The Second Day

The Second Day

Terce

The same boy who had brought the Senhor’s summons and the strange instrument woke them early. He was a cocky little fellow, Jannequin thought, with something of the catamite about him, and as he rousted the musicians awake he made it clear that he was an important personage. “Senhor Bernier has made me a page, you see, and when the war starts again he promises I’ll be a squire. Might actually get knighted.”
The boy had brought the minstrels’ clothes, still a little damp, but wonderfully clean. Jannequin had made sure to keep the money-belt with him, keeping it around his waist even when he was in the vast bathtub- leather dries and silver doesn’t rust- because he didn’t trust the servants who washed him and his fellows, however polite they were. Everybody steals, given half a chance, and the only difference between nobles and commoners is that nobles steal more and get away with it. And he’d also kept his knife in its sheath in one hand as he was dunked and scrubbed. It was made of better steel than his old eating-knife, took a keen edge when he honed it, and kept it. It had proven useful, not only for cutting his meat whenever he got some, but in a few tavern discussions which turned ugly.

He’d made it from the top half of a broken sword he’d found in Carcassona after the siege. He’d been heading for the masons’ yard during their mid-day break from rebuilding the cathedral, hoping to get a few deniers from them by playing as they took their lunch and rested. When he saw the afternoon sunlight glinting off the sword-tip poking out of the unpaved dirt of the street, he’d grabbed it and hidden it hastily under his tunic. Next day he’d gone to a blacksmith who still owed him for playing at his daughter’s wedding before the battle for the city.
The smith filed down the bottom four inches of the sword-tip to make a tang, and Jannequin managed to split the leg of a short stool he’d found in one of the looted taverns. He scraped out slots for the tang in both pieces of wood and bound them together with strips of scrap leather he found in the ruins of a tannery, soaking them in water before he wrapped them as tightly as he could around the haft he had made, and tacking their ends down with small nails the smith provided. The strips shrank even more tightly as they dried, and he wound up with a six-inch knife of tempered steel. He made a rough leather sheath for it, and it had proven a good companion. Of course if it ever came out that his knife was made from the sword of a knight, he’d be beaten half to death and probably lose an ear, if not his nose, for his presumption. It had always amused him that the swords of the nobles were forged by smiths, commoners who weren’t allowed to own anything they made. But his knife, with its home-made haft, looked as crude as any villein’s cheap eating-knife, so it hadn’t attracted attention.

He put on his tunic, buckling the belt with the sheathed knife around his waist, and trying to ignore the brash boy, who was still prating about becoming a knight. But finally his patience wore out, He said, “Well, you’ll have to fight to prove you’re worthy of knighthood, no? You know anything about fighting?”
“More than you do, old man.”
Jannequin wasn’t sure exactly how old he was, although he knew his body had begun to defy his will on occasion. But after the good meal and the good sleep, he felt pretty spry. He whipped out the knife and in two quick steps he got behind the boy, pinning his arms and laying the blade across his throat.
“I don’t think you know anything about fighting,” he said. “Better settle for being a page.”
Heaulmier said, “Come on, don’t kill him. He’s only here to take us to our breakfast. I’m hungry.”
Jannequin released the boy and sheathed his knife. The little popinjay rubbed his throat, trembling, pale as whey. “Complain to your master if you want,” Jannequin said, “but I don’t think he’ll care. Right now he needs minstrels more than he does pages.” The boy turned to walk out, but even chastened, he couldn’t resist switching his hips a little. Maroc chuckled.
“I used to like a bit of that. Did I ever tell you about the chorister I met when I was playing in Narbona for the Archbishop’s elevation? That lad elevated me, by the blessed balls of God! Never been that way inclined before, but he was a pretty thing, and I was far from home. He did things my wife and I never dreamed of, told me he’d already been broken in by the Archbishop himself, so it wasn’t a sin. He had an amazing voice, up in a woman’s range, but he didn’t do thin piping like the rest of the boys. He could sing full out against the shawms, the organ, all the rest of our instruments. When I bedded him- his idea, not mine- I found out he was a lot older than he looked. The Archbishop had cut his nuts off to keep his voice high. Poor soul didn’t know if he was a man or a woman any more, and he didn’t much care. But what a voice!”
“What happened to him?” Jannequin asked.
“How should I know? Haven’t been back to Narbona recently.”
“Do you miss him?” Heaulmier asked, grinning evilly.
“Go fuck yourself. It was just the one time. You tell Jeanne and I’ll cut your own balls off. Anyway, you’ve had a bit of that stuff yourself- remember that whore in Minerve?”
“That was a woman!” Heaulmier said.
“In a pig’s eye. You were drunk as a duck in molt and horny as a stag in rut, you’d have stuck your prick in a knothole to get off. But I’m still surprised you didn’t notice the stubble under the paint on his face, and I can’t see how you could have missed his cock while you were reaming his bunghole. It was bigger than yours.”
Heaulmier turned on the shawm-player, furious, and Jannequin stepped between them. “Stop this, right now. You can settle it after this job is over, but I need you both. Get dressed, we have to play, or we won’t get paid. Clear enough?” The two big men glared at each other, but the rage seeped out of them.
“I am not a damn sodomite,” Heaulmier said.
“Never said you were,” said Maroc. “Things get confusing on the road. That whore almost fooled me, too.”
“Strange times,” Jannequin said. “For all of us.”
“Strange times,” Heaulmier said.
“God help us,” said Maroc, and offered his hand. After a moment Heaulmier took it. “God help us,” he said, and threw his arms around the man, kissing his cheeks resoundingly. Maroc laughed. “What, you want to fuck me now?”
“Not in your dreams. You’re too ugly.”
The boy had indicated, sneeringly, that the minstrels should take their breakfast with the other castle servants, outside the kitchen on a table set up in the bailey courtyard. Being reminded of their humble station, however snidely, actually reassured Jannequin. He’d felt very awkward supping in the hall, especially after the Senhor had shown up to share the table. He had no illusions about the Senhor’s display of affection: nobles who fancied themselves musicians and dropped rank when working with their hirelings were still nobles, and not to be trusted.
So it was best to do your work well, keep your mouth shut if your noble employer wasn’t the singer he thought he was, get your pay, bend the knee, and never imagine that there was friendship involved in the transaction. These people had been raised since birth to kill anyone who violated their self-esteem in the slightest way, and they had all the weapons. Something he wished Geraut would learn quickly, before his mouth got his head cut off.

