The Plague of Provence

By Nina Ansley

A page-turner of colorful intrigue, passion and honor as one mans life interweaves through one of the most interesting times in European history. Compelling, dynamic, action-fi lled story with gorgeous scenes, suspenseful episodes! Certain poignant aspects of the plot-line still haunt me after the read.
Pamela Jaye Smith, internationally known story consultant to the Hollywood film industry.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 14, 2010
• ISBN: 9781465322807

Nina Ansley

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Book preview

Prologue

I am Alari, courier for the honorable Count of Beaufort, Guillaume II. I have come to you, crossing the centuries, riding the trail of time, to point out a verifiable fact you may have forgotten in the rush of your daily lives. Your contemporary travails are a repetition of history wearing different faces and facades.

Come back to fourteenth-century France with me. You will see for yourself how the much-imagined mightiness of men soon meets misery. You will behold how a war that is born from ancient grudges where civil blood makes civil hands unclean never really ends. You will witness these luckless events through the senses, spirit, and mind of Count Guillaume’s firstborn son, Raimond de Turenne, who is determined to escape the daily cup of gall Destiny had given him—his fate being the ripple effect of an event that happened long before he took up life on earth. A French countess named Eleanor of Aquitaine, after the annulment of her marriage to a French monarch, married a Plantaganet king, Henry II. Her lands went into her king‘s domains. Albeit Queen Eleanor eventually left her king‘s bed and died in France, Henry and every English king for two hundred years fought to hold on to Aquitaine, Normandy, Brittany, Maine, Anjou, Gascony, Poitou, and Touraine in Western France. This ancient grudge shackled Raimond and dragged him into a life of what—villain or victim? How did he become such a bad legend in Provence, you ask.

Considering how his angry, defeated foes hired rumormongers to spread an unfavorable story for the purpose of unhorsing a rebel knight, I challenge you to walk the walk and see for yourself the breed of knight Raimond de Turenne was in truth.

By the year of our lord 1375, knighthood was no longer in flower. Christendom was no longer Christian. Wedding was added to war as tools for conquest of land. Wealth-producing land was the medieval bottom line, as you folk of today like to say. Back then, the big question was, will England take over the whole realm of France and bleed the French of their birthrights? The crushing crux of the conflict—will we be forced by men of greed and ambition to merge as one kingdom or can we remain two?

Many Frenchmen lay down with the English, by betrothal or by betrayal. Unrealistic expectations wore the crown of split loyalties—a breeding ground for war. Defeated French aristocrats became poor as guildsmen. Merchants paraded the cobbled streets in more finery than knights and their ladies.

Raimond had one major advantage: his uncle, Pierre Roger de Beaufort. You may know of him as Pope Gregory XI—the Avignon pontiff who moves the Holy See back to Rome. Right after you meet Raimond, you will see that this move becomes the roadblock to the recapture of Turenne, his mother’s dowry land.

I pray you, come with me. I promise you will experience the frustrating, heart-breaking, outrageous horse-trading adventures of a knight questionably privileged to serve the royal courts of Paris and Naples.

Yea verily, I do indeed know that hired historians claimed Raimond de Turenne drowned in the Rhone River, but he did no such thing. No need to take a courier‘s word for it. See for yourself.

Chapter 1

As the sun reached its zenith, Courier Alari pulled the knight out of the jousting competition near Avignon. Your Papa says go with all speed to Les Baux, and stop your sister’s outrageous behavior!

Lifting the visor of his jousting helm, Raimond glared down at the courier. Now? Just when I was called to the lists?

Alari nodded vigorously. "Yes. Now. Very important. Your sister’s betrothed is on his way now! She refuses to consider him. Or even see him. She’s taken up with another. Of her own choosing! This could ruin your whole family. King Charles might even call you traitors to the Crown!"

Could his sister really do that? Cause every Beaufort alive and yet to be born to be condemned by the king? According to the courier, that’s exactly what would happen if Lord Raimond failed to change Lady Jeanne’s mind. Count Guillaume’s firstborn left the field.

Alari watched Raimond stride toward his warhorse, as his two squires scrambled to keep apace. The courier mounted his horse and began the journey to Beaufort-en-Vallée to report back to Count Guillaume.

Renaud said, My lord, warhorses are not as fast as road horses. Shouldn’t you get out of armor and take a road horse?

"Renaud, never underestimate the endurance of a well-trained destrier! No time for disarming. We go now!"

They galloped south toward Les Baux. When they arrived at the banks of the Durance River, they had to wait for the barge. At the crossover point, the Durance was as wide as the Rhone—and as unyielding. While waiting for the foot traffic to board, Raimond said. Delays! Accursed delays!

Finally on board, he dismounted and tried to work off his irritation by pacing. Impossible! The barge rocked. Other passengers kept their distance from the big iron man in chain mail and partial plate.

Raimond noticed that the horses were panting. We’ve got to find a village with a fountain.

A weather-beaten traveler suggested they go towards Rognonas, due south.

"Merci, bon homme! What is the straightest way to get to Les Baux from Rognonas?"

There be no straight way to Les Baux. Don’t go through Chateaurenard. Market time. Too many people. Stay with me till we reach the first fork in the road. I’ll show you the way to Rognonas.

Raimond scratched his head. Renaud, are you listening—in case I forget? Renaud nodded, and Raimond said, After Rognonas, what?

"Watch for signs that say Graveson, and when you come to another fork in the road, go left. That way goes almost straight down through the Crau, but it’s full of crooks and turns—mostly mule tracks. It’ll slow your horses but not as much as Chateaurenard on a market day. That way will take you to Les Alpilles."

Raimond asked, Is that the chain of mountains just south of St. Rémy? He recalled his father saying they owned a mansion in that town, but he had never been there.

Yes, nodded the traveler. But don’t go there—too far out of your way. Stay on the road you’re on all the way to the foothills of Les Alpilles. It will take you through a pass to the other side and then down to Les Baux.

Go over the mountains? More accursed delays! This would push his horses too hard. He wished Alari had arrived in Avignon earlier.

Finally they went ashore with their mounts. Before they could get on the way, they stopped in the town square at Maillane to refresh the horses. All these stops put Raimond on edge. He was anxious he might be too late to get his sister out of Les Baux and delivered to his sire’s chateau.

