, then turned to gaze at her face. They stood near each other, and Allesandra knew that she should leave. But her lips opened to draw a quick breath, and she was lost to the moment.

In one step he reached her, his arm coming around her waist, his breath fanning her hair.

"Yourself, for example," he said in a low, sensual voice. "You do not seem the ice-cold goddess of whom these poems speak. You are flesh and blood, my lady. Am I not right in guessing that you have loved? That your heart now desires to be unlocked? If not your heart, then surely your body misses a man's caress?"

He did not even know where he found the words, they only poured forth from him expressing something of what he felt, not all of which he could understand himself. Her breast curved against his chest and his hand pressed her against him of its own accord.

She did not struggle to get away, but gasped and trembled in his arms. He smiled into her hair, lightly kissed her temple. Her quick breathing only stimulated him all the more.

"My lady," he said in a hungry voice.

Then he tilted her chin with his other hand and found her lips with his own. Delicious lips, soft, sensual, that moved against

his. He pulled her into him, drowning in her beauty and softness. This was his reward.

Allesandra's mind spun. Her blood throbbed in her ears, and she was powerless to move. Had he not supported her with both his arms, she knew her knees would give way. She could only part her lips more to taste of the wine on his lips. To be in a man's arms again was awakening a need far greater than any she had felt with her husband. Gaucelm seemed to overpower her, to swallow her in strong limbs and set her blood on fire.

He murmured softly, words of desire that matched her own, and all thought fled as he kissed her ear, her throat, his light embrace supporting her waning strength. From where had this hunger arisen, she wondered helplessly just before she began to summon strength again.

"Allesandra," he whispered into her ear as his hand came up to brush cheek, shoulder, and lightly touch her breast. "If you are as you say you are, then we are not enemies. Perhaps a better resolution awaits us than captor and captive."

She steadied herself against the swoon that tempted her and turned her face to the side. Gasping for a deep, steadying breath, she forced the words out.

"If we are not enemies, then you would perforce return my lands."

"It is too late for that. You were a vassal of Raymond of Toulouse, who leads the southern allies. You've already sworn the oath of fealty to me. Let me become your lover. I will protect you."

She wrenched herself from his grasp and braced one hand above the fireplace.

"I swore the oath because you dispossessed me," she cried. "It is not becoming to so quickly succumb to you, my lord. My . . . people would lose all respect for me."

With the blood pounding in his ears and his loins ready to experience the pleasures that Provencal poetry only alluded to, Gaucelm found it hard to keep from grasping her once more. The tear that ran down her cheek and glistened in the yellow

light moved him, and he managed to control his lust. When he held out his hand to her, it was slow and gentle.

"I will not force you, madam. Such is not my way. It only seems to me that you need a man to show you the ways of love again. I give pleasure as well as take it. Who would know, behind this closed door? They would expect that we have much business together."

He had drawn near, and his voice had a soothing effect on her raging emotions. What he said tempted her, and her lips longed to be kissed again. Her breasts ached to be touched. She had felt his desire through the soft folds of their clothing, and it had aroused her. But she would be a traitor to give herself to him.

"What is between us is of the flesh only," she said with a shaking voice. "It is not my way to satisfy flesh without being loyal to heart and mind."

"I understand," he said simply, with no demand in his tone. Still, he touched her burning cheek with his finger and then brushed it across her lips.

"If you change your mind . . . come to me in the night."

Then he lowered his head to kiss her lips softly, gently. He broke off the kiss, giving her room to gasp, moisten her lips and turn to cross the room.

She did not look at him again, but paused before the door. "Good night, my lord," she said in a low voice.

Then she pulled on the wrought-iron handle and passed through the door. Beyond her, torches lit the passage. A sergeant-at-arms shuffled up to close the door.

"Does my lord want anything?" asked the sergeant behind her.

She heard Gaucelm answer in a distant voice, deep in thought, "No, nothing. I will sit up a while. Wake me at dawn."

Allesandra hurried to the chambers she now shared with her female companions, hoping that they would interpret her

flushed appearance as apprehension before attempting a dangerous outing.

"My lady," said Marcia as she entered. "We just returned from the hall. The Frenchmen had many questions for us, and we worried that we would be too late."

"I only now got away myself," said Allesandra, divesting herself of her overtunic and then sitting on the bed to exchange her slippers for sturdy leather half boots. She would not take the time to change into her by-now-familiar male attire, for the distance she had to go tonight was not far, and she would go on foot.

"We will go with you," said Isabelle.

"No, I would prefer not," said Allesandra in hushed tones. "It will be hard enough for one to slip out. You must remain here, and if any of the Frenchmen knock, you can answer that I am asleep."

Isabelle lifted down a plain dark woolen mantle from its wooden peg and handed it to her. "You'll need this once you get outside. You'll be less noticeable in it than in your fur-lined mantle."

"And where is the package I am to take?"

Isabelle wrinkled her brows. "Are you sure it is not better to leave it hidden where it is?"

Allesandra shook her head. "We've been lucky that these French soldiers have not searched our quarters. When the bishop's inquisitors come, as I know they must, no place within the castle will be safe. I must take it now."

Isabelle turned to the writing desk, upon which were spread several sheets of parchment, quills, and ink jars. Marcia helped her remove the items, and then they lifted the top to reveal the compartment beneath. From its depths they removed a squarish object, wrapped in several folds of dark cloth. Allesandra tucked it into the folds of the mantle she held over one arm.

"It will be safer with our parfait, for if Sir Gaueelm knew that the women in this castle read the scriptures on their own, as is