The breakfast was sumptuous, thick slabs of crisp-roasted bacon, boiled eggs still warm in their shells, actual white bread with even a firkin of butter to spread on it. There was a flagon of the same good wine, but even Heaulmier was musician enough to restrict himself to one cup. The boy came back, on his best behavior this time, as the musicians were finishing their meal, and asked them to join the Senhor in the hall. Bernier de Lissac was seated on a bench drawn up to a trestle-table, wearing a plain brown linen tunic. The minstrels’ instruments had been brought from the dormitory, removed from their wooden cases and leather bags with evident care, and laid across the broad expanse of the table. Gilles gasped and scuttled over to grab his bagpipes, clutching them to his chest like a mother whose infant had been stolen and mysteriously restored to her. “They have no right!” he said to Jannequin. “Nobody touches my pipes!”
Senhor Bernier rose and came around the table, laying his arm around the old man’s shoulders. “My apologies, Master Gilles. I meant no harm. I only thought it would be convenient for you and your friends to have your instruments ready to hand. You do me honor, just for being here.”
Gilles finally gave the Senhor his gap-toothed grin. “Ah, the world’s gone mad indeed, when lords talk about honor with common folk. What is honor, anyway? Can you eat it?”
Jannequin started to hush him, but Bernier said, “No, but you can choke on it.”
Gilles dissolved in laughter which turned into a coughing fit. He doubled over, and the Senhor patted him on the back until the racking spasms subsided. The piper straightened finally, his seamed face gray, and hawked a vast gob into the strewn reeds under the table. “I beg your pardon, lord, but what you said, can’t help it, that struck me as funny.”
Bernier kept his arm around the old man. “Are you all right? Do you think you can play?” Gilles gently removed the Senhor’s arm and stood fully upright. The color was already returning to his face, and he set the bag firmly under his arm, stuck the blow-pipe in his mouth, took a deep breath, and inflated it fully with one long exhale, his cheeks popping out as if he had twin apples in his mouth. He squeezed his elbow down, and without waiting for the brief discordance which showed the air from the bag was coursing into the pipes, his fingers got nimble on the chanter and he started a stampides in quick time, the drone pipe stopped and unstopped so that its low note served as a sort of percussion. He did two choruses, ended with a flourish on the chanter, and stopped the music suddenly by releasing pressure on the bag, so that the pipes barely whined as the remaining air escaped from them.
He tucked the pipes under his arm and grinned at the Senhor.
“I’m not dead yet,” he said. “But it won’t be long, and not just for me. There are signs, oh yes, and portents.”
Bernier regarded him gravely for a moment and finally shrugged. “There always are,” he said. “So let’s get on with our music while we can.”

His music was challenging, especially the wild lament he’d written as his farewell to love. But Jannequin realized quickly that the Senhor was as interested in the New Art as he was, and wanted the instruments playing cross-harmonies. The other minstrels caught the excitement, suddenly understanding that Bernier de Lissac, unlike any troubadour they’d ever served, was actually more interested in the music than in his lyrics. He’d begun with his own harp – he played well, Jannequin noticed, but all troubadours had to show some skill with the harp when they accompanied their own songs – but he put it aside as the minstrels settled in, urging on the delicate, impelling interweave. The tunes he taught them were simply variations on modal melodies the minstrels had known forever, but by breaking from monody and improvising, they knew they were making something never heard before. Geraut’s viele, in perfect tune at last, took the high line, Maroc’s shawm, played for once at a subtle volume (he seemed to have stuffed something into its mouth) anchored it, Gilles’ pipes skirled above and below, and the oud flashed in and out of the music like a weaver’s batten, while Heaulmier, all his tambours deployed, tickled and thumped and boomed, driving on the bottom of the blend. He’d set up his rack of tuned bells, but he used them sparingly, only adding silvery notes to the weave where they fit, rather than clashing his steel baton across them for flashy effect.
They kept on playing, stopping from time to time when the Senhor wanted to go over a passage. He obviously knew the way he wanted the music to sound, but he deferred to Jannequin about how to get there. And when he sang, Jannequin could hardly make out the words. It was as if his voice was just another instrument. It was warm in the hall, and after an hour or two- Jannequin lost track of the time- the Senhor called a halt. He was sweating and breathing hard, but his grin cracked his long, hard face as spring thaw breaks up the ice in a mountain stream.
“My friends, that was good enough to eat with a spoon.” Jannequin laughed out loud. It was a common expression among musicians, but he’d never heard one of the gentry use it. Bernier cast a sharp eye at him. “Unless you disagree, Master Jannequin?”
“Not at all, lord,” Jannequin said, still chuckling. “But it’s still ‘wait-and-see’ pudding so far. Hasn’t entirely set yet- maybe we need more of your voice. I couldn’t hear the words clearly.”
“Maybe I don’t want my guests hearing them too clearly either,” the Senhor said. “Please stay with me awhile longer. I need your advice. The rest of you, much thanks. Rest a bit- there’s food and drink for you on the table outside. By God’s eyes, we’re making music here!”
“It’s a new music,” came Gilles’ raven caw. “A new music for a new time.”
“I hope you’re right,” said the Senhor.
“Yes, but will the new time be better?” The old man cackled and bowed deeply. “May God be at your table, lord,” he said, straightening, still chuckling. The other musicians followed him out of the hall,
“Did that old zany just put a curse on me?” the Senhor asked. He didn’t look angry, but he wasn’t smiling any more.
“Gilles…I’m sorry, my lord. He’s getting old, he talks off his head sometimes.”
Bernier paused, looking away. The hammering of the workmen in the meadow below the castle slackened, and Jannequin could hear a distant susurrus of voices and the creak and jingle of harness.
“Well, he can still play, thank God,” the Senhor said finally. “My guests are arriving. We have little time.” He leafed through the small stack of vellum sheets before him on the table and shoved one over to Jannequin. “You can read?” It was more a statement than a question.
“Lengua d’òc, langue d’oïl, a touch of German and Anglian, and some Latin,” the jongleur said. Bernier nodded.
“There might be a problem with this song. You know the forms, Master Jannequin- do I go too far? The lady in question will not complain, but her husband might. Please be honest.” And for a moment all pride and mastery dropped from him. He searched Jannequin’s eyes with his own, looking almost fearful.
Jannequin scanned the page quickly, noting the marks of words rubbed out and hastily scrawled back in. It seemed an entirely conventional troubadour lyric, praising a lady’s physical charms while lamenting that the poet could not enjoy them, for reasons of honor. Of course Jannequin remembered the tavern gossip about Bernier and the woman, but more than ever, looking at the Senhor’s haunted face, he knew the rumors no longer applied.
“I see nothing that could offend, lord. The lady has slim white limbs, a throat like a swan, round alabaster breasts tipped with rosebuds, the voice of a nightingale, and when she walks she flows like water over the ground. No wonder the poet adores her. But there is nothing here which suggests that the poet has ever lain with her. Amor de lonh, passion from a distance, all very correct. In fact, if you will forgive me, it’s even a little old-fashioned in its courtesy.”
Bernier relaxed and the smile reappeared. “That will please her husband,” he said. “He’ll take it as an homage. Jaufré de Roncaisle, does the name mean anything to you? He was at the courts of love in Troyes when the Countess Marie made all this up.”
“Of course, lord. Every jongleur knows his songs. And he wrote in Latin as well, didn’t he? A sexy bit about giving up all the world for one night in bed with the Queen of Angleterra. But he must be very old, no? Queen Eléanor died before I was born.”
The Senhor’s face became wintry again. “Time has told on his body, but he’s not doddering yet. And he knows he married a much younger woman to sire a son on her while he can still act the stallion. He also knows the lady and I… well, none of your business, is it? He’ll be listening to my songs keenly, and there is nothing wrong with his hearing. He is also my new liege lord. It’s a delicate situation, Master Jannequin. I want to please the lady with my poem, remind her about things that happened and can never happen again. But I dare not offend her husband.”
Jannequin tapped the parchment. “Nothing in it that will anger him, lord, if I’m any judge. And anyway, unless you really sing out, the music we are working on will astonish your noble company so much they probably won’t pay much attention to the words.” He regretted what he’d said the moment it came out of his mouth, and braced himself for the troubadour’s rage. But the Senhor just sliced a thin smile. “You speak better than you know, Master Jannequin. The music may be more of a problem than my lyrics. What did the old piper say? ‘A new music for a new time.’ He meant it as a warning, no?”
Jannequin was still having trouble getting used to talking with a noble lord, a hard warrior who held his continued health and that of his fellow musicians in the leathery palm of his hand, as if he were chatting with a friend over a cup of wine in the Turk’s Head. He was glad the Senhor hadn’t offered more wine after dismissing the rest of the minstrels, because he knew he needed a clear head to figure out what the man was really worried about. He had an inkling: the disappointed expression on the face of the villein woman in the village had told him more than he wanted to know about which way the religious wind blew in Bernier de Lissac’s demesne. And he began to wonder just why the Senhor- a prosperous nobleman but hardly a great magnate- had spent so much money arranging a tournament and feast for such a throng, many of whom were certainly richer than he was.
Finally he said, “Lord, all we have is our music, and I think we have to go wherever it takes us.” The Senhor regarded him stonily for a long moment. Finally he broke into a wide grin that took ten years off his age. “Now that is a good answer, Master Jannequin.”
 