When they arrived in the late afternoon, the castle appeared as peaceful as the Provengal countryside. Renaud said, Looks as if all is well here, my lord!

Marcel added, Looks as if your papa worried in vain!

Raimond smirked, Laddies, what we see is not always what we get!

As he dismounted Raimond noticed the sweat glistening on the horses. Go to the livery stables and do some horse trading. He untied his moneybag from his saddle and handed it to Renaud, the eldest squire. Better hire a roan or a palfrey for Lady Jeanne Roger. I intend to take her to Papa when we leave. Oh yes! And tell the stable master that Rondel is not for sale or for hire. My life on the battlefield depends on that warhorse. Give Rondel only the best! I’ll pay for grooming and fodder. We’ll come back for him as soon as possible.

The squires did not question his lordship on that point. Anyone who knew horses would know how much a knight valued his destrier—a sturdy warhorse skilled in combat and sensitive to his rider’s every touch.

Renaud did ask, Think she will go?

Not without a fight—if I know my sister.

Renaud glanced around the bailey and scratched his raven hair. Where are the stables, my lord?

Ask! Raimond spoke sharply. I’ve never been here either.

Want us to wait in the stables?

No. In the courtyard. We may need to get out of here like escaping thieves!

Renaud beckoned to Marcel, and they headed for some stalls attached to the curtain wall of the fortress.

Raimond’s armor clanked as he made his way into the dusty-smelling antechamber of the castle’s great hall. He pushed up his visor and glanced around. There were few visitors, which told him his sister’s castle was not well served or frequented by many knights of wealth. She, a countess? Recently widowed and mother of a princess of this time-honored principality? One would believe many a swain would be here to court her. Her lands and titles would gain her wedded knight automatic entry into the royal courts of Paris and Naples, not to mention the papal courts of Avignon and Rome. Raimond searched for the entry into the hall. He removed his helmet, lowered the visor, and anchored it against his body armor with his left arm.

A guard approached. I see from your armorials you are the firstborn son of Count Beaufort. Is Lady Jeanne-Roger expecting you?

Not that I know of. I’ve come on command of our sire. It is important I see her at once.

Yes, my lord. The guard turned and went through an arched doorway.

The vast dimensions of the barrel vaults dwarfed the people gathered under its rainbow span. Massive stone walls were blackened with decades of chimney smoke. In its earliest days, was this immense hall heated by those old-fashioned hearths located in the center of activities? Raimond noted the time chewed Romanesque style and wondered if this hall was built during the last days of the Roman Empire. Those fine tapestries and heraldic banners of Jeanne Roger’s dowry did little to evoke the ambiance of a Parisian court. This hall had been designed to function as a fortress when pagan darkness lay upon the land. Raimond suspected that the former princes of Orange must have struggled in vain to establish their coveted beautiful life here in Les Baux.

Raimond seethed with anger at his father’s command and his youngest sister’s disobedience. Not intending to stay, he did not pull off his steel gauntlets nor remove the chain-mail coif from his head. He paced as he waited. Doubts pestered him like a swarm of hornets. Great God above! Her betrothed will be in Beaufort any day now! If she refuses to budge, I will be forced to seize her and take her to face Papa. Such a discourteous act violated his sense of chivalry.

Here she comes!

Raimond ignored all courtesies and plunged straight into the attack. "Jeanne Roger! Why in God’s name did you troth yourself to a miscreant and foul traitor? Ai, yai, yai!"

She made no eye contact and said, Come into my hall, dear brother.

Her apparent lack of concern irked Raimond. He had no doubt she had been rehearsing for an attack. Eleven days ago she had sent their father’s courier back to the ancestral chateau with her refusal to obey orders. He raised a bristly black brow and started to speak.

As she turned and walked away from him, he yelled, Turn not your back on me! He dogged her heels as she entered an archway. List to me! How can you be so witless? It was bad enough you recovered so soon after the death of your husband.

As she entered the great hall, not yet looking at him, she retorted, You never showed up for the christening of my infant.

She is going to shunt attack with counterattack.

Under the wax lights of the chandelier her slender hips shimmered with each step of the sinuous walk used by ladies for Parisian court appearances—which the clergy claimed was too suggestive. In her long-sleeved gown of red brocade, she smelled of roses and musk. Her sleek black hair was coiled into tight plaits resembling large glistening jewels—controlled, as befits a widow. The slender gold band of her coronet was studded with large pearls—a visible statement of social and political rank.

Too long have I been on the battlefields!

He jerked his attention back to his task. She will be forced to give all this up if she insists on taking vows with the French turncoat. She will forfeit her French, Sicilian, and Provengal rights of lineage. In exchange for what? A life lived amongst English still more Saxon than Norman French! She will lose her elegance living amongst those uncouth folk.

Feign not innocence, my dear sister! At least you could have given Papa courtesy of notice. Or is it your intention to destroy him?

She turned, lifted her chin, and looked him straight in the eye. They never consult me. Why should I consult them?

Raimond had learned from the courier’s report that Jeanne Roger had never forgiven her parents for arranging her marriage to the ill-mannered Sicilian. Now for a second time they were trying to force a Sicilian on her. How could they? Sending me to treat her like a naughty child will only intensify her rebellion. If they ever do the same to me I might do worse than rebel! He felt twinges of sympathy for Jeanne Roger. But, like it or not, he was obligated to obey his father’s orders. Just as his sister was obligated to marry the Sicilian count.

For God’s sake, do try to be a good girl. I am desperate to raise funds for my campaign in Turenne. I really need to be in Avignon right now. If you know not—

"No desire have I to know! And I ask you to leave me be s’il vous plait."

"Well, by God’s beard, I cannot leave you be! To take a traitor in wedlock?"

Jeanne unexpectedly took her brother’s arm. Come, Raimond! I want you to meet someone special. Apparently startled by the cold steel of his gloved hand, she seemed on the verge of withdrawing her grasp.

He took note of the tight set of her jaw. He thought it in the best interest of the Beaufort Dynasty to allow her to lead him through the guests clustered in the hall.

