We Were Poets; We Were Warriors

By John Radencich

   We Were Poets; We Were Warriors is a novel about the troubadours of Medieval Southern France.  It begins in the year 1170, during a gathering of troubadours in the castle of Puivert in southern France. They are heading to Castile for a royal marriage.   It's here we are introduced to the novel's main character, Piere Vidal, a teenage aide to one of the troubadours.  After the troubadours leave Puivert (and Vidal) the remainder of the novel follows Vidal's adult life.  He eventually becomes the prime troubadour for Raimon V, Count of Toulouse.  He goes through various adventures, along with his duties as troubadour, including a battle over a friend's castle.   Following an indiscretion, Vidal is forced to leave Toulouse.  He eventually winds up as a troubadour for the Count of Cabaret, northeast of Carcassonne, where he is a rival in love for the count's wife with a fellow troubadour.  Here he also goes through several adventures which, as Toulouse, are a source of many of his songs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hillcrest Media Group
• Release date: Jun 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781634134620

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Introduction

Below are some basic facts to help you understand the people you are reading about and the land they came from. This is not to be considered a definitive history. It’s only written to help get you started.

The novel is about the troubadours of medieval Southern France. The troubadours were a group of songwriters who flourished for at least two hundred years. Although it’s not certain when the troubadour tradition began or how it started, the first known troubadour was Guillaume IX, Duke of Aquitaine, and grandfather of Eleanor of Aquitaine. He was born in 1070. It is highly likely there were troubadours before him, but we don’t know them. For sure we know the last, Guiraut Riquier, who died in 1292. He died knowing he was the last. In between there were around 450 troubadours, all male, along with at least a couple dozen trobaritz (women).

The troubadours (and their female counterparts) were songwriters and performers. They wrote their own songs, lyrics and music, and performed them. The lyrics are marvelous stand-alone poetry in their own right. Indeed they are considered among the best poetry of the European Middle Ages. They have an influence on Western poetry that lasts to the present day (e.g. on such disparate poets as Dante and Ezra Pound, to name two.)

The troubadours and trobaritz performed their songs in the castles of the highest nobles, in the inns and taverns of the lowest of the nobles’ lowest subjects, anywhere they could find an audience. There were other performers of their songs, the jongleurs. These jongleurs only performed others work. They created none of their own. Indeed the music scene of that day was similar to ours.

The troubadours and trobaritz came from all walks of life. Many were from the noble class, many came from the poorest classes. They made their living in various ways. Those who were nobles were their own source of income, others were hired by the nobles to be their entertainers, others worked independently, traveling from town to town plying their trade. In all there are about 2500 known poems, though only 300 or so survive with their music.

The land they lived in was called Occitania. The language they spoke (and wrote in) was Occitan. Occitania was not a distinct country, more like a region. It constituted what is now the southern half of modern day France. Occitania was not united politically, but consisted of various independent duchies and other small political jurisdictions. It was united only by culture and language. Occitan is a Romance Language, and was formed from several languages, though primarily French and Catalan. It still survives as a separate language, though only barely.

There is much more I can say, but I want to keep this introduction short. For anyone who wants to know more about these incredible people and their wondrous land, there are many available sources—books, journals, web sites, and so on—to learn from. The best for sure, without any doubt, are the numerous CD’s and records that contain their songs—the music and the poems this music is set to. That’s where I started, so many years ago.

Notice

Please read this before you proceed.

The poems in this novel are translations from the original Occitan. These translations were made by various people. Some are presented in the original form in which I found them; others were changed by me to fit with the situation in the novel in which the poem appears. Two poems were completely rewritten by me, following the presentation of the original (chapters 8 and 16). For information about all of the above, including where I found the poems, names of translators, copyright and permissions information, and so on, please consult the Rights and Permissions section at the end of this novel. All poems I used, both those changed and unchanged (except the two I rewrote), are collected in an Appendix, which appears between the story and the rights section.

Chapter 1

The dark clouds hovered in the night sky in a large formless mass, all meshed together, each grappling the other, all intertwined in an overbearing presence so massive it blotted out the earth beneath, and for sure any light that tried to escape from the stars and the moon they were covering. Suddenly a dim line seeped along the horizon in a gentle white that set the clouds apart from the land. Slowly, like a sharp hand reaching up in greeting, the sun cracked from the earth in a sharp red light that sped across the clouds and poured over everything beneath. As the sun showed more and more of itself by gradually breaking the bounds of the horizon in its climb up the sky, the clouds became more distinct, more fluffy, whiter and grander. Below, on the land, formless shapes began to appear out of the darkness. They were indistinct, ominous, carrying in their mysterious formlessness a determined refusal to identify themselves.