Sext-Nones

Isabel was in a vile mood. She had put on her Cathar habit only once, during the confrontation with her husband, but given the delicate tenor of the times she hadn’t dared flaunt it openly around the manor, and in any case she hadn’t yet taken the Consolamentum. Still, she had taken to dressing as simply as one of the Credente women in the village, to show them she shared their faith and humility. And she had put away her fine gowns and jewelry, intending eventually to sell them to the Jewish traders in Carcassona who dealt in such vanities, and donate the money to the Perfected Ones. But the crack-down on the Cathars which had begun with the first Frankish incursion had continued even after the city was back in Occitan hands. The Franks were gone, for the moment, but Archbishop Arnaut-Amalric certainly wasn’t, and neither was Simon de Montfort’s son, the Wolf Cub. It was said that the Archbishop had promised Amaury de Montfort the County of Tolosa if war broke out again. Arnaut-Amalric was even more powerful since his elevation, and the Old Count’s truce with the northerners had depended on his swearing a solemn oath to extirpate heresy throughout his lands.
Naturally Jews were included in the purge, as permanent outsiders who had always rankled the Princes of the Church simply by their continued existence as Christ-killers (as if a pure Spirit could be killed!), and their refusal to convert. So the Old Count had been forced at least officially to banish them from his realm. Of course the sly old man had stopped short of uprooting them from their homes and curtailing their businesses altogether- without their services as moneylenders, he and his fellow lords (including Isabel’s husband) would not have been able to maintain their high estates. But the Jews, like the Cathars, were forced to keep a very low profile, closing their shops and dealing privately. For a lady of rank to ride a palefroy into the city followed by a sumpter-horse loaded with silks, satins and jewels, asking where to find a Jew who dealt in fine clothes and gems…well, her husband sometimes thought she was mad, but she wasn’t. She was saner than he was.
So her old finery remained in the cedar presses in the undercroft where she had stored it, and her jewelry in the strong-box locked in the castle armory. And even if Bernier hadn’t made it quite clear to her that dressing like a villein was out of the question, because the Young Count of Tolosa would be attending the festivities, she herself was plagued by an upwelling of vanity which she thought her devotion to the teachings of the Perfected Ones had quelled. All the ladies of the south would be out in flowering spring array, dressed as gorgeously as their husbands’ war-diminished fortunes could allow. And that bitch Aëlis would probably be the bella dompna of them all, for her old new husband doted on her and tried to buy her faithfulness by indulging her every whim.
Isabel stood naked, glaring down at the array of gowns her maids had fetched up and laid out on her bed. They were sadly wrinkled and smelled strongly of cedar, but worse than that, they were out of date. She had seen what the ladies at the court of Tolosa were wearing – close-fitting, low-cut gowns which revealed the tops of their breasts – and all her dresses covered her to the neck. Well, nothing that a pair of shears and her own skill with a needle couldn’t fix: her maidservants were dutiful enough, but only one of them was a seamstress as good as she was.
At the moment most of the servants were trying not to look at her. All Credentes, to one extent or another, her nakedness troubled them more than angry words or threats. And although the Perfected Ones insisted that the body itself was nothing more than a loose garment, and should be worn that way, they discouraged nudity as an incitement to lust.
“All right, let’s try that one,” she said finally, putting her long shift back on. “Margareta? If you please?”
The plump woman had entered her service after her husband, a serjeant with Bernier’s men-at-arms, had died in a minor skirmish with retreating Frankish forces after the recapture of Carcassona. Margareta had confessed that she didn’t much miss him.
“Aë, lady, he was a terrible drunkard, and the Devil’s welcome to him. Used to beat the children even when they were little, but he never raised a hand to me, because he knew I would have killed him if he tried, one way or another, even before the Franks got around to it.”
More than a senior maidservant, she was Isabel’s mainstay in keeping track of the castle’s stores and overall management, and she’d became the closest thing Isabel had to a confidante. Isabel had seen to it that Margareta’s three children, now in their teens, were well fed and clothed, the two girls taught to sew and cook and clean, and the only boy, Charlot, a handsome little fellow, perhaps too pretty for his own good, had attracted Bernier’s attention by his skill with horses. He’d been made a groom, and later a page. Isabel thought the lad was too full of himself and his good looks, but that was Bernier’s business, not hers. Meanwhile she’d come to trust Margareta’s judgment about most things.
In her turn the woman had trusted her, after a day when Isabel had gone to the undercroft looking for a cake of salt. The trap door leading to the cellarage had been open, and she had heard low voices. She’d gone down to find Margareta with Anselm and Catherina, the two Perfected Ones who later become Isabel’s own mentors in the faith. She’d already been attracted to the Cathars after her husband had come back maimed and deranged from the massacre in Besièr, done in the Roman Pope’s name; and she’d helped Margareta set up a dank but minimally comfortable resting-place in the cellarage for the wandering preachers when they spent the night, in the very chamber where she’d hidden her husband. And she’d spread the word among the people of the village that their visits were welcome. Bernier had fumed at first, but the edged bargain the two had made on the last night Isabel had allowed him to take her had stayed in place. Although now it seemed to be fraying, Isabel thought, just like the truce with the Franks.
Margareta picked up a dark blue gown and shook it out. She ran an expert finger over the embroidery pattern, a motif of tiny flowers in green, yellow and red.
“Well, it’s lovely, no question, but it needs a bit of nip and tuck. And do you think it will still suit you, after we do the alterations?”
Isabel had grown thinner after her two miscarriages, but she knew Margareta was referring to the planned scoop which would expose the tops of her breasts. They were hardly the snowy globes the troubadours wrote about. Never very plump to begin with, they had slackened after her miscarriages, and in their natural state lay almost flat on her chest like a couple of empty bags.
“No need to mince words with me, Margareta. I’ve got the tits of a dry nanny-goat.”
Margareta chuckled. “Not that bad, lady. And we can plump ‘em a bit. The new style’ll help- the gown’s to be girdled under the breasts, no? So we just wrap an extra band underneath, and they’ll pop up almost to your chin. Two ripe apples on a plate. You think the other ladies don’t do the same tricks?”
“I’m sure they do, but I’d hoped all that was behind me,” said Isabel.
“Ah, well, the end of vanity is near at hand, the Perfected Ones say. But it’s not here yet, so we do what we must, don’t we?”
She flipped the gown deftly onto the top of the clothes-press that was serving them as a table in Isabel’s ample bed chamber, and after the other maids had cleared away the rejected gowns and the two of them set to work, Isabel’s mood lightened.
She had always loved every aspect of making clothing, beginning with washing the raw wool from the shearers and waulking it on a long table with her women, picking the wet hanks up, flopping, pounding and turning them as they sang a rhythmic song so old men no longer understood the words, through carding the softened staples, winding them on distaffs and spinning them on their wheels into thread, weaving them into bolts of fabric on a loom set up neighborly with those of the other women, all of them with tongues clacking with gossip as briskly as the clatter their battens made as they slid them through the strands of the weft and woof and smacked them down to tighten the weave. The fulling of the cloth, laying it in water-filled troughs and pounding fuller’s earth into it with wooden mallets to make it shrink, tighten further and absorb dyes, was heavy labor, done by men. But the final shaping and embroidery of the garments was a task she shared only with Margareta. Except for the fulling, all of it was women’s work, and she was proud of it, for it was also women’s mystery, and one of the few things Isabel wondered about in the teachings of the Perfected Ones was the idea that in the World of Light there would be no difference between men and women. It sometimes seemed to her that women had even more to lose than men in such an arrangement.
The two reshaped the gown quickly, with the extra band sewn in subtly below the bust line. Isabel slipped it over her head and Margareta pulled the laces at the back of the bodice tight.
“Aë, not so tight, Margareta! I can barely breathe!”
“You have to suffer to be beautiful,” Margareta said placidly, yanking the laces even tighter and tying them off. “Think of it as putting on your armor before the battle – that can’t be comfortable either, but the men endure it, so we can too.”
The strong-box had been brought from the armory, and she took a simple gold necklace from the strong-box and fastened it around Isabel’s throat.
“There, now. You look lovely.” The mirror she held up to her mistress, another vanity from the strong-box, was a polished sheet of fine silver in a wooden frame with a handle. It was only a hand-span across, but it was enough to show that the ruse had indeed pushed up and plumped her breasts, smoothing out their wrinkles. They’d do. Of course there wasn’t time enough to make sleeves in the new fashion, with wide cuffs tapered down almost to the ground, but Isabel picked her finest pair of close-fitting sleeves, made of emerald-green samite, and Margareta laced them to the gown’s bodice, pinching little puffs of the undershift’s loose sleeves through the lacing to make a frame for the scoop neck and the apples it offered. Isabel took the mirror and moved it slowly to get a view of her entire body.
The embroidery of the gown was as fine as anything she’d ever created, done when she was still a girl laying away dresses in her dowry chest, and she doubted Aëlis’s gown would boast anything as well-made. And for once the new fashions favored her, for ladies had abandoned their coifs and now wore their hair uncovered and loose, bound back from their foreheads only by a narrow ribbon. Her own hair was still a rich, lustrous chestnut, untouched by gray, something that had surprised even the midwife Yolanda, who had mourned with her after bringing forth the tiny dead things her womb had rejected, for it was common for barren women to go gray in a matter of months. But Isabel’s hair had kept the sheen and vigor of her youth, and although Aëlis was a blonde, if Bernier’s verses hadn’t lied, the little slut was older too by now, and blonde hair in the south tends to thin and grow brittle under the fierce sun.
Isabel moved the mirror around, getting a mosaic of her body she knew from long practice how to unite in her mind’s eye, and finally gave it back to Margareta. “Thank you, dear friend,” she said.
The older woman looked startled. “I have done no more than my duty, lady,” she said, a little stiffly, and Isabel instantly regretted her words. In the normal course of things, Margareta could never be her friend. But then, the course of things was due to change, if the Perfected Ones did not lie, and they could not. “Margareta, in the Light we are not only friends, but sisters,” she said.
“The Light isn’t here yet, lady.” The woman handed her back the mirror. She had folded back into herself, her face shut and impassive. “The Senhor’s waiting for you in the hall,” she said, “and I have other duties, so by your leave….” She bustled out of the bedchamber, bobbing a curtsey at the door, something she had never bothered with in the time since Isabel had joined her in the secret meetings with the Cathar preachers. Isabel sighed deeply, scanned herself a final time with the little mirror, fussed a bit with the ribbon binding her hair, and left the room. Her gown still gave off a ghost of cedar, but the wrinkles had shaken out, at least. She squared her shoulders and started down the stairs.
Her husband, in the scarlet, floor-length samite robe he wore only on important occasions, girded by the gold-linked belt he’d been awarded along with his spurs when he’d been dubbed knight by the Old Count, met her at the bottom of the stairs. His eyes widened briefly as he took in the deep scoop of her bodice, and she braced herself for a cold remark.
Instead, he smiled, took her hand and kissed it. “You look beautiful,” he said. “Thank you.”
Isabel was so startled she felt herself blushing. “It’s not too…young for me?”
“It’s perfect,” said the Senhor de Lissac, and led her into the hall.