As they approached a chess table with only one player, Raimond sucked in his breath and froze. Oh, God, no! Guy de Chauvigny—the Poitevin knight who fought with the English during the sack of Limoges! The sight of that turncoat brought forth a flood of bad memories of that horrifying day. He remembered how the English foot soldiers fought with their battle-axes and long knives. Blood flowed everywhere. Guy de Chauvigny and his liege lord, Louis de Harcourt, watched the ghastly scene as if it were a morality play. Like as not, they probably wagered on who’d win as they watched the French swordsmen clanging swords with England’s doughtiest knights!

Limoges was lost that day. The town had been vulnerable because most of the French knights had been forced to leave to protect their own lands. The bishop had requested the Duke of Berry assign command of defending Limoges fearing an imminent attack on the city by the Black Prince and his troops. At that time, Raimond had been known as Squire Roger de Beaufort. He had shared command with the seigneurs Jean de Villemur and Hugues de la Roche. Their battalion had been small—not even a hundred men-at-arms. Fresh as yesterday, it pained Raimond to remember more. At the first hour of that day, without warning, Limoges’s wall had crashed into the moat. Hordes of yelling savages swarmed in. Before the town guards had time to sound the alarm, the English axmen cut through the wooden bars securing the town gate. Raimond barely had time to put on his boots and swordbelt before chaos spread.

The do-or-die situation went on for hours. Very soon, only three French men-at-arms were left to continue the battle. Raimond had been one of the three! He recalled the last lull when he and his comrades had temporarily retreated to gather strength. All the other French warriors had backed down. Villemur and De la Roche looked at each other and then scanned the scene. Many of the townspeople lay dead or dying. The buildings were surrounded by fire and smoke. With those odds, the French knights gave up their swords to the Duke of Lancaster who turned them over to the Black Prince. The Black Prince had watched the raw contest between French and English swordsmen from his sick litter. So painfully was that day etched into Raimond’s mind that he had never since stopped hating the English barbarians and especially John the Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. Raimond still felt outrage over the fact that, as a squire, he had no options but to go along with his senior knights. Oh, how I hate having no options!

After he had been able to rejoin his comrades-in-arms, Raimond admitted to his liege lord, the Duke of Anjou, that the Black Prince had treated them courteously in Calais—according to the law of arms. His liege grinned. Thanks be to God, chivalry still lives here and there! Raimond and his blood kin would still be English captives had not his uncle the pope raised ransom to gain their freedom. Does Jeanne not know this? How can she not know? And if she does know, she’s turned traitor herself. My god! My youngest sister, a turncoat? May God curse the English and condemn to hell Guy de Chauvigny! Curse you! Every one of you!

That son of Satan in his sister’s great hall renewed his itch for a fight. As Raimond tightened his grasp around the pommel of his sword, he noticed De Chauvigny did not wear his sword! Is he a coward or just careless?

Guy appeared to be working his way out of a chessboard stalemate. From five feet away, Raimond could smell the fop’s heady perfume. As if that were not bad enough, rare feathers crowned Guy’s green silk hat. The lavish display of gold filigree buttons and scrolled braid on his red silk jacket hit Raimond like a battering ram. Holy Michael! Is he man or peacock? Not only a traitor, a gaudy one!

Raimond was preparing to cut down the man to save his sister. He noticed every movement of Guy’s eyes, every fleeting change of expression. He knows who I am.

Over Raimond’s chain mail and partial plate armor, a dusty white surcoat bore Beaufort’s red roses impaled with the red-and-gold stripes of Turenne. The sight of those armorial devices was familiar to every knight and courtier in the royal and papal courts in Avignon. The Beaufort roses had consistently dominated the kingdom’s tournament lists. De Chauvigny has a guildsman‘s gall to come here wooing my sister.

Guy put his hand to his neck and rubbed. Raimond noticed. No doubt he too remembers Limoges and my face-to-face swordfight with Lord Pembroke. Tight muscle in Guy’s neck? May every muscle in his body turn to stone!

Raimond became aware of his sister’s discomfort. But her well-trained courtesy led her to attempt to establish both men on equal footing. In perfect Parisian French, she said, "My lord Guy, may I present my brother, le vicomte de Turenne, Raimond Roger de Beaufort. With a courtier’s forced smile, she turned to face Raimond. My dear brother, allow me—she hesitated, took a deep breath and continued—this is Seigneur Guy de Chauvigny, le vicomte de Brosse." For a moment, she appeared to lose her courage.

In fact, Raimond was not yet the Viscount of Turenne. Now, five years after the sack of Limoges, Raimond was a knight in his prime at twenty-five. He served Louis I, Duke of Anjou, as well as functioning as castellan for his mother, whose dowry included the viscounty of Turenne. Even if Raimond and his lances were to recapture Turenne, he would not come into full possession as the eighth viscount of all its towns, fiefs, and fortresses until he fulfilled the sacred nuptial vows with some future bride. Raimond did appreciate his sister’s polite lie for his sake.

With a cautious smile, Guy arose and swept his arm out in a bow as exaggerated as his taste in clothing. Raimond refused to honor the bow. With unwavering dark eyes, he glared at Guy. Silence descended like a heavy gray cloud.

Feigning cheer of court, Jeanne Roger sauntered over to stand beside Guy. My dear brother, Lord Guy is my chosen one.

Raimond’s stomach sickened. Has she already lain with that vile rake of hell? Jeanne Roger, may we have a private discussion, if you please?

At the cold formality of her brother’s voice, Jeanne Roger’s face suddenly bore the look of sharp-chiseled rock. Dear brother, do try to be a gentle knight!

More silence. A silence so thick it was palpable! Jeanne Roger turned taut strung as a troubadour’s lyre. Raimond was more like a crossbow wound up and cocked for firing. Guy? Like a fox with hounds on his trail, he wasted no time escaping. He sat down, picked up a black bishop and studied his next move. His nonchalance fanned Raimond’s fury. Raimond continued to finger the pommel of his two-edged broadsword, trying to decide his next move.

Jeanne Roger walked away a few steps. Her back to her brother, she said in an overly-courteous manner. My dear lord brother, anything you wish to say to me may be said in my lord Guy’s presence. After all that may be said or done, we will soon join bloodlines. She whirled around to face Raimond. Her arms instinctively folded across her breast.