The shepherd, walking down the road towards the east, towards where the sun had been giving birth to itself, had seen it all before. He knew what the shapes would soon show themselves to be—trees, bushes, rocks, the line of the road, hills, mountains, hovels, and, yes, soon his coveted sheep. All were familiar sights and he paid them little mind.

Until he stopped at an unfamiliar sight. Small lumps appeared far away on the road, just where it climbed up a small rise. He looked closer, unsure what he was looking at. They seemed like little mounds of earth erupting from the dust of the road itself. It was still not light enough and they weren’t close enough to reveal more.

What? Has someone dug holes in the road and piled up the dirt behind? he wondered in confusion, trying to figure out why anyone would want to do that.

As the sun rose higher he could see just a little more in this silent dimness and to his amazement realized they were slowly moving towards him. He trudged forward, expecting the mystery to be explained soon.

Now the sun had risen completely above the low line of hills beyond, bathing everything in its bright, nurturing rays. The shepherd could barely see through the brightness, so intense was it, his eyes stunned by that intensity. The moving lumps were coming at him through the light as if the light itself spawned these creatures from the dust of the road and brought them to life.

Now he could see more than indistinct lumps, more than simple movements. The lumps had parts, each part with its own up and down or side to side motion, each motion making its own particular arc in the air. A long thick shape formed out of the front of each lump and kept bobbing up and down. Another shape rose straight up from its middle and bounced up and down in response. The lump was held up by slender sticks that swished over the road like waves of grain blowing in a gentle breeze, four to each lump. As they made their way towards him the shepherd heard dull thuds coming from the road beneath the lumps. He began to realize what they were. The sun arched higher, the angle dulling the brightness, giving more distinct form to the figures, the dust swirling around them and the light bathing them giving way to colors and angles and figures until finally out of it all emerged the formidable shapes of horses and the men that rode on them.

The horses were mostly brown, sturdy breeds that could carry a man for miles, for days even, with patience and steadiness. The men, in contrast, were more colorful, with caps of bright green, red, yellow felt or with helmets of shiny steel glinting in the sunlight, above equally colorful tunics, breeches, capes, all colors bright, all colors different, yet meshing together into an eye-catching unit. Those with helmets also had chain mail, covered by thick cloaks. Those with the felt hats only had the cloaks. Yet all of them had swords by their sides, hanging from belts and down their legs, shiny rods which they had rubbed up and down with rage coated on oil, silent testaments to the awareness that without warning death could come out of the thin air around them, with the resulting necessity to defend themselves against it.

The shepherd noticed that on the other side of each rider, attached either to himself, or slung over his shoulder, or hanging from his saddle, was a musical instrument, either a viol, a psalter, but in most cases a harp. It was a startling contrast in possessions that left the shepherd mystified.

As they passed they paid him no mind, each rider intent on the road ahead, each lost in his own thoughts, each uninterested in the presence of a lowly shepherd. Except the last rider. He was dressed in mail, with a helmet on his head, but open so his face could be seen. Instead of fingering his sword, as one would expect from one so dressed, he was strumming a harp, one end of it wedged against the bottom of his left shoulder, the other, wider, end, held in place by his extended left arm, his fingers tenderly gripping the wood. With his right arm he softly strummed the strings, loud enough only for himself to hear, while singing whispered words only his ears could pick up. As he passed the shepherd, he looked at him and nodded with a happy smile as he mouthed to himself his silent song.

The shepherd looked down and watched the horses’ hooves strike the road, almost like the singer as his finger plucked the strings of his harp. The hooves threw up small puffs of dust behind them, scraping them off the dirt of the road. The sunlight hit the flying grains of earth, turning them into small, glinting showers of light.

In a moment the men and horses disappeared into the small woods the shepherd himself had walked through not that long before. He turned and resumed his journey over the road. The sun was getting higher in the sky and now the natural light of the day was taking over. He could clearly see the fields and the sheep in them that were his goal for the day.

Some time later, so long it was hard for him to tell, the shepherd came upon a large group of pack horses and the drably clad, dust-covered men who walked beside them. The animals clearly belonged to the horsemen and carried their possessions.

Unlike the riders, the men tending these horses were common laborers like himself, so the shepherd felt brave enough to address one of them. Who were those riders I saw pass me by some time ago? he asked.

Troubadours, the man answered as he passed by without stopping, pulling on his horse, the lead one of his pack.

Ah, troubadours!

There’s a gathering of them at Puivert, the man said, looking back, where they’re to meet from all over Occitania, then travel together to Castile.

Yes Puivert, the shepherd nodded knowingly. He looked at the line of hills to the north. At the top of the far western end, the highest of the hills, he could just see it, the Castle of Puivert, high atop its perch, overseeing the rolling plains below.

The shepherd smiled. There’s going to be a lot of singing and carrying-on up there tonight. He turned and continued on his way.