The minstrels were uncomfortable. Jannequin had heard tell of such galleries for musicians, built over the heads of the noble company in the great hall, but he and his companions had never been in one, and it felt like a bird-cage, with the consort as clipped-wing thrushes. In addition, when he and the rest had gotten back their washed and dried clothes, the irritatingly polite servants had insisted that they put on linen tabards painted with the Lissac blazon. Handsome enough, he thought, but it made them all look alike, birds of a feather, the property of the Senhor. Even Bertran de Born hadn’t insisted that his minstrels be stamped with his blazon and kept apart from his guests. Geraut fussed with the stiff cloth of his tabard. “I look like a tavern sign.”
“The Red Balls Inn,” Heaulmier said, flicking a finger over the painted roundels on his own tabard. “Not a place I’d go into, given a choice.” He winked at Maroc. “Right?”
“You just couldn’t resist, could you?” Maroc said, but he was grinning. “All right, you were smart not to tup that whore in Marseilles. Gave me the gleet, my balls turned exactly this color, I couldn’t piss easy for a month, damn near died.”
“She was a fine dusky African beauty though, wasn’t she?”
“Oh, shut your hole. You wanted her too, you were just too drunk to get it up for her after I got done.” Heaulmier looked solemn for a moment. “You know she died herself, not long after. What was her name? I can’t remember.”
“I can’t either,” said Maroc. “Never mind.” He bent back to his shawm, wetting the fresh reed with his tongue and running his fingers over the stops.
“I don’t even know what killed her,” Heaulmier said. “The gleet doesn’t kill you, it just makes you wish you were dead.
“Well, whatever she died of, at least it didn’t kill you.” Jannequin broke in, catching a melancholy in the big man’s tone he’d never heard before. “We have to get ready.” Heaulmier nodded and went on tapping and tuning his tambours, tightening the twisted cords that sharpened the pitch of the kidskin drumheads. The gallery really was an awkward, confining space. The drummer liked a little room for deploying his tambours and bells, and Gilles was used to marching around in a tight little circle when he played his bagpipes, as if the action of the march coursed through his whole body and powered his lungs. But it couldn’t be helped. Jannequin checked the oud’s tuning a final time and look down at the hall. The grandees were gathering.