So! Her drawbridge she raises. Raimond switched his penetrating glare from Lord Guy to his sister. He shifted his baldric and adjusted his two-handed sword. Lord Guy, why are you not wearing your weapon?

Jeanne Roger intervened with her Lady Haughty act, which she had used as a shield against her brother’s anger even back in their nursery days.

Raimond’s patience snapped. "Jeanne Roger! No time is this to put on airs! Any day now your betrothed will arrive in Anjou. Papa wants you at Beaufort Chateau—nowΓ

«I know. Alari told me the same thing. To me, that is beside the point."

"Good God, Jeanne Roger! It is the point! What under God’s heaven has happened to you? You shame your noble birth! For God’s sake, you are far better off wed to a Sicilian of illustrious lineage than to this accursed traitor. He and his breed switch sides at the blink of an eye!"

She walked back to stand behind Guy, who continued to dawdle over the chessboard. Her face softened. She murmured, I love him.

Guy focused on the black bishop.

Name of Jesus! Jeanne Roger, must you behave like an accursed peasant? Not even the guildsmen marry for love! Only peasants and peddlers behave with such wanton abandon! His angry stare burned into Jeanne like a branding iron. Clamping her jaws—square as Raimond’s, she gripped Guy’s high-backed chair.

Raimond noted how difficult it was for her to restrain her temper. But he was so outraged that he could not care what she felt. For the love of God, Jeanne Roger, French Norman blood runs in your veins! Have you stooped so low as to care nothing for that? Or for that crown on your head? Or for honor—

Her composure shattered. Enough! No more! Her eyes flashed. Her cheeks flamed. Arms pressed against her sides, fists doubled, she was ready for combat. "Papa has never shown one iota of understanding for the female heart. If you think you can bully me, think again! No longer am I your infant sister. I reached my majority when I wed and gave birth. I am a lady, a countess, by the grace of God! No one can live my life for me. Not my parents. Not the queen of Naples—even if she is my lady liege. Not Uncle Pierre—even if he is Pope Gregory. And especially not you! Her long trailing sleeves shook with her rage. Oh! You! You and your ridiculous chivalry!"

Chivalry? What in God’s name does chivalry have to do with this? Shocked, Raimond stared at her. He heard Guy cry out, Bravo!

Hold your tongue, Fop—lest I cut it off!

Ignoring her brother’s outburst, Jeanne Roger felt a flush of exhilaration in her newfound freedom. She resented feeling like a victim of her parents’ unreasonable demands and her brother’s hotheaded reactions. She cried out, Raimond, list to me! Chivalry is no longer relevant. Few knights on either side abide by the codes. Who can, in these times of intolerable sufferance? Face it, brother! In truth, we live in the Apocalypse. In this daily unraveling of our lives, we do what we must to survive.

Even as she spouted those brave words, Jeanne Roger could not escape the insecurity she always suffered when under the scrutiny of her brother. What if he slapped her? As if she were once more a spoiled child in the midst of a temper tantrum. What would Guy do? Challenge Raimond? She hoped that Guy possessed that kind of courage.

She tightened her lips and glared at Raimond. To her astonishment, Raimond appeared to be stunned.

Well, I never … he muttered, Chivalry? Not relevant? The very thought erased from his mind everything they had been saying. Raimond held the codes of chivalry to be as sacrosanct and as eternal as the Ten Commandments. Jeanne Roger, I swear by God you have come unhinged!

Never have I felt more sane! Any sane person can see chivalry no longer works—like paper marriages!

"Paper marriages? What in God’s holy name? He glanced behind his shoulder as if he might see Satan coaching his sister. Oh! His eyes brightened with recognition. I see! I see what you are trying to do. It will not work. Stick to the subject."

I am not changing the subject!

Oh, yes you are! I came here to speak of disobedience. And betrayal! And I must say, if chivalry is outmoded, so is God! He chortled.

His nasty laugh resurrected the rebel in his sister. Stop! I pray you; do not cut me off with your blasphemy! I beg you, list to me! If you have no respect for me as your sister, respect me as a lady.

A chivalrous knight owed her that much. Raimond shrugged. Say on!

With arms outstretched, she began. Try to consider for a moment—her arms fell to her sides as if she were sick of arguments. She sighed. You can tell Papa and Mamman I will never agree to another contract marriage—foisted off on me as if I were a mere child too young and innocent to defend myself.

"Defend yourself? In the name of God, from what?’

From tradition, that’s what! Paper marriages ought to die along with chivalry!

Raimond did not know of her long-standing resentment against being victimized by tradition. He did know she was not going to back down, because her voice had grown shriller with each word. He felt as if he had slammed into a granite wall. As he began to pace, his spurs flashed glints of gold. The guests and household retainers moved closer to the walls. They were eager to see which side would draw blood first, but they also needed to be out of harm’s way when it happened!

Plain to see his sister had turned into one of those females disordered by dreams of love. They call it dolce stil nuova, the sweet new style—at least that was what Cousin Guérin had called it. The way Raimond saw it, the new love was as far as one could get from the more noble love given the nomenclature of la vita nuova, the spiritual love of the troubadours in their golden age. Both extremes appalled Raimond’s sense of right behavior and good sound logic.

Jeanne Roger is mule headed but no more so than I am! He felt an urge to seize his sister by her arm and pull her out of the hall. Guy wore no sword, bad for a knight, bad, bad, bad! But bad for me if I strike one who wears no sword!

Raimond’s reason took charge. In truth, perhaps she knows not the seriousness of the crisis she is causing. He said as calmly as if they had not been arguing, Jeanne Roger, know you not that French traitors like Guy came dangerously close to ruining the whole realm of France? They captured our own father—and our uncles and cousins, along with me. Can you be happy living with such a man? Because that is the breed of folk you shall break bread with.

She flinched and stared at Guy with disbelief. Guy, you never told me this!

Guy’s gray eyes darkened. Raimond restrained the jubilant shout welling up from his whole body. Hah! That miscreant’s lack of honesty has been pulled out of hiding! And thanks to God, now she knows of his treachery. Raimond began to hope he might take her back to Beaufort Manor after all.

Guy looked at Jeanne Roger with desperate eyes. "Ma chère, I swear by God’s holy throne, the French knights serve the wrong king—not we English. The French knights are the true traitors!"