Chapter 2

Isn’t that a sight! Piere Rogier exclaimed. He was looking at the long stream of people, horses, carts, baggage trains, knights on horses and soldiers on foot, all kinds of human travelers crowding the long road leading up to the castle sitting on top of the western end of the ridge they were approaching. How are they all going to fit up there?

Peire d’Alvernha smiled. There’s plenty of room around the castle. It’s a big, flat hilltop. The castle’s only at the western end. Plenty of room to the east of it. Those that don’t get in will find a spot to pitch a tent or just throw some old rags on the ground to sleep on, if that’s all they have.

I hope there’s enough grass in the area for all the horses and cattle.

There’ll always be grass for them, Alvernha said with a laugh. This is lush countryside.

As long as the local peasants don’t chase them off their lands, Cossezen said.

You know they can’t. They’re guests of the lord.

Who is the lord of Puivert?

Bernart de Congost.

He’s got to be powerful. Look at that castle and the land around it, that hill they’re on and the countryside below surrounding it.

The road they were on was bringing them slowly closer and closer to the crowds streaming up to the castle. They had left the woods far behind, a half league or so, and they were passing through fields brimming with the crowded stalks of flowing wheat. It was the beginning of August, so the stalks were starting to get tall, their ends waving in the morning breeze becoming more feathery, filling up with the growing seeds inside them. The troubadours approached a line of hills angling off to their right—high hills, almost mountains, all connected in one jagged ridge that marched away from them to the northeast. The hills were covered with trees, thick and clumpy, seemingly impassible except for the western end, where the ridge stopped, where the castle sat. The castle, its gray walls bearing the full light of the sun, was surrounded by a large open area, the entire end of the ridge, bereft of trees, the lord of the immense grassy hill atop which it sat. Obviously there were trees on this hill also at one time, but they were long since gone, having made way for the castle and its need for open space around it.

Their road met with another road, dusty but narrower than theirs, which had been following the bottom of the ridge. Their road absorbed this other road and they turned westward, to follow the hills to the castle. At the bottom of the bare castle hill, a road, still some ways ahead of them, split off, first traveling up the side of the hill towards the east, away from the castle, then turning west around a wide swinging curve to make its slow crawl up to the large open area in front of the castle’s main gates. From where they were down below they could see the castle, but not this large area yet. The road they were on continued to the west, past the curve of the castle path that was far above them, until it reached the end of the line of the hills. Then it turned right, towards the north, where it met the narrower castle road, before turning west again for a ways before then curving north around the end of the castle hill. All of the crowds of people making their way to the castle came from this direction, from around the corner, from the north. They were the only party approaching from the east.

There were five of them. They were the five horsemen the shepherd had earlier seen being spawned from the sunlight. All of them were individuals, all separate men who had come together with one purpose, none of them was the leader of this pack, though clearly some had more stature in the world than the others.

The oldest, and most notable, was Peire Alvernha. At the moment he was considered the most famous of all the troubadours in the world, though that was soon to change. He was well traveled, having been all over Occitania and Castile. That’s how he made his living, entertaining any court that would have him—and many did.

Two friends were together—Peire Rogier and Raimbaut de Aurenga. Peire was very troubled at the moment, afflicted by a newly and sudden lost love. He was the principal troubadour at the court of Ermengard, countess and ruler of Narbonne. He was personally close to her and entertained her daily. The rumors swirled around the city that their friendship was too personal. Of course there was nothing wrong with that, as it added spice to the situation. Though he was just a troubadour and a lowly knight, while she ruled a country, that’s what troubadours did, pay court to women above them in life. It was also a given that nothing would come of it. The countess, who was not married—and never would be—was content with the usual way these relationships worked out, he singing and paying court to his lady love, with that being the limit of their relationship. For him, however, his contentment faded. He wanted more, as, which so often happens in these situations, he had fallen seriously in love with her. And, as also so often happens in these situations, this love wasn’t being reciprocated. Eventually the frustration got to him and he felt he had to leave. At the moment he was still nursing a broken heart, a heart broken from losing a love (though it also meant losing an income). He made sad songs about it, asking questions to which there was no answer.

Rogier took refuge in the court of Raimbaut de Aurenga, near Montpellier, a city farther to the east of Puivert than Narbonne. Raimbaut didn’t have to travel to make an income. He was his own income, ruling Aurenga, which he inherited from his father. For all that he was just as notable a troubadour as Rogier.

Two more rounded out the group—Cossezen, from Lombardy, and Bernart de Sayssac. They were not as well known as the other three, but they made a living from it just the same. Cossezen was unusual. Besides going only by Cossezen, a nickname and the only name he acknowledged, he was one of the few troubadours that came from outside Occitania, this country that lay along the northwestern Mediterranean and part of the Atlantic coast north of the Pyrenees (an area that in later years would become southern France). Despite his origins he was still considered a troubadour, since he composed in the Occitan language and lived there. That’s all that mattered.