The first woman Isabel clapped eyes on when she entered the hall was Aëlis. She’d never seen her before, but she knew old Jaufré de Roncaisle, and the woman clutched his plump arm possessively. She had the golden hair Bernier had described in his verses, but it hadn’t thinned, hèlas, and she sported it proudly, gleaming and rich, cascading from her black velvet fillet to her shoulders. And she was beautiful, her skin a shade darker than the milky complexion of troubadour convention, which only made her hair look brighter. She had a heart-shaped face, great lustrous eyes of a brown so deep it almost looked liquid, full lips and a straight nose that turned up pertly at the tip. Her emerald gown, embroidered with a pattern of tiny stars done in fine gilt thread, was lovely, its floor-touching crimson sleeves a startling contrast which drew the eye to her slim, graceful hands. And the breasts its low neck displayed were full and obviously in no need of hidden bands to lift them. It wasn’t just the eminence of her husband which drew the other noblemen in the company around her like bears to a honeycomb, as the couple waited by the high table to be seated by their host. She was captivating.
Isabel hesitated for a moment, feeling suddenly old and shrunken in her hastily-remodeled out-of-fashion gown. But the beauty caught her eye and smiled enchantingly, and she managed a smile in return, as Bernier took her arm and led her forward. The only thing that lifted her spirits a little was that the hand that wasn’t clinging to the old Viscount’s arm was laid proudly over a slight rise in her belly, and her husband was wearing a foolish grin which was at odds with the deep folds in his age-slackened face. Perhaps Bernier, with clear evidence that his liege lord had managed to get a child on his onetime mistress, might refrain from singing anything that might remind the happy May-December couple that there had been a greening April not so long ago, when Aëlis had served Love with Bernier beyond courtliness.
She glanced at her husband. His face was blank, betraying nothing. The two advanced toward the Viscount and his wife and stopped. Bernier dropped to one knee as Isabel curtseyed deeply, bowing her head.
“My lord, you are most dearly welcome to my demesne.” He stayed knelt, as fealty demanded, until the Viscount clapped him on the shoulder and raised him. On cue, Aëlis put her own dainty paw on Isabel’s shoulder. But she spoke out of turn. “Oh, husband, why all this formality? We are all friends together, aren’t we, Isabel?” But when Isabel raised her head to answer, Aëlis had already shifted her gaze to Bernier. “Besides, my lord of Lissac, by rights this demesne isn’t yours at all, is it?” And she laughed openly.
Jaufré de Roncaisle’s grin split his flabby face even wider. “Hah! My wife is as punctilious as a clerk at law! Ah, but Bernier, she means no offense.”
“None taken, Viscount,” Bernier said. “And it is charming to be reminded by your wife that I owe you allegiance, and that all that I have is at your service.” He nodded to Aëlis. “Thanks for your good counsel, lady,” he said. “You are as wise as you are beautiful, and worthy of all honorable love.” Aëlis briefly lost her composure and dropped her eyes. Jaufré looked a little startled as well, but quickly recovered his aplomb.
“Well, Bernier, perhaps it’s just as well for our sinful pride that our women remind us of our duty.”
“Of course, lord,” said Bernier, meeting Jaufré’s gaze easily. “Why else did you help to invent the Courts of Love? Women are the judges of our wicked natures, rewarding us when we serve them with true devotion and courtesy, and punishing us when we betray their trust and back-slide into our brutish habits. Of course you remember what happened to that unfortunate minnesinger.”
Jaufré chuckled. “Ahì, poor Wolfram. Got a little previous with his pledged lady, wasn’t it? So she orders him to set up his pavilion at a crossroads where the Mosel meets the Rhein, hang up his shield and fight anyone who bonked a lance-butt on it.”
“Yes, but Viscount, you forgot the best part. The lady gave him her silver mirror to mount at the center of his shield, and told him if he brought it back with even a scratch on it, he would be banished from her service.”
“God’s teeth, now I remember,” Jaufré said, clapping his arm around Bernier’s shoulders. “The poor son of a whore had to fight about half a dozen young bucks, and he couldn’t use his shield because of the mirror, right? He got battered all the way to death’s door, and he just barely managed to crawl back to the lady before it opened for him. Died in her arms, didn’t he?”
“So the story goes, my liege.”
The old troubadour chuckled and hugged Bernier a little tighter. “Well, what else do we have but the stories? And Wolfram did manage to crank out a pretty good poem before he croaked, not so?”
He kissed Bernier smackingly on both cheeks, released him and said, “I’m hungry. Where do we sit? Will there be dancing? Aëlis loves to dance, and although my old legs are not up to the stampides any more, I can still hold my own in a carolla or a round-dance.”
“There will be dancing, of course, lord,” said Bernier. “I have hired fine musicians, gathered at my request by Jannequin, the master jongleur from Carcassona. Perhaps you’ve heard of him- he played for Bertran de Born.” Bernier indicated the little balcony built out from the wall. “While we feast, the minstrels will play quiet music to ease our stomachs, and after we have eaten, the tables will be cleared away and the dancing will begin.”
Jaufré looked up at the minstrels’ gallery. “Of course I know of Jannequin. I thought he died during the siege.”
“Musicians are hardy, Viscount, thank God.”
“But why have you put them up there? I would like to meet this Jannequin,”
Bernier hesitated a moment. “Perhaps to protect them,” he said.
The Viscount looked baffled. “From what?” Bernier sighed and finally said, “We are doing some new music which might startle the noble company, at least at first. Please understand, lord, that I am at fault if the music doesn’t please you. I can’t pretend to have invented this new music- it’s been floating in the air among musicians for quite awhile, and I just encouraged Jannequin and his friends. But they should not be punished for doing what I asked them to do.”
Jaufré began to respond, but there was a coarse blast from a hunting horn, and the two turned to the door. Two men-at-arms in jerkins painted with the Crotz Occitan of Tolosa, a twelve-pointed cross or, on a field gules, entered the hall and stood apart, as the Young Count Raimon, gorgeous in a burgundy cut-velvet robe which swept the floor, his long black hair circled by a narrow gold band, entered and stepped a little unsteadily toward them.
Jaufré and Bernier began to kneel, but the Young Count waved them upright. “Please, friends, no need for that. I know who you are, you know who I am, let it go at that. We didn’t go to all that trouble kicking the Franks out just to start imitating their fancy manners. We’re all old soldiers here, am I right?”
He embraced Jaufré and Bernier in turn and grinned. Bernier smelled the wine on his breath, and glanced at the Viscount, who gave a tiny shrug. Bernier hadn’t seen the Young Count since the fight to take back Carcassona, and although the man was still in his twenties, the years since had not dealt kindly with him. He was still handsome and strongly built, but his features had coarsened a little, and he looked older than he should have.
Bernier said, “Lord Count, you do me honor.” He gestured to the minstrels in the gallery to begin, as he led the Count, Isabel, Jaufré and Aëlis to the high table. The rest of the company took the cue and assembled themselves along the long trestle tables set up on either side. The boar which had been roasting in the pit dug in the bailey court outside was brought to the high table to be cut and portioned out by the Senhor, other servants set about trenchers and bowls, and the feast began.
Jannequin had already recognized the Young Count, and beating time with his hand briefly, holding his forefinger and thumb an inch apart to indicate they should play quietly, he started the consort into “Ce fût en Mai” , a slightly salacious little ditty about an encounter between a knight and a shepherd girl which a Frankish trovère had written. It had become popular in the taverns before the troubles- sometimes the Devil really did have the best music- and without the langue d’oïl lyrics it was only a catchy tune. As the musicians launched into it, Jannequin glanced down, and the Senhor actually winked at him.
His fears about the constriction of the gallery proved unfounded. Since they were playing quietly, Heaulmier had no need of his louder tambours, and with Gilles restricted to his wooden flutes, the old man didn’t have to do his ritual marching. As the wine flowed among the noble assemblage, the talking quickly got so loud that it was doubtful the music could even be heard, except as a pleasant background murmur. Jannequin felt briefly insulted: music was supposed to be the beating heart of a feast, not idly overheard bird-song. But as the consort finished a last repetition of “Ce fût en mai,” he realized what the Senhor’s wink had signified. The man was nothing if not clever. He was to introduce the Ars Nova subtly, while the nobles were still talking among themselves so loudly they could barely hear it. As the tune ended he said, “’Totus florio.’ The way we did it outside the castle last night. Let’s see if we can do it even better, since nobody’s listening anyway. But keep it down.”
“But it’s meant to be loud!” Maroc said. Jannequin sympathized: playing the shawm at less than full volume is a fussy, finicky business. “Just try it, Maroc. And after that we’ll go right into ‘Gaité de la Tor,’ duple-time, play around with it for a couple of choruses, but keep it low.”
Geraut frowned. “Jannequin, it’s about a knight about to sleep with someone else’s wife in the man’s own castle, telling the tower guard to alert him if the jealous husband comes home. I mean, wasn’t the Senhor mixed up with the Viscount’s wife?”
“God’s guts, Geraut, stop fussing. That was never proven. Besides, we’re just going to play it, not sing it.”
Heaulmier grinned at him. “I get it. Without the words it’s just a harmless little ditty, right?”
“Right, and the quicker we can get the nobles dancing, the sooner they’ll stop eating, so there’ll be more left for us. And if they’re still dancing, go into ‘Kalenda Maia’”.
“Ah, Jannequin, you still haven’t done anything wrong,” Maroc said. He nodded at Heaulmier, and began “Totus florio” at half volume, as the drummer picked up his tambourine and began alternately shaking its bells on the off-beat and tapping lightly on it with the flat of his hand to set the main rhythm. Jannequin set up a strong bass line on the oud with his thumb, playing with the rhythm as his fingers danced freely above Maroc’s melody. They did one chorus, and he nodded to Geraut and Gilles. The viele and Gilles’ tenor pipe came in, doing the burden once in unison, and then, on the second go, leaving Maroc with it as they joined Jannequin in ornament and cross-melody. If anything, it sounded better a little muted. They did four repetitions, and at Jannequin’s nod, jumped right into “Gaité”, turning the old aubade’s original stately pace to a quick, dancing tempo, and the music took them over. Jannequin stopped counting the choruses, but finally he signaled Heaulmier, and the drummer brought the piece to a close with a clash of his bells and a jingling rattle-and-thump on his tambourine. He came out of his musical spell and looked down.
Everyone in the hall was looking right back at him. Even the servants had stood up from their work around the tables, some of them with flagons of wine arrested in the act of pouring, all gaping at the musicians. The nobles at the high table were staring glassy-eyed, as if they’d been bashed on the head like steers under the butcher’s mallet.
“God’s unmerciful teeth,” Maroc whispered, “They’re going to kill us.”
But Jannequin caught the Senhor de Lissac’s eye. The man was beaming at him, and suddenly the Young Count Raimon stood up and began to applaud, offering his clapping hands up to the minstrels. The rest of the noble company joined him, even the ladies, and finally the Viscount de Roncaisle heaved up his bulk and joined the ovation. It went on for quite awhile, a clamor of appreciation Jannequin hadn’t experienced before, even in the taverns, certainly never when he’d played for nobles. Following a sudden instinct, he rose and beckoned the other musicians to rise with him. Following his lead they all bowed from the waist, something else they had never done before. But it seemed proper to acknowledge the company’s appreciation. And still the applause coursed over them like a warm shower, until finally the Senhor de Lissac strode into the middle of the hall and raised his hands. The clapping gradually died. “My lords and ladies,” he said, “shall we dance?”

