The troubadour's song (8 page)

Allesandra was bone weary. And even though the thought of home urged her onward, she knew they had to rest. So when darkness fell, they asked for rooms at an abbey that took in guests. They left again early next morning.

Jaufre helped her mount again for the last stretch.

A mist seemed to hover over the mountains in the distance, but they pressed on. By late that day, the sun glinted on rocks and soil, turning everything to flame. Allesandra must have dozed in the saddle, for she was jerked awake when they stopped on the crest of a low hill on her own lands and looked across the narrow valley that spread upward to her own chateau. A feeling of welcome should have pervaded her sore body. But instead a tremor of fear paralyzed her as she stared upward.

From the cylindrical keep and the two square towers that topped the yellow sandstone walls flew pennants with fields of blue and drops of gold—not the colors of Toulouse, but the fleur-de-lis of the Capetian kings of France.

Five

She was too late. The sting of grief grew to a simmering anger and then one of despair. Her home had been taken by the French already, but how?

"Come, Roussillon," she said, and kicked his sides, leaning

forward. Nothing was to be gained by hanging back. It was her duty now to find out what devastation had been wrought by the French and who had commanded it.

Jaufre flew with her through the meadow and then up the slope toward the bridge over the dry moat that surrounded the castle. Castle Valtin rose on a rocky hillside to command a long valley that twisted through the mountains and eventually led to the passes through the Pyrenees. To their right, the summer's harvest stretched in rows along a gentle slope, waiting to be gathered in. She saw no evidence of carnage such as there had been at Muret, but. . . dear God, were any of her household knights dead, servants ill treated? Her heart twisted inside her as she conjured up the worst.

They drew up to the gatehouse where French guards stood with lances crossed barring the way.

"Let me in!" she shouted, Roussillon rearing on his hind legs as she jerked him to a stop.

A sergeant-at-arms stepped forward. "This castle has been taken in the name of the king of France. Who wishes to enter?"

"Lady Allesandra Valtin," she shouted. "Get out of my way. This is my castle."

And she turned her charger preparing to run them down, for the way across the drawbridge behind them was open.

But their lances parted as she charged across the bridge, her retainer behind her. And then she was under the upraised portcullis and into the cobbled inner courtyard. While she waited for Jaufre to dismount and come to help her down from the great horse, she glanced around anxiously. To her immense relief several of her own grooms and other of the household servants stopped their work to stand and stare at her. Normally they would nod or call out greetings, but the presence of the French soldiers muted them.

Once on the ground, she turned to find her steward, Julian Farrell, having come down the steps from the hall to greet her. He was a middle-aged man of thin build, but tall. Even in such a crisis, he possessed a bearing of competence and honest de-

meanor. His gray eyes were anxious, and his mouth pressed into a straight line beneath his long, arched nose. She rushed to him.

"Oh, my God, Julian, what has happened?"

The lines of regret and worry in his face seemed to have aged him ten years.

"I'm sorry to inform you, my lady, that our castle has been overtaken by the French. It happened just this morning."

She struggled to quell her anger. "It is my fault. I should not have rushed to the aid of Count Raymond, for all was lost at Muret as well. If I had been here to defend my home . . ."

Her eyes lifted to the wall walk where more guards were posted and the hated French pennants on long poles flew above the towers.

"Do not blame yourself, my lady. Your household guard fought bravely. They were simply taken by surprise and outnumbered. The French penetrated the gatehouse by stealth before we could get the portcullis down and the drawbridge lifted."

True, she had sent as many knights as she could to help Raymond in the field, leaving only a small corps to defend this place. She thought her men were needed in the field. How wrong she had been. Rage and humiliation overwhelmed her, but she kept a dignified demeanor before all those watching her.

She inhaled a long, steadying breath. "And who is it led this attack?"

"The knight Gaucelm Deluc, a vassal of Simon de Montfort."

Her eyes opened wider. The same man! New humiliation filled her. How he would gloat that he had outfoxed her. How he would laugh at her feeble lies! Standing in the growing shadows of the end of day, she came to realize the terrible truth. She was his prisoner.