Rogier stood up in his saddle and looked back, staring hard down the road they had just come. I believe we’re the only people coming from the east.

No, there’s more, Sayssac said. I know that for a fact.

Rogier looked at him skeptically. You don’t say? How do you know?

It’s for sure. I just know it.

Well then, do you know who they are?

Our baggage train.

The others laughed, even Rogier. Master of the obvious, you are, he said. It’s reflected in your songs too, he added with a lighthearted smile. The others laughed, Raimbaut even playfully pushing Sayssac.

The butt of the joke nonchalantly shrugged. That’s how I make my living.

Rogier shook his head. Just look at them, he said, regarding the road ahead. They were getting to the junction with the castle road and the mass of people turning onto it. Such a lot. It never ends.

Maybe being around so many people will do you good, Cossezen said.

Rogier gave him an irritated look. He knew what the Italian was referring to and didn’t appreciate it.

What do you expect, Alvernha said with a laugh. It’s a wedding party for the daughter of a king, going to be wed to another king, while being accompanied by her mother, the most powerful woman in the world. Put all that together and you have hordes of people of all sorts, madly crowding together as if the blades of grass in a field suddenly popped into living human beings.

Rogier nodded. Yeah, I guess you’re right.

So, Peire, Aurenga said, looking at Alvernha. You’re our source of knowledge about all this, as you’re the one who sent the news around to us. Remind me again. Who is supposed to be meeting here before they all trudge down to Castile?

Alvernha sighed. Oh you knights, all you poets, all you care about are your songs, while you quickly forget about everything else. He looked at his companions with a sympathetic gaze, one that could be reflected upon himself, if such things were possible at his age. All the same, despite his understanding, he said, Once again I will go through it all.

Please do, old man, Sayssac said with a laugh. Tell us again.

Alvernha smiled. Once there was a powerful king, he began solemnly. He ruled vast territories—the country of England, many duchies in France….

Spare the dramatics, Aurenga said with a laugh. We want information, not a song. The others laughed.

Okay, Alvernha said, smiling himself. Eleanor, the daughter of Henry II of England and his wife, Eleanor of Acquitaine, is getting married to Alfonso VIII, king of Castile. The marriage will be in Castile. As you can expect, the wedding party traveling there is huge. After all, the daughter of Europe’s most powerful king herself means a vast accompaniment of people. Then add her mother, who is traveling with her, with all her accompaniments. On top of that you have the Castilian representatives of Alfonso, as well as others in Europe who want to join in. You’re going to have a big group of people indeed. They’re all converging on Puivert.

I hope we can find a place to stay, Sayssac said, looking up at the castle. Sounds like a lot of powerful people will be needing a place to stay. Do you think they’re going to find room for a bunch of troubadours?

Hey, we’re the entertainment, Aurenga said, playfully slapping the back of his hand on the other’s arm. They’re for sure going to find a place for us.

Sayssac smiled. I hope you’re right.

Speaking of troubadours, Rogier broke in, how many of us are going to be there?

Alvernha thought for a moment, looking as if he was counting to himself. Every few seconds a finger on the hand holding the reins of his horse would press the leather harder, as if another name in the man’s mind came to the fore.

He shook his head. Maybe ten or so. Maybe more even.

Ten or so? Aurenga asked, a bit irritated. You don’t know?

Alvernha shrugged. You don’t know for sure with us. You know that. We’re not the most reliable people on the planet—and with the way people travel, all the delays, all the dangers…. His voice trailed off.

Well, then, another said in frustration, give me names. Who do you think are supposed to be here? We can count them up.

Ventadorn….

Ah, good, Rogier broke in. He’ll be a good one to hear sing. The others nodded in satisfaction.

Brive, from the Limousin…Ribas…Gausmar…Sagna…Bornelh….

Ah, ha! Aurenga cried. Your rival.

Alvernha looked at him with a bit of disdain. Rival? No, we’re not rivals. Not at all.

The others looked at each other and laughed. Not what I hear, Cossezen said. The word is he’s becoming as famous around Occitania as you.

Someday he’ll even be more so, Aurenga broke in.

He’s a good troubadour, Alvernha said, brushing him off. He writes good lyrics and makes good music. It’s what he’s supposed to do.

He flicked his horse’s reins and began to speed ahead of the others. It was clear he didn’t want to talk further about it. The others looked at each other with a smile. And has a retinue a prince would envy, Aurenga said with a laugh, while we have to travel alone, with a jongleur to lead our pack horses.