The servants cleared the dishes and moved all but the high table to the walls. The Senhor walked over to stand beneath the minstrels’ gallery as his guests stepped onto the floor, pairing off for the first stampides. “That was well done, Master Jannequin. I think we don’t have to do my new songs tonight. They just want to dance, thanks to you. It’s already getting late, so dance them to sleep, all right?”
Jannequin laughed. Still giddy from the applause, and feeling the buzz from draining at a gulp the cup of wine the Senhor had reached up to him with his own hand – well, he’d been thirsty – he said, “Of course, lord. Dance the soles of their slippers off, like in the tale of the enchanted princesses.”
“What tale?”
“Ah, it’s a German story. I got it from another harper when I played in Mainz once.”
“You never told me you spoke German.” The Senhor’s tone had shifted slightly, not quite as cordial. Jannequin, catching the Senhor’s shift in mood, didn’t remind him that in fact he had.
“A few words only, lord,” Jannequin said quickly.
The hawk look in the Senhor’s pale eyes vanished. “Of course. But tonight the only language is music.”
“It’s the only one everyone understands,” said Jannequin.
“What a world it would be if…” The Senhor broke off. “So dance their soles off tonight.”

The dancing went well, more than well. The minstrels, getting used to their confinement, and beginning to enjoy the way their music soared out over the heads of the dancers and reverberated back from the lofty timbered ceiling of the hall, played at full volume, energized by cups of wine and bites of food the servants brought up to them as they paused between tunes. It was almost like playing in the taverns, Jannequin thought, but better – he watched the drunken Young Count slip and fall flat on his ass during a lively carolla – because we’re making the people who own us dance to our tunes.
They played the New Art, paying no attention to the noble company cavorting below them, and Jannequin lost track of time, until, snatching a breath after a number, he felt a hand on his shoulder. The Senhor had climbed into the musicians’ gallery.
“I yield to you, Master Jannequin,” he said. “You have won the day. I ask you mercy.” He had put off his robe and he’d sweated clean through his tunic, breathing hard, reeking of wine and beaming like a child on its name-day. “Enough! Behold the field of battle!”
The torches in the wall-sconces had mostly burned out, and the nobles had left the hall, except for the Young Count and his retinue. He had both arms around a couple of serving-maids, fondling their bubbies and still trying to kick his feet in a semblance of dancing. As Jannequin and the other minstrels came out of their musical trance, the maids escaped from the Young Count’s embrace, and he fell like a tower undermined by sappers. His servitors, a little unsteady themselves, lifted him to his feet and helped him, stumbling, out of the hall.
“Where is everybody?” Jannequin asked blearily.
“Gone to bed, friend,” said the Senhor. The other musicians goggled at him, as dazed as Jannequin over re-entering the world of every-day after living in a perfect musical eternity for so long. Like awakened sleepers, they snuffled, coughed, stretched and yawned, and the Senhor said, “It’s late. Go down, there’s still food for you on the high table, if you are hungry.” He yawned vastly himself. “By God’s breath that was a wonderful thing you did tonight! Drink more, if you want – there’s a flagon of wine left – and get yourselves to bed. Tomorrow the tournament begins.” He took a step, winced, and supported himself briefly with a hand on Jannequin’s shoulder.
“The ankle,” he said. “You danced me too hard.” But he was grinning.
“Will you be able to fight, lord?”
“What a question, Master Jannequin!” His chuckle turned into a cough, and he hawked hard and spat on the floor. “It would be dishonorable if I didn’t. You understand?”
“Of course, lord. It would be as if we had been too afraid to play the new music,” said Jannequin. “But we did, and it turned out well, no?”
The Senhor smiled. “Very well, Jannequin. My thanks. We’ll play together tomorrow night, we’ll do the new songs. Eat, drink and go to bed now. We are all bound to duty, one way or another.”
He put both hands on Jannequin’s shoulders, kissed him on his cheeks with grave formality, climbed down the gallery stairs to the floor of the hall and made his way across it. His limp was severe. Jannequin hadn’t noticed it when the Senhor began dancing, but he had lost track of the dancers, once the music got them going. The music was what mattered. Wasn’t it?