Raimond cut him off. "Ai, yai, yai! So many javelins of lies! How dare you call yourself an Englishman? You? Born and bred in Poitou!"

Guy bolted from his chair. Why fight this ancient war all over again?

I will continue to fight as long as Beaufort lands and Turenne’s castles are occupied by English warlords. As long as I have breath in my body!

Guy stood silent for only a moment. My lord—brother of my dearly beloved—permit me a noble gesture befitting a man in my fortunate position. An offer you would be foolish to reject.

Raimond’s stare was arrogant. What under heaven this side of hell could a Chauvigny offer a Beaufort—save dishonor?

Guy cast an anxious eye on the full six-foot-five length of Raimond’s body. He remembered very well how Lord Raimond held his own for so long in that face-to-face swordfight in Limoges. He knew it would be suicide for him to fight with Lord Raimond. Guy continued cautionsly. I have it in my power to give something of great value to the diminished House of Beaufort. To wit, your former possessions, now under English occupation. Growing bolder with each word he spoke, Guy counted on his fingers, "Rosier d’Egleton,

La Motte, Bouzols, Servissac, St. Céré, Collonges-la-Rouge, Turenne …" He leaned hard on the last word.

Holà, holà! Stop!

Ignoring Raimond’s outcry, Guy dug deeper into the wound. "Beaulieu, Servières-le-Chateau. And, of course, a Beaufort lady! Ahhh, my lady—Jeanne Roger de Beaufort! All her dowry lands will soon be mine."

By God’s holy rood, you lay hands on Castelnau and I will consider it a declaration of war!

"Alors, my lord Raimond. That would profit you not! Guy smirked at his own cleverness. But, acceptance of my extravagant offer could restore most of your lost possessions. You may not know this but John of Gaunt is my new chief liege. Ever since his recent devastating march from Calais to Bordeaux, we hold most of your coastal lands—"

The storm burst.

"You soulless, depraved son of Satan! Plague take you and your English! I would fain die ere I join you and those foul, thieving, blood-sucking bastards who rob from their own mothers. You bastard! You … ridiculous fop! Judas, Judas … Judas!"

Raimond reached out and grabbed his sister’s arm. He pulled her to his side gripping her around the waist. He began to drag her out of the great hall. She shrieked, Guy! Do something!

Guy ran forward and seized her hand. A tug-of-war began. The throng in the hall was in an uproar. Jeanne Roger shouted, Let me go! Both of you! You are hurting me!

Guy and then Raimond turned loose. All three stood staring at each other. Jeanne Roger spoke first, "See? I told you. Chivalry is dead!"

Then Raimond turned on Guy. He thundered, "Be ye damned by God and the archangels! Quit this hall now. Or I shall rip out your guts and mop the floor with your blood! Be gone, I say!"

But, but … Guy faltered and backed away.

"Oh, spare me the sight of your miserable presence! You befoul this hall—Go!" The steel finger of Raimond’s gauntlet flashed under the hall’s overhead wax lights as he pointed to the arched exit to the antechamber.

Raimond’s bellowing shook the rafters. With all the doors and windows open in summer, his thundering penetrated into the gallery chambers, the back quarter kitchens, stables, guard’s room, armory, and storehouses.

Alix, Jeanne Roger’s daughter, was upstairs in her gallery chamber. Curious as any three-year-old, she dropped her wooden doll to run and see who was yelling. Before the attending nurse knew it, the child was on the platform overlooking the great hall. The gallery platform and its stairs were built of stone and attached to one side of the great hall. No banisters! Terrified, the nurse ran after Alix just in time to see the little girl approaching the edge of the platform.

Alix squealed and dropped down on the top step of the stairway. She bumped her rump down step by step. The nurse was gaining on her. Determined, the child stood up to run. She stumbled. Her nurse pinned her down on the steps. Alix shrieked. The nurse scolded.

Below, Jeanne Roger called out, "Azalais, take that girl back into the nursery! Now!"

With Alix squirming in her arms, the nurse hurriedly disappeared into the nursery. Thrashing in protest, Alix burst into short spasmodic grunts. The nurse made the mistake of putting her down. Alix ran. She didn’t get as far as the landing when her nurse grabbed her.

Alix cried, No, Azzie, no! I want to see monster-man!

Shhhh, my little one. Your Azzie wants to know what goes on downstairs as much as you do. The nurse put her hand over the girl’s mouth and whispered, Now, little darling, we can both listen. But you must be quiet.

Now every bit the Haughty Lady, ruler of this hall, Jeanne Roger turned her attention back to her brother, who seemed oblivious to what had just happened up on the gallery. Tunnel visioned by his anger! She shook her head—more bewildered than sad.

The guests in the great hall had grown silent in their shock to see such raw, naked behavior in nobility. No one could imagine what was causing Raimond to react so violently. He was proud and feudal to the tips of his steel boots, but the worst insult to his pride had recently happened with the capture of his castle. His sense of right and wrong was mangled by a headstrong sister, who did not care whom she hurt as long as she satisfied her passions. Raimond was furious to find he knew not how to fight back.

Jumpy as a thief, Guy watched Raimond’s hand fitfully grasp at his sword which rattled in its sheath. That sound raked the ears of the guests. Necks stretched to witness the spectacle of illustrious lineage in loss of deportment.

Jeanne Roger was the first to speak. Raimond, I pray you, good brother, pull not your sword in reckless anger.

Raimond scowled, but he did let his hand drop from his sword. He lowered his voice. Jeanne Roger, I swear by the Holy Virgin’s milk, you have been corrupted by the honeyed voice of love-addled singers!

His unexpected quiet tone lasted no longer than an English lord’s promise to a French king. The moment you bed and sup with this vermin, I promise, you shall be disinherited. Understand? He bellowed. "Outcast! You shall not possess as much as your own daughter."

He turned to leave but thought of more he needed to say. "And another thing I promise, you shall be excommunicated!" After that harsh outcry, he continued, I shall return to Avignon and see to it! Again Raimond turned to leave.

Guy called out after him. Fie! Fie! Of a truth, my lady has not sinned so great as to deserve disinheritance—much less papal ban!