The sun was getting higher in the sky. By now the heat of the August morning was beginning to build up, rendering the dust of the road thicker and more penetrating. Off to the left the land dropped from the road in a broad sweep that ended far away at the base of a low line of tree covered hills. It was good farmland, carpeted with the waving, feathery stalks of wheat that made this a rich land and the Congosts a rich family. For a while the troubadours rode in silence.

Not for long, as in no time they reached the busy junction with the road that crawled up the hill to the castle. Finally they were at a road they no longer had to themselves. Hordes of jostling people were crowding together—horses with men on them mingled with men on foot. They were mixed in with floods of carts and wagons pulled by shaggy, sullen horses, who were being cursed at by disreputable men in drab, ragged clothes sitting atop the wagons flicking their reins or yanked along by equally disreputable men who trudged slightly ahead of them. Most of the other people who walked along the road carried large packs on their backs, many hunched over from the weight. Other men strode along with helmets on their heads, chainmail covering their bodies, shields on their arms and swords by their sides. Their colors were different from the drabness of the others, but not much more exciting, as it reflected the steely grayness of the military man. Others walked along with less care, smaller packs on their backs and more colors in their raiment, though none were particularly bright. There were blues, reds, greens, yellows, and so on to be seen on their clothing, on the hats they wore, on the purses slung by their sides. Many had a pack horse they were leading along—not sitting on as there was no room for them to sit. These were the tradesmen, the peddlers, the shoe repairmen, the scribes, men of all the different trades that had to be wherever people on the move congregated. Above, high above it seemed, but mixed in with their mass were the men on horses. Many were richly arrayed, with finer cloth for their clothes, and brighter, more penetrating, more eye-catching colors. Those horsemen with military raiments had brighter helmets, many with colorful plumes, brighter chainmail, greaves on their legs that shined just as brightly, with colorful shields covered with intricate, complicated designs, and with swords on their sides that gleamed proudly in the sunlight.

The pace of the moving mass slowed the closer it approached the junction—until it finally slowed to a crawl once the junction itself had been reached. The main road was much wider than the road up the hill to the castle, so when the same mass of people had to force themselves into a smaller space something had to give and that something was the tempo of the march along the road. Not to mention the personal space of each one in that march, with the lessening space forcing greater inertia on everyone involved. It was no surprise there was a flood of curses being passed through the crowd—curses of men at their horses, curses of men at other men competing for space, curses even of men at themselves. A few blows were even to be seen—blows of men beating horses’ rumps, blows in the form of men pushing other men out of the way. As the road ascended, matters began to settle down as the travelers learned to better deal with the loss of space.

There were quite a few women on the road of course—not nearly as many as the men, but enough to make their presence noticeable. Their clothes were more flowing than the men’s, their heads more covered, but their colors matched their station in life just as well as the men’s. Unlike the men, they kept their curses and blows, of they had any, to themselves. As a result they exercised a small, unfortunately too small, calming influence on the mass of people making their way through the junction and up the hill.

Alvernha was waiting for them when the four laggards reached the junction. Let’s wait here for our baggage horses, he said. I want to make sure we all stay in that mess, he looked at the confusion on the road, together.

The others nodded, completely in agreement. All the same they stayed on their horses, except Cossezen, who slowly slipped off his horse and sat on a pile of logs stacked neatly alongside the road. Enough of that saddle for a while, he said.

The others silently stared at the road up which they had just come. None of them were impatient, for they knew it would be some time before their baggage train would reach them. After a few moments Sayssac moved his horse closer to the main road, close enough almost to be jostled by those squeezed to its edge. He took his psalter from around his neck and began strumming a soft tune. It had a noticeable effect, as those on the road close enough to hear became calmer, their curses slowing, the blows lowering into mild waves of the arms. A few even looked up at him and smiled. Sayssac nodded and smiled back—the same smile he gave to the shepherd, though one more silent one as he was not mouthing words, but only playing. One or two of the better dressed travelers even gave him a coin, which Sayssac put into his pocket with a salute to the giver.

Look at that one, Rogier said, pointing to a bright and richly dressed, white bearded distinguished man sitting on a magnificent horse. His vestments—and vestments they were as he was obviously a prelate of some sort—were of the finest quality, covered with thick golden designs that gleamed in the sunlight. Everything about him was perfectly rendered, cloth smooth, not a wrinkle anywhere to be seen. Even his horse was richly adorned with a cloth covering its entire body above the legs, with the same golden design as the man’s clothes. There were quite a few people in his party, some also on horses, others walking along leading the horses of his baggage train. They also had the same design on their clothes—though the cloth was of a decidedly more inferior quality and the color of the design was more drab, indeed more on the yellow side, and certainly not something that gleamed in the sunlight.

As the last of the men leading a team of pack horses passed, Aurenga leaned over to him and asked who was that distinguished man. Archbishop of Bordeaux, came the answer.