Bernier had led Isabel in the first dance, as was proper, but she’d been astonished when he continued to partner her all night. It almost made her suspicious that he was paying particular attention to her just to soothe her lingering anxiety over Aëlis’s presence, and had made some plan to meet the gorgeous little bitch later to give her a green gown in the fields under the moonlight. After all, she was already pregnant, so Bernier could fuck her wits out without worrying about the consequences. But Bernier was impeccably polite to Aëlis, taking her hand only when it was released to him by her previous partner in the carollas and contra-dances, releasing it to her next partner without a word.
Isabel herself flung into the dancing with an abandon she thought had left her years before. The music was amazing, irresistible, like nothing she had ever heard before, and at one point she found herself partnered with the Young Count himself. He was clearly drunk, but he swept her through the turn easily, and the second time they wound up together he put a muscular thigh between her legs, clasping her closely, brushing a hand over her breasts, leering openly. Isabel felt an inner quickening, a sensation she hadn’t enjoyed for some time.
But Raimon moved on to Aëlis and held her the same way, and she realized that the Young Count, still unmarried despite a number of alliances proposed by his ageing father with the most noble women from the Rhein to the Western Ocean, was just looking for a quick and easy lay for the night. Still, Isabel was flattered that the boy – he really wasn’t quite yet a man in the way Bernier was, and he was quite drunk, but by the Light, he was handsome – had found her still attractive enough to serve as a bed-partner.
Viscount Jaufré had chosen her to start a carolla, but he’d been even drunker than the Young Count, and as he swung her round he lost his balance and fell hard, almost bringing her down with him. Bernier and Aëlis rushed up, making much of the old man, but Jaufré insisted he was fine, and managed to regain his feet without their help.
Ignored, Isabel had taken a seat at the high table to recover her breath. She was halfway through an unaccustomed second cup of wine when Margareta approached her. The woman’s broad face was ashen. She bent close and whispered, “Lady, we need more salt.”
Isabel recognized the code-phrase and stood up too fast. She swayed for an instant, light-headed, feeling as if the sweat from the dancing was freezing on her face. “In a moment,” she told Margareta. The woman hurried off.
Now, of all times, Isabel thought, trying to compose herself. The dancing continued, and the noise was considerable. She saw Aëlis leading her stumbling husband out of the hall as Bernier watched their unsteady progress. He was high-colored, smiling hugely. But as Isabel neared him she realized the smile wasn’t for the pretty blonde or for his liege lord. He was listening still to the wild music, and he tapped his good foot unconsciously. When he saw her he swung her right into his arms and planted a kiss on her lips.
“My God, Isabel, listen to them! If the angels play like that in heaven, maybe I’ll start making confession again!” He grinned at her dismay and winked. “Never mind- come on, another dance!” She managed to smile back at him, and said, “Nothing would give me more pleasure, Bernier, but there’s a problem with the servants I must see to.” Bernier was barely aware of her words. “We should have let them dance, too,” he said absently, turning his attention back to the musicians.
 