Raimond spun around. He shouted with shaking forefinger. "Keep out of this, you godforsaken Judas, or you shall rue this day—if you live long enough to remember it!"

To his sister, Raimond spilled out a scorching final statement. And you, you mind-bereft ninny! You can fry in the fires of hell for all I care! By heaven, I have done my best to save you. But you heed no word I say. I wash my hands of you!

Raimond yanked off his steel gauntlet and flung it clanking to the floor at Guy’s feet. Name the day, time, and place!

"But, mon seigneur! Voilà! No sword hangs at my side."

Raimond was so irritated at this cowardly reaction that, without thinking, he had yanked out his sword. The scraping metal evoked the onlookers’ simpering horror. I see that! By God, go fetch it! Or—God curse your hide—I repeat! Name the time and place!

Lady Jeanne Roger made haste to stand between Guy and her brother. No! I beg you, brother! She gained the courage to pick up the offending gauntlet. She handed the frightful steel claw back to Raimond. Her voice clear and firm once more, she declared, No swords shall be drawn in my hall. In the name of our blessed Savior, I pray you!

Raimond’s voice was an icicle. No more have I to say to you! He swung around to leave.

That may be. But I have more to say to you.

Raimond froze. Slowly he turned to face her once more. Keep your counsel, woman. Then he snarled, Harlot! You possess the heart of a traitor—else wise you could harbor no such thought of going to bed with this envoy from hell! God’s truth, he will betray you one day as he has betrayed his king! Convinced he had wasted valuable time coming here, he resented his sister as much as her lover because he had failed to change her mind. Turning to go, Raimond heard an ungodly wail.

Unbelieving, he turned back to stare at his sister. Jeanne Roger choked back her sobs and threw out her arms. "Who of you have looked into my heart? Who can see the thoughts I am not permitted to speak? Who of you will ever know what I suffered at the hands of Raimond des Baux-Avellino? Did any of you believe for one moment that being the fourth countess of Avellino could make up for the torment I endured—just letting that man touch me? Own me? As if I were one of his fine horses—or falcons! No more, no less! That, you may tell Papa and Mamman is the most degrading thing that can happen to a human soul."

Like all ladies of the nobility, Jeanne Roger had been strictly trained against such displays of peasant emotions. From the onlookers, Raimond heard the rumbling and whispering intensify.

Raimond stood for a moment stunned. Real tears? Jeanne Roger? Shedding real tears? This he could expect in his other sister—sweet Eleonore—but not feisty Jeanne Roger! He had always believed Jeanne’s heart was as cold as Norseland alabaster, which had never failed to bring out the worst in his own passionate nature.

God’s sorrow, brother! It is an accident … if a man and his wife can find love together … Her voice trailed off. She buried her face in her hands and her shoulders shook.

Guy moved in to fold his lady into his arms. My lord, in the name of our merciful God, I entreat you! Show the good grace to leave us in peace.

Raimond spat out. " Your invitation to leave? Oh I go! I leave you both to rot in hell!"

As Raimond turned to leave, he spotted a middle-aged woman holding a small child on the upstairs gallery. He had second thoughts about leaving empty handed. He addressed his sister. That your offspring there on the gallery?

Guy answered. Yes, that is Princess Alix.

In a flash Raimond realized that Guy, sooner or later, might use the little princess to protect his wife’s dowry rights in any unscrupulous way he could. Without bothering to explain his actions, Raimond pulled on the gauntlet he had thrown to the floor and clanked like a war engine to the foot of the gallery stairway. He placed his helm on his head, freeing his arms to take the girl. He took no time to raise the visor. While everybody watched in breathtaking alarm, he bounded up the stone stairway in noisy giant strides.

The ugly iron helmet arose over the top of the stairs and Alix screeched, Monster-man! She buried her face in her nurse’s bosom. The nurse held her breath and glanced around as if looking for an escape.

Give me the girl! Raimond reached out to take his niece from the woman’s arms.

No! No, no! Azzie! Monster-man! Alix’s voice was muffled as she dug her face into Azzie’s bosom.

His hard, cold gauntlets closed on Alix’s waist. Gripped now with the need to save his niece from an unscrupulous man’s ambitions, Raimond pulled Alix from her nurse’s arms. All the way downstairs, Alix screeched and kicked. Her arms reached over Raimond’s shoulder toward her nurse, who stood helpless against an uncle’s claim. At the foot of the stairs, Alix’s cries swelled into loud bawling.

His ears splitting with the racket, Raimond paused to reconsider. With a strong grip on the struggling girl, he turned and called to the woman standing at the top of the stairs. Dame, are you the child’s nurse?

Azalais nodded, hope lighting up her face. Oc, moun senhor.

Although he had been aware of the nurse who had been standing in plain view at the top of the stairway, he had paid scant attention to her. In a hasty examination, he could now discern by the way she had addressed him, and by her prominent dark eyes and dignified bearing, that this woman might be a wellborn native of Provence. He made a quick decision. To show his respect, he spoke in her native tongue, Provengal.

"Ma domna, I bid you come with us. The girl will be in sore need of you in the days to come."

Azalais’s face brightened. Alix stopped struggling when she heard her nurse ask, "Moun senhor, I beg you allow me to gather her clothing."

No need for that. We shall provide.

Truth was, to prevent a killing, Raimond knew he must leave before Guy caught on to his impending loss of leverage.

The nurse gathered her skirts and descended the stairs. Alix reached out to her Azzie and wiggled her fingers. Coming, little darling!

Guy ran forward to confront Raimond. No! You cannot take her! Not until the child’s mother is legally disinherited. Until then, she belongs with her mother.

What? Leave the little princess here to be held hostage? So you can profit? Not on the sacred blood of Jesus!

The dark fog of anger mushroomed again.

Guy’s icy gray eyes flashed. "Seigneur, if you dare—"

By God! I would like nothing better than to slay you. With Alix in one arm, Raimond yanked out his sword and jabbed the point at Guy’s chest. Guy backed off so fast that he lost his balance. Jeanne reached out to stabilize him but he was beyond her reach. His hand broke his fall and he sprang to his feet.

The great hall reverberated with loud outcries. Azalais said, Oh sweet savior! Lord Guy has signed and sealed his death!