The troubadours looked at each other with cynical looks. Do you think he’ll be allowed to stay in the castle? Rogier finally asked. The others all laughed heartily.

There was a reason for their laughter. It was rumored that the Congost family were secret sympathizers of the Cathars, if not actual members. The Cathars were beginning to be looked on as heretics in the eyes of the Catholic Church. They preached a faith at odds with the tenets of traditional Christianity. They were more severe in their asceticism, denied the sacraments, and had many other beliefs so contrary there was beginning to be talk among the Catholic Church’s leaders of suppressing the Cathars, even by severe punishment.

All the same, as with many other Cathar sympathizers in this area of Occitania, the Congosts still outwardly practiced the Catholic faith—going to Mass, receiving the sacraments, and so on. They knew it was better for them to do so.

Aurenga looked east, down the road they had come. Occasional people were traveling on it, the normal traffic—an old farmer with a bundle of wood on his hunched over back, a young boy pushing ahead of him a handful of cows, a wagon filled with peaches newly plucked from orchards in the next town. He didn’t see what he wanted to see—their baggage train. He looked at the others.

Taking their time, aren’t they?

Alvernha shrugged. They’re loaded down. There’s a lot of them bunched together. Usually we travel alone. We go faster that way.

Probably right, Aurenga said. He turned back to the procession passing by. Suddenly his eyes brightened and his face lit up in a smile. In the middle of the drab waggoners and trudgers was a flash of dark blue tunic, covering yellow pants astride a dark brown horse. A red hat, slashed with a white feather topped off the colorful dress. The face was a familiar one, a curly brown beard ringing it around, slashed across by a straight moustache. The eyes were darting around him, passing from one person walking on the road beneath him to the other. The lips were pursed, for the man was whistling a tune only he could possibly hear in the midst of the busy road.

Bernart! Bernart! Aurenga cried out to the man.

The others snapped their heads in the direction he was calling to. When they saw the object of Aurenga’s attention they all smiled and started calling his name out to him also. Rogier and Cossezen even began waving.

It took some time for this object of attention to hear them. The confusion of the mass of people moving slowly over the road, the sounds of creaking wagons, neighing horses, clomping hooves, yelling, cursing people, made it hard for a person’s attention to be caught by others sitting off to its calmer sides.

Eventually Bernart Ventadorn finally noticed. His lips stopped their whistling and instead began yelling back at them. Piere! Raimbaut! he cried as he waved at them. Suddenly he stopped and looked down at the people trudging on the road around him. He was in the middle of the throng and it was going to be difficult to get out of it. A wagon passed by and he slowed so he could slip behind it, directing his horse to slide along the narrow space between its back and the people walking behind.

Soon he managed to get off the road to reach his fellow troubadours, who were watching him. When he reached them Ventadorn quickly jumped off his horse and the others did likewise.

He reached Alvernha first and clapped him on the shoulders. The greeting was returned. Ventadorn moved from one to the other, each in turn, repeating the hugs and receiving the same in return. Old friends had met up on the road again.

So you are going to make the festivities, aren’t you? Alvernha said with a smile.

Ventadorn laughed. How can I miss it! he cried. It’s the biggest festivity in Occitania.

Except the wedding’s to be in Castile, Aurenga said.

So what! The party’s already started! Ventadorn said with a wave at the road. See all that. It’s been like that since Poitiers.

Alvernha nodded in understanding. I’m not surprised. Get all these people together. If they’re not going to a war or a funeral, then they’re going to a wedding or a coronation and it’s going to be fun times.

Did you start with them at Poitiers?

Ventadorn nodded. From the very beginning."

Oh, yes, I’m sure, Arenga said with a knowing laugh. I’m sure you had a personal invitation from a very powerful lady. The others laughed, for they had all heard the stories.

Ventadorn looked sheepish. No, no. I assure you. I’d be here anyway. You know the call went out to many troubadours to join the party, not just me.

Still doesn’t mean you couldn’t have been personally invited.

I’m not saying anything more, Ventadorn said with determination. I’m here just like you and that’s it.

Cossezen leaned towards him with a wink. So have you…uh…you know…gotten to know her better?

Ventadorn gave him an offended look. That’s the Queen of England you’re talking about, he said with a huff.

Yes, but it’s said you’re her personal troubadour.

She has lots of troubadours around her. This is Eleanor of Acquitaine you’re talking about. She’s our biggest supporter in all of Europe.

Yes, but….

Enough said!

Is she here? Alvernha broke in, looking at the crowd on the road.

I think she’s at the castle already. I’m not sure. I stayed an extra day in Toulouse. I saw some friends.

Aurenga looked at Ventadorn’s horse, noting how much was bundled up and laying across its back. So, you’re traveling light, are you?