Vespers-Compline

Isabel had furnished the bleak little dungeon with a candle, a chamber-pot, a wash-basin, and a strung pallet wide enough for two. When she entered, Anselm and Catherina were seated on it, slumped over, utterly exhausted. Margareta stood next to them. She’d brought bread and cheese and a ewer of water, but the Perfected Ones were ignoring the food.
“They took a little water, Lady, when they came in, but I think Catherina, at least, has entered the endura,” said Margareta. The black robes of the Perfecti were worn and filthy, and in their stupor of fatigue, at first they didn’t seem to notice her. But after a moment Anselm looked up. He took in her fine blue gown with the deep-scooped neck, her gold necklace, flushed face and loose hair, and offered her a small, weary smile before he finally rose to give her the Kiss of Peace. As Isabel embraced him she could feel the bones of his shoulders under his habit.
“I doubt you are ready to receive the Consolamentum just yet, Sister,” he said. His voice was as thin as a breeze rustling dry reeds, but his eyes, deep-set in his gaunt face, were glinting with humor.
“I beg your pardon, Brother Anselm,” Isabel said. “I did not expect you. My husband arranged a feast, and I had to…”
“Hush. It doesn’t matter. We did not expect to be here. But we had no other choice.”
Catherina rose unsteadily, resting a hand on Anselm’s shoulder. “Of course we had a choice, Brother.” She faced Isabel. “But our sinful flesh still clings to us, and we needed time to prepare ourselves for casting it off…” She was even thinner than Anselm, her skull almost breaking through its stretched parchment.
“And they gave us no time,” Anselm finished.
“Who?”
“I think you can guess, Sister,” Catherina said. “The Dogs of God are on the hunt again. They have already taken Perfecti in Narbona and Carcassona, and some Credentes as well. We have been walking for three days, and the poor people have been too afraid to give us food, though a woman in your own village gave us some water.”
She swayed, and Anselm caught her elbow before she fell, helping her to sit back down on the low bed.
“We don’t want to put you in danger,” he said. “Just shelter us for the night, and we’ll be gone before dawn.”
Isabel’s head buzzed with fearful questions, but she said only, “Of course. Lie down, rest. Try to eat something.” She couldn’t resist a harsh laugh. “In fact you came at the right time. Everyone’s too drunk to notice you.”
The Perfected Ones were barefoot, part of the scourging of the flesh which they had pledged to undergo, along with the wiry, tormenting goathair shirts they wore under their habits. But even their hardened, horny feet were bruised and bleeding from their long trek. Isabel motioned Margareta to fill the washbasin, and the two women knelt to clean off the crusted blood and grime.
But Anselm said, “You offer to wash our feet? Neither of us is the Christ, dear sisters, nor are you Mary and Martha. Please don’t tempt us. Thanks for the water- we’ll tend to our own feet, rest a little, and when we feel stronger we’ll leave as quietly as we came.”
Isabel started to object, but Catherina raised a hand and said, “The body is Satan’s last illusion, Sister. Waking from it into the Light is hard, but we all must do it, willingly or not. Being willing makes it a little easier, that’s all.” Her smile was radiant.
So Isabel left the little cell with Margareta. There wasn’t time to wall it up, but she thought that perhaps it could be concealed temporarily with storage crates. The two raced up the staircase into the keep’s undercroft and slammed down the trap door to the cellarage beneath it, shifting a heavy bench over it. In the bailey court she said, “I suppose the rest of the castle staff already knows.”
More a statement than a question, and she was surprised when Margareta replied, “I don’t think so, lady. When they arrived and sought me out, Brother Anselm said there was no watch mounted on the walls, the drawbridge was down, and the portal was wide open. Most of the servants were busy in the hall, and Anselm said he didn’t think the cooks tending the firepit and ovens had seen them.
“I hope you’re right.”
The older woman looked at her sternly, the guttering torchlight of the courtyard erasing the plumpness of her cheeks and shadowing the folds from her nostrils to her mouth, so that she looked like the carven image of a pitiless saint in a niche framing a church portal. “There’s not a man or woman of us would betray a Perfected One, lady. You know that.”
Isabel caught the slight emphasis on “us”, and her own face turned harsh.
“I did not suggest that. But you heard Sister Catherina. The false god’s Hounds are back, and they are torturing the Believers. I hope to spare our people that. The longer we can keep our holy guests a secret, the safer everyone will be.”
“But where will they go, lady?” Margareta’s voice was barely a whisper.
“For the moment, nowhere. Attend to them as best you can, and I’ll help you whenever I have time. Maybe we can conceal the entrance to the cell a little. With the tournament beginning in the morning, there won’t be many people in the castle. I have to get back.”
She turned to the older woman and embraced her fiercely, trying to hold in her tears. “Blessings in the Light, Sister,” she said.
“And to you, Sister,” Margareta murmured, with the ghost of a smile.
Isabel entered a silent hall, and realized the dancing and the feast had ended while she was in the cellarage. She found only the consort of minstrels sitting at the high table by the light of a single candle, quietly eating some leftovers and sharing a flagon of wine. They seemed oddly subdued after the wild music they had played all evening, and as Isabel neared the table she realized they were almost as weary as her dangerous guests below. The scrawny old piper had already fallen asleep with his face pillowed on his arms on the table, and was snoring lightly. The leader, Jannequin, poked him as he rose and bowed to her. The other minstrels raggedly followed suit, wiping their greasy mouths with their sleeves. But the piper merely sat up and blinked at her, as if he had no idea where he was.
“Where is my husband?” Isabel asked, a tinge of fear sharpening her tone more than she intended.
“Gone to bed, I think, lady,” said Jannequin said. “Or perhaps to his solar. He mentioned he felt like working some more on his new songs. But it’s late. I’m sorry if we have startled you. The Senhor said we could eat.”
“Of course, of course. He said nothing else?”
“Only that he was happy with the music tonight.” The man’s face – it was hard to guess his age, but he looked hard-used and shrewd – was almost expressionless, but there was a slight smile on his lips, as if Bernier’s praise had meant a lot to him. Isabel relaxed slightly.
“And so was I, Master Jannequin. I’ve never heard anything like it. It made me feel…” She was about to say “young,” but didn’t want to speak so revealingly to a hireling musician, however accomplished. “It made me feel as if there is some hope even in this dark time,” she finished.
The jongleur nodded. “I think, lady, that sometimes you find hope only in music. It goes on, it follows its own rules. We just try to puzzle them out.”
“You make it sound like God.”
“No, lady. There are too many gods. Music’s just music. Maybe music was here on earth before gods. Maybe gods came down to listen to it.”
“You know that is blasphemy.”
“I do, lady. But think of how the birds sing. Do they make their music for a god? I think they just like to sing. Or they just have to sing.”
Isabel smiled in spite of herself, “This is too deep for me.”
“For me, too, lady. Deep as the grave.”
“Quips and conundrums, Master Jannequin! I thought you were hired as a minstrel, not a jester.”
“Oh, I could never be a jester, lady. I can’t tell jokes.” The old piper had watched the exchange with his glittering raven’s eyes, and finally he rose, bobbing his head to her in a travesty of a bow.
“There are no jokes in heaven, lady. Only in hell. Do you know why?”
“No, but I know you’ll tell me,” Isabel said.
“Because in heaven, nothing hurts,” Gilles said. He cackled at her, and Isabel couldn’t resist a smile.
“But in the place of torment, who is there to laugh at jokes?”
“Why, the Devil, of course! The damned make jokes in the hope that the Devil will stop hurting them, at least for as long as he’s laughing. And that makes him laugh even harder, oh yes, and all his demons with him!” In the dim light the piper looked demonic himself, grinning to expose the few teeth in his black mouth.
“Gilles, enough,” Jannequin said.
“No,” Isabel said to him, “It’s a good joke.” She turned back to the old man. “But you forget that we are already in hell. That’s the real joke, and the Devil made it, and the joke’s on us. Laugh at that, Master Piper.”
Gilles went silent, and she scanned the faces of the other minstrels briefly. “Finish your supper and go to bed, friends,” she said. “A busy day tomorrow. Thanks for your music.”
And she walked briskly away from them toward the staircase leading to the second storey. When she was out of earshot Maroc let out a low whistle. “I wouldn’t want to cross that one,” he said. “She reminds me of Jeanne when she’s caught me in a lie.”
“What was she talking about?” said Geraut querulously. He was more than half drunk, and a little earlier he’d been slapped across the face smartly by a pretty serving girl for cupping her ass as she was putting the flagon of wine on the table. “We’re not in hell yet! We’re still alive!”
“That’s what she meant, Geraut,” Jannequin said. “Come on, all of you, to bed. As the lady said, it’s a busy day tomorrow.”
The musicians collected their instruments and made their way to the dormitory. Even though he was happily weary, still feeling a glow from the way the music had gone, Jannequin had trouble getting to sleep. What the lady had said confirmed what he’d dreaded ever since the encounter with the villein woman in the village. He shifted uneasily on his pallet, fussing with his blanket and trying to cast his mind back to the previous night, when he’d thought the castle lay under a peaceful enchantment out of the romances. There was enchantment here, all right, but it had nothing to do with peace or romance.

Jannequin had never married. Maroc was an exception among musicians, whose traveling lives didn’t appeal to most women. But he’d known a woman in Carcassona, a baker’s daughter his own age, maybe even a little older, tall, handsome and smart, who fancied him as much as he fancied her. They had talked about marrying, and her father and mother had approved of the match once Jannequin’s fame as a musician began to grow and he started making good money. Mariseult had already been pregnant with his child when Old Count Raimon’s army arrived to take back the city. Discipline had broken down among the Frankish defenders, mostly mercenaries, and a gang of them, hungry and scared, had bulled into the bakery. Mariseult had been alone with her mother and younger sister, for her father had been ordered to bring bread to the soldiers on the parapets. The gang had raped Mariseult, her mother, and her nine-year-old sister, and then they had cut their throats. Mariseult’s father always insisted that when he returned and found the bodies, the little girl was missing an arm and a leg, and that the bones had been in the bake-oven, slightly scorched and marked by knife-cuts. But the man had been driven insane by grief, and he had taken his own life shortly afterwards, jumping off the city wall. Jannequin found it hard to believe that even the lowest of the Frankish rabble would have resorted to eating human flesh, but then he remembered his rats.
He had given up all dreams of marriage after that, and had devoted himself to his music, taking his pleasure casually when a tavern girl or a country lass offered it, or paying for it at need. But that night, after he finally dropped off to sleep, Mariseult appeared to him in a dream. She was naked, weeping, tied down to a trestle table, and a drunken Devil and an even drunker God were rolling dice for her between her splayed thighs, telling each other jokes and laughing hugely. He couldn’t remember the jokes in the morning, which was some comfort.