Azalais, no coward when it came to protecting her little darling, rushed forward. "Moun senhor! Allow me to take her!"

Raimond was grateful. Wielding a heavy two-handed blade with a small unpredictable child in his arm would be worse than fighting with one arm bound. He spread his legs for balance, grasped his sword with both hands, and raised his arms to bring the blade down on Guy’s head.

As one hypnotized, Jeanne Roger moved closer to Guy and said, "Mon aimé, let them go!"

Raimond halted his swing midair and stared at his sister, suddenly so close. What in the name of St. Michael—

Guy cried, No! My lady, you know not what you ask.

Oh, yes, I know! In all truth, I know. Let the child go!

Why, pray tell?

If you are slain, the child will be of no use to you.

You mean to say, he would! No! Kill me? For a girl?

Yes, my lord Guy, verily he would! She is not just a girl!

Guy backed away.

Just as I thought! Her dowry and her titles he wants—not her. Raimond slammed his sword into its sheath. He had been robbed of his revenge. Not only for what that traitor was doing to his sister, but also for Limoges, never mind what the treachery of Guy and his ilk might do in the future.

Seeing no further moves from the foul some fop, Raimond said, "Ma domna, bring the child. Follow me!"

With little Alix clinging to her neck, the nurse moved quickly to keep up with his long strides.

Raimond was not yet clear how he was going to assume this responsibility since he was also dispossessed by war. He had no doubt this action would further complicate his life.

Waiting in the courtyard, Raimond’s squires chatted in the late-day shadows of a plane tree to which they had tied fresh horses—including a sidesaddled roan intended for Lady Jeanne Roger. Renaud and Marcel jumped to attention. They were astonished to see their lord approaching with a strange elderly woman and an infant child instead of Lady Jeanne Roger.

What happened, my lord? Marcel asked.

This is one battle I lost!

Renaud asked, Are we taking the little girl and the lady with us?

Yes! No one else appears to want them—for anything other than booty. A knight of chivalry cannot fail to give aid where a merciful god sees it so plainly needed.

But, my lord, we are warriors! Of what use to us will be a small child—and a woman past her prime?

Raimond smirked at Renaud’s inference, and then scowled at the seriousness of his position. No ordinary girl, lads ! This is Princess Alix. This time tomorrow, orphaned Princess Alix!

Marcel scratched his head. What happens tomorrow?

Her mother has abandoned her. This child will inherit the principality of Les Baux because her mother is a turncoat. Princess Alix is firstborn and subject to the laws of enfeoffment. In true justice, I must turn her over to the proper authorities. That means we go to Avignon before going anywhere else.

The squires helped the nurse and the little princess onto the roan’s sidesaddle. Without further word, they mounted, struck spurs, and galloped off.

Approaching the woods that skirted the odorous southern marshes, they slowed to a trot. Shadows lengthened as the fireball sun set beyond the black forest. Raimond had chosen a woodland path to get to the Rhone Valley. He wanted to avoid travel on the highway to the Durance River, in case Lord Guy and his men tried to follow.

Raimond spent a weary journey to Avignon, wrestling with his dilemma. What disturbed him most about this encounter with his sister was a question she had raised that he had never considered. God’s beard, what if she speaks truth about chivalry? Holy Michael! Without the codes of King Arthur, the world will sink back into barbarism! If mighty Rome could fall, so can our own civilization! Even Christianity could fail! Does Uncle Pierre suspect this? Is that why he is thinking of taking the papacy back to Rome? Would that save Christendom? What would I do if I were pope? What would I do if I were king? The only way to rule barbarian mobs is to meet savagery with savagery. Not only chivalry is at stake, but civilization itself—never mind the church!

One way he could solve his dilemma would be to carve his own kingdom out of this decadent world—and crown himself king. Would Uncle Pierre approve? Can a man crown himself king without a pope?

Raimond was so preoccupied that he was scarcely aware they were out of the woods and approaching the ramparts of the papal palace. Toward midnight, their mounts clopped into the shadowy lanes of Avignon. Raimond felt great relief to have arrived with the princess safe from harm’s way—for the moment.

As he and his companions rode into the courtyard, Raimond glanced back at the little princess who had fallen into a deep sleep in her nurse’s arms. Limp, he thought, limp as a fresh-slain fawn. He shook his head. Poor little girl, victim of her mother’s cupidity!

By the time they had entered the papal palace, Raimond had decided he had no other options and that he must turn his niece over to the highest authority—Uncle Pierre—and let the petals of knighthood’s flower fall where they may.

Entering the Rota Gallery, Raimond saw Pope Gregory waiting with one of his cardinals. The pope asked, Where is Lady Jeanne Roger?

Raimond said with a rock-rigid face, In Les Baux, Your Holiness. Grim in her chosen role of rebel! The girl on yon roan is Princess Alix, our hostage meant to bring Lady Jeanne Roger to her knees. As a knight of honor, I felt compassion for an orphaned girl and brought her nurse along to comfort her.

Chapter 2

The envoys arrived from Paris before Vespers. Instead of being able to enjoy an evening of rest after their long ride, they were irked to find themselves whisked out of their chambers.

Come with us, ordered Cardinal Robert. They were led along a dark corridor. Following them were the younger and elder counts of Beaufort. The king’s representatives soon found themselves reading and signing documents of enfeoffment.

"Before tomorrow’s council? the king’s negotiator, Le Fevre, asked. Why have one tomorrow, after all this?"

With an eyelid almost shut over his wiggly eye, Cardinal Robert explained, Although I am well versed in canon law as a papal legate, I need your expert advice on a delicate matter involving not two but three sovereigns of state. Noticing Le Fevre’s change of expression, the cardinal added with a more focused gaze, I especially need you tomorrow for negotiations that are bound to follow our announcement.

The council was a legal event, which concerned not only Princess Alix’s blood kin in Paris but Naples as well. As Pope Gregory’s Roman papal legate, Cardinal Robert had been assigned to attend to details. Cardinal Robert had let no word slip of a meeting the night before the council. He did not want Raimond to know. Nor did the elder counts of Beaufort want any of their potential successors to know.

The day of the council arrived. Raimond was jolted out of a shallow sleep. Holy Michael! Thanks be to God that was only a nightmare!