Ventadorn smiled. I have everything I need with me. What I don’t have I can buy, he said with a shrug, or get from the retinue.

Where’s your armor?

With the retinue. He clapped the hilt of his sword. Except this, of course.

I saw you were whistling, Rogier said. Anything in particular?

Yes! Ventadorn said eagerly, his eyes brightening in excitement. It’s a new song I’m working on. I think I just finished the second stanza. Let me sing it to you. With that he began singing, slowly, intently, the singing voice making the words pierce the air with emotion. The others listened intently.

When I see her, it's visible in my

eyes, my face, my color,

because I tremble with fear like a

leaf in the wind.

I have no more sense than a babe,

so dominated am I by love;

and for a man so vanquished,

a lady should have great solicitude.

They all nodded when he finished. A couple of them even clapped.

You sound like you have a little anger in your voice, Aurenga said. I’m not sure the words merit it.

Not fair! Ventadorn cried out in irritation. The song isn’t finished yet. You can’t start criticizing it now. You have to wait until it’s finished.

Unless you wanted advice how to proceed further.

Hell, Raimbaut, I’m not asking for advice, he said with a laugh. I’m just letting you know what to expect tonight, when we all sing our songs.

Aurenga smiled. Well, you better hurry, if all the further you are is just the one stanza. Tonight will be here before you know it.

Ventadorn smiled. Then I’ll go up last. There should be plenty of us here for tonight, so I’ll have plenty of time.

Ah! Here they are, Alvernha exclaimed in relief. We can get going again.

Their horses, with the team of jongleurs and handlers leading them had almost reached them. Both the handlers and horses looked like they could use a rest, so the troubadours agreed to stay a few more moments to let the horses graze and drink from a nearby stream. The handlers needed just as much of a rest as the horses, but instead of eating and drinking, they just laid down in the grass for a quick nap. After all, they had such an early start this morning and needed the extra sleep.

So, who else is coming that you know of? Alvernha asked Ventadorn, looking at all the people on the road. Any other troubadours traveling with you in that mass?

I guess they’re somewhere in there, Ventadorn replied. Let’s see, Brive is coming, de Ribas, Sausmar, de Sagna, a few others I think. A lot of them went ahead of me.

And…uh…Bornelh? Alvernha said with some hesitation.

Ventadorn smiled knowingly. He’s sure to be the last to arrive. You know how he is."

Alvernha looked away. Yeah, I guess I do.

Suddenly Ventadorn smiled, a thought coming to him. I just remembered I have a funny story. Another troubadour coming is Peire de Monzó.

Monzó, Alvernha repeated, trying to recall the name. Monzó… Monzó…de Monzó….

The Castilian.

Oh, yes, right, the Castilian who says he’s a troubadour.

As long as he makes songs in our language.

Yes, yes, yes. He’s fine. You know we include them.

Anyway, it happened when we passed through Toulouse and were guests of Raymond V, their count. Ventadorn paused. He looked to make sure the other troubadours were listening.

Yes, yes, go on, Alvernha said impatiently.

You know the count fancies himself a great poet and songwriter.

Yes, I do know that, Aurenga said with a laugh. Once I had to sit and listen to one of his insufferable songs. The others were sympathetic. More than one of them had the same experience.

So one evening, the last evening indeed, we were all gathered around late at night in the count’s chambers. Most of the guests had gone and just the count, a few of his closest retainers, and some of us troubadours were there. We each took our turn with a short song of our own. All of us had plenty of wine and plenty of food, so we were all acting quite jolly. Finally it was Monzó’s turn. He sang a song named…um, um…I can’t remember. Ventadorn continued, waving off the hesitation with his hand. It doesn’t matter. Anyway, as he was singing, the count became more and more agitated, until finally he stopped Monzó, crying out, ‘You can’t sing that! It’s my song!’ Monzó got very confused, truly looking like he had no idea what the count was talking about. ‘Your song? What do you mean?’ ‘I wrote that song,’ the count said. ‘You know that. I showed you a copy of it yesterday.’ ‘You never showed me any copy. Who writes down their songs? What did you write it on?’ ‘It’s mine.’ Then the count proceeded to sing the song. Most of the words were the same, but the count’s tune was different, though it matched the words just as good as Monzó’s tune matched his words. ‘What does that show?’ Monzó said. ‘All you’re doing is repeating what I did.’ ‘With a new tune?’ ‘So you made up a new tune on the spot.’ ‘How can I make up a new tune so fast?’ ‘If you’re a true troubadour, like you keep claiming you are, you’re supposed to be able to do it.’ ‘I’m not as experienced as you. You’re the professional. I’m not. I’m not as quick.’ And on and on they argued. Nothing was resolved. Neither convinced the other, nor did they us. Ventadorn looked around. So what do you think?