In the next moment, worse fears plagued her. "My men-at-arms, were they all. . . ?"

"Two died bravely," reported Julian. "The wounded are being attended. The rest are taken prisoner in the tower."

"There have been no vengeful atrocities committed, then?"

"No, madam. The victor has been most reasonable."

"Thank God for that."

Julian cleared his throat, the creases in his proud face deepening. "I am to bring you to him as soon as you arrive."

She straightened. "Where is he?"

"In the great chamber, my lady."

Again she fought the despair that swept over her. Gaucelm Deluc had wasted no time installing himself in the chamber that had been hers and her husband's before he had died in battle two years ago. She was undermined at every turn. But she summoned some pride.

"I will see him when I have changed into proper clothing and refreshed myself."

Julian would say nothing to counter his mistress, but she could see from the unhappy look on his face that he'd been ordered precisely to bring her before the conquering Gaucelm immediately. Still, she made a show of her own authority. She was still a noblewoman in a place that had been her home since her marriage.

She turned and started for the entrance to the keep. With Julian following her, they mounted the steep stone stairs. The guards at the heavy nail-studded door stood aside to let them enter. Passing through the antechamber, she swept across the large hall, but she was stopped on the other side where she would have taken the circular stairway in the tower that led to the solar.

"Let me pass," she ordered through clenched teeth to the implacable man-at-arms with short-cropped brown hair who barred her way to the tower.

He did not move, his fixed gaze staring straight ahead at nothing. Then she made the same command in French so he could understand, but still he did not move. To her left was an arched passage that led to the few steps that would take her to the great chamber above the hall. Light glimmered from oil lamps in sconces and she could imagine a fire flickering in the great chamber, beyond.

They were going to force her to confront the rude, unscrupulous, greedy Gaucelm Deluc who had the nerve to ensconce him-

self as lord of this castle, her castle. Very well then, she would see him now, inflamed by her anger and humiliation, but she would hold nothing back. If she were forced to surrender the keys to this place, she would accompany them with words of hatred and vows of vengeance. She hurried up the steps and through the door into the great chamber.

Gaucelm Deluc stood garbed in a tunic of dark blue and sur-coat of reddish brown, hardly appearing as if he'd just fought two battles in three days with a hard ride between. He turned from gazing into the fire licking at great logs in the fireplace. His sun-bronzed face held a slight frown, but as he watched her approach, a change came over it. She saw the muscles in his jaw twitch, but if he was surprised, he did not betray it except for the flicker in his dark, intent eyes.

"Madam Chavanne, I did not know I would have the pleasure again so soon. But pray, this is not the way to Rouen. Perhaps you are lost."

His toying made her all the angrier and she spat out her words. "I am not lost, and you have already no doubt realized that I am not the wife of a master mason at Rouen, but the lady of this castle."

An ironic smile tinged his lips. But then he became sober again and bowed to her as was her due.

"I see. I am sorry then that our acquaintance should be so awkward."

He straightened and stepped toward the fire, all business now. "I have claimed this castle and all its lands in the name of the king of France."

She took a step toward him, her hair disheveled after the many hours in the saddle, dust smudging her face. "You have no right."

He lifted a brow slightly. "I have every right. Or have you not noticed that Count Simon de Montfort leads an army to claim the county of Toulouse for France. And you, Madam Valtin, are a vassal of Count Raymond of Toulouse."

Her voice rose in fury. "You descend on our rich and favored land with fire and sword. Is it religious fervor or greed that makes

your ruffians want to lay hands on these territories? Do you stop to discover who is Catholic and who is not before you seize castle and domain? I think not."

She was aware of his challenge as he glared at her. "And you, madam? Are you a heretic?"

His gaze made her tremble, but she lifted her chin. "I am not."

Neither spoke for a moment, and she forced herself to remain standing close to him, meeting his gaze. He searched her face and she felt a warm flush creep up her flesh. He had no right to question her, and yet in that moment she realized how much more uncomfortable it would be to be questioned by the bishop's court.