The other troubadours looked at each other and shrugged. Well, Rogier ventured at last, it shouldn’t take that long to learn a song. With that the others chimed in with their own opinions. They debated for a few minutes, without anyone convincing the others until Alvernha exclaimed in frustration, Ach! We’ll never figure it out. One thing I do know is the morning is dragging on and we need to get into that castle soon.

With that he began walking among the handlers of their pack horses, rousing them back to life. In a few moments the horses were gathered together and brought over to the five troubadours.

We’ll stay together until we get to the castle. I’m sure they won’t let us bring our horses in, so they and the handlers will find a spot as close to the castle as possible. Camp there and when we need something we’ll come out to get it.

With that the six troubadours (now including Ventadorn) joined the general confusion on the road, followed by their baggage train. The troubadours kept up a lively conversation among themselves all the way up the long road leading to the castle. Alvernha kept prodding Ventadorn to sing more of his new song, but the other was coyly avoiding saying—and singing—anything further.

At the top, once they reached the castle gates, it was indeed clear they wouldn’t be able to bring their horses in. There was such a crush of people trying to get in and even from afar they could see the horses being turned away. Only those allowed in were the horses of the notables. So the troubadours, knowing they weren’t notable enough, set about searching for a suitable camping space. The area around the castle, luckily, was expansive and conveniently flat, so even with the vast numbers of people coming in they still felt confident they would find a good place. Only how close was the question. Eventually they found one to their satisfaction and, while the handlers began preparing the area for themselves and their horses, the troubadours began gathering together what possessions they absolutely needed to keep with them—instruments, change of clothes for one night, money, and whatever possessions they wanted to have. After tying them up in bulky bundles, all six slung the bundles over their shoulders and set off for the castle, which was quite a bit away. The handlers had offered to carry them, but the troubadours refused as they already had enough to do.

What a mess, Rogier spat out as they plunged into the crush of people thronging around the gate. They were held back by a row of soldiers of the guard. One soldier, their leader obviously, was checking a long list to make sure the person standing before him was to be among those allowed inside. I just hope that officious looking fellow lets us inside. I sure don’t want to carry this big thing all that way back. He shifted his big bundle from one shoulder to the other with a sad sigh.

Eventually they reached the list keeper and Alvernha, as the designated leader of the six, presented himself smartly and announced their names. The guard checked the list, taking his time as the troubadours impatiently, and very nervously, waited. Not on that list, the guard said to the troubadours dismayed groans. He put it on a small table before him and took up another. He scanned through, paused at a spot, then looked up. Are you Piere d’Alvernha?

Yes! Yes! Alvernha exclaimed excitedly.

The guard looked at them with a stern look that wiped Alvernha’s smile away. There’s supposed to be four other troubadours with you.

Oh, him, Alvernha said, looking at Ventadorn. "We met him at the road junction. He’s part of Eleanor’s retinue.

The guard looked at him suspiciously. So…you’re….

Bernart Ventadorn.

Which Eleanor?

The queen.

The guard picked up the other list and looked it over again. It didn’t take him long as all he needed to do was look at the beginning of the list. Ah, here it is, he said with some surprise. He motioned all six to enter.

So where do we go? Aurenga asked.

The guard pointed to one of the square towers set in one of the walls not too far away. That’s where all the troubadours are staying, even you, he said, looking at Ventadorn. There’s a man at the bottom who will lead you to your room.

As the troubadours made to go, Ventadorn said to the guard. I have to say, this is highly unusual, being stopped like this at a castle’s gate. Usually, except during a time of war, people just come and go as they please.

The guard laughed. These are unusual times. Everybody’s gathering here before the whole troop sets off for Castile. You won’t believe all the notables who are staying here—and of course they’re not coming alone, as you may expect. They all need to have their assistants with them at all times—the queen of England and her daughter need practically an army of them waiting on their persons.

Yes, I knew that, and can see it for sure. So who are all these people besides the royalty?

The guard sighed and began reciting mechanically, as if he had said it too many times already. The archbishops of Bordeaux and Toledo; the bishops of Palencia, Segovia, Burgos, Poitiers, Saintes, Perigeux; Rudolph de Faye, Seneschal of Acquitaine; Elios, Count of Perigord; the viscounts of Chatelherault and Bordeaux; Jaufre de….

All right, all right. I get your point, Ventadorn said with a laugh. And they’re all going to fit in here, are they?

This is a big castle, the guard said, but not the biggest in the country for sure. Enough of these people’s assistants will be staying at inns in the nearby villages.

Ventadorn started to go. But tell me something. Why are a bunch of singers being allowed in, when so many other necessary people are being turned away?

I have no idea, the guard said with a perplexed