Resentment of Gaucelm Deluc's invasion of her privacy flared, and her heart pounded in her chest. She clamped her jaws shut in the face of whatever questions he might ask next. And yet even without his asking them, she felt as if he looked into her mind and soul.

His hardened face relaxed a trace, as his eyes swept over her face, sank to her lips, her male attire, and then moved away again to study the fire.

"This is a war, madam."

Her words were low, filled with bitterness. "A war to destroy a way of life."

"What way of life?"

"You know very well what I mean. Your king wants access to ports on the Mediterranean. You want to exploit our rich soil, our vineyards. Your intolerant bishops wish to strangle freedom of thought and punish those who wish nothing but to read the Bible, which the Catholic Church does not allow for anyone but a priest."

He watched her now, and she knew she was treading dangerously, but her passion made her continue.

"Poetry and song flourish here, trade with the eastern ports makes our towns rich. But the mighty Church and your barbaric mercenaries wish to take that all away."

He waited, knowing he would gain more by allowing her to pour out her emotions than if he silenced her. He well knew it

was in this way that traitors trapped themselves. But she paused to catch her breath and leaned a hand on the octagonal table where lay a few books and rolled-up maps. She shut her eyes a moment, and the blood drained from her face.

"Madam, you are tired from a strenuous ride," he said, somewhat concerned. "Perhaps we should continue this discussion at a later time."

She forced her eyes open, but his figure blurred in the light from lamps and fire. Indeed, the strength seemed to go out of her. She'd eaten little in her hurry to get here, and her body was bruised from the jarring gait of the war-horse. Dizziness suddenly overtook her and she staggered.

She took a step, trying to shake the dullness from her head. Her hand went up, and at that moment Gaucelm moved toward her. She gave a small cry and then felt herself fall, as everything dimmed.

Gaucelm reached her as she fell and caught her in his arms. He knew that the effort she'd expended on trying to race him here had cost her. He brushed the hair from her face as her head lolled into his shoulder, and then he picked her up in both his arms and strode toward the great bed.

He took the step up to the canopied platform and lowered her onto the fur coverings. As he laid her down, he sat on the edge, feeling the springy softness beneath him. He arranged a feather pillow beneath her head and took a moment to smooth her tangled hair, surprised by its richness. He put off summoning assistance for a reason he could not name. But looking at her face, the long lashes lowered over her eyes, he felt a twist of emotion. She was an avowed enemy of France. She had lied to him. But he could not help but admire her bravery and her courage. He had not met many women who would fight so hard in a soldier's world.

His finger drifted across her cheek. He thought he saw color returning to her face and felt relief that she must not be seriously ill. However, he ought not delay getting help for her any longer.

He stepped down from the bed and crossed toward the door, opening it. His trusted sergeant-at-arms stood there, a square-

bodied, loyal vassal, a man who had seen much of life and had a family in He de France, but who had trained Gaucelm in arms and then served him when he had achieved knighthood.

"Enselm," he said. "The lady has taken ill. Send for the doctor and her female attendants."

"Yes, sire."

While help was being summoned, Gaucelm returned to the bed to watch her. She was breathing deeply, which was good. Sleep and a nourishing meal were likely all she needed. He shook his head slowly from side to side. Whether she was a heretic or not, he could tell she had information of them and would have to be questioned, for she had hotly defended a way of life repugnant to the Church. He suddenly hoped that she would give the bishops the information they needed and not cause herself undue difficulty.

His hand rested against the carved bedpost, its fine grain smooth against his hand.

Gaucelm was a good Catholic, but he did not give it undue thought. He was too busy to read the Bible. He was a soldier of France, loyal to a king who had extended his realm from the small region of the He de France to include the formerly English fiefs of Normandy, Anjou, and other lands.

King Philip Augustus ruled efficiently. He brought prosperity to France, relieving the reclaimed provinces of the heavy taxation that had ruined them under their English kings, Richard and John. He'd rebuilt towns, conceded new privileges and confirmed old privileges to towns and abbeys. And he would do so in the south of France. It was his way.