He had dreamt of being in bed with an unknown female who would win no laurels for beauty. Around their bed was a shadowy circle of black-robed priests. Strange that he could recognize none of the faces! Who were they? Who was the woman? Were they accusing us?

He sat for a moment on the side of his bed and tried to shake off the pervasive chill of the dream. Dreams are not necessarily prophetic. In a fret, he lay back on the pillow and stared at the massive wooden canopy but couldn’t shake the feeling that something horrible was about to happen. His disobedient sister? No, I think not. The dream had nothing to do with her. The eyes in that dream were focused on me or the lady lying beside me. He wasn’t certain which.

A cock crowed. Then the symphony of dawn in Avignon reverberated from eight church bell towers. His nerves raw, Raimond jumped from his bed and ran to the only window in his chamber. He yanked away the support of a wooden slat shutter, which clattered down and bounced upon the stone sill. His chamber walls—stone layered nine feet deep to keep out heat, cold, and crossbow bolts—did little to stop the invasion of sound. He pushed his hands over his ears and muttered, If the cocks fail to open your eyes, the bells will surely do it!

Too early, he mumbled and crawled back into bed. With his arms folded under his head, he continued to brood over the dream.

Searching for answers to relieve his angst, he recounted the events of the past few weeks.

Following his arrival in Avignon, he had been shocked to learn that his rebellious sister had already left Les Baux with that traitor. Where did he take her?

When Alari the courier had returned to Beaufort with his report, Count Guillaume and Countess Aliénor left at once for Avignon. On hearing the full story from Raimond, instead of throwing a fit as expected, Count Guillaume had straightway called for a papal script clerk. Grim, in full control of his anger, the count dictated a writ of disinheritance. My God, Papa treats his own daughter like a piece of land!

That document signed, sealed, and authorized by the pope, was handed to the courier. His father had simply shrugged and said, Once the king receives his notarized copy, His Majesty will know of a surety we Beauforts harbor no traitors.

When Uncle Pierre refused all requests to excommunicate Jeanne Roger, Raimond actually felt vast relief. By now he realized it was his frustration and anger that had provoked that drastic threat in Les Baux.

Raimond was not pleased with his father, but he was more than pleased with his mother’s behavior. When the count disinherited their daughter, his mother had fainted, regained consciousness, burst into tears, and retired at once to her withdrawing chamber with a sick headache. Next morning she showed up in Le Petit Tinel for breakfast—wearing black mourning with Papa scowling at her side. Mamman cares. But Papa? All he appears to care for is his reputation with royalty.

Until this family crisis, Raimond had never had much opportunity to observe his parents. He knew the Duke and Duchess of Anjou more intimately than his own parents. After his seventh birthday, according to custom, his parents had transferred their firstborn son to their liege lord’s household where he went through the paces of learning how to be a knight worthy of King Arthur’s Roundtable. This rapprochement of Christian idealism with ancient militarism greatly appealed to Raimond. He had no problem with reading, writing, and learning good manners as a pageboy. He willingly brought in firewood, ran errands for the duke, and served at the tables. He and the other pageboys also were responsible for helping the duchess with her chatelaine duties. The boys were expected to take out garbage if the scallion maids were overloaded with pots and pans. That was where young Raimond ran into trouble with the headstrong duchess. He hated garbage duty as much as stable cleaning.

The only time he saw those who gave him life were during visits to their Chateau Alais in Languedoc between Nativity and Epiphany, then again at Beaufort Chateau near Anjou during Passion Week and Easter. By the time Pentecost or Whitsunday had arrived, he was knee deep in trivium studies—grammar, rhetoric, and logic—and the more enjoyable crossbow target practice. Those were the memories that shaped his life.

That had been three popes ago. During his recent fund raising campaign in Avignon, Raimond had become aware of some unwelcome papal changes in the wind. Due to numerous petitions of the celebrated poet, Petrarch, and the persistent letters from the revered holy mystic, Catherine of Siena, fear of Rome had loosened its grip on the latter-day popes. This was cause for concern. He hoped to learn more about the situation at the enfeoffment council. Raimond was well aware this was a high-level legal affair and a fine opportunity for him to observe the interrelated workings of papal and royal courts.

So why this dream of angst?

Raimond turned over and glanced at his tower window—smaller than the other papal palace apertures. This section of the palace had been built by an earlier pope, Benedict XII, whose reign in Avignon began during the early stages of the war between the French and the English. Troubled by the approaching turmoil, Benedict ordered the construction of battlements with a twelve-foot wall and many towers for defense. Caution extended even to the small sheltering size of the window. It was in these uppermost levels of the Tower of the Bell where Raimond, Princess Alix and her nurse were chambered.

Raimond continued to ponder. None of these reflections could explain the circle of accusing eyes—or could they?

The clamor of bells had faded as the sky shaded into rosetinted dawn. No more sleep was possible. As yet unwilling to face this day, Raimond made a half-hearted attempt to push up from the canopied bed. He held on to the wooden post, stretching and shaking sleep from his body. His two body squires entered his chamber.

While the squires made ready to attend to his grooming, Raimond reopened his shutter and discovered yesterday’s sweltering heat had not abated during the night.

Raimond wished his uncle’s lead tub were near enough to immerse himself up to his armpits. He never felt quite clean with cat baths—as Marcel called them, or a lick and a promise, the way Renaud put it. With only a lavabo in his chamber, Raimond had to settle for what was at hand: an empty pitcher and bowl waiting for the rooftop cistern water to flow through pipes.

Smelling the stench of the cesspools floating up like yesterday’s lingering evil, he pinched his nose. Small wonder the cathedrals need incense! No doubt Satan created stench! Raimond chuckled. One way to keep sinners away from churches in big cities!

Renaud spoke up. No doubt that great deceiver of men has an abundance of subtler ways to keep folks away from church.

Oh, yes! Raimond nodded. But I doubt the evil one had a hand in creating the multitude of homeless beggars at the papal gates which contribute to Avignon’s cesspool problems.

Unless he creates poverty!

Good point, Renaud, good point! Uncle Pierre would agree to that.

Raimond sat down on the tall stool and wrapped his feet around the stool’s supports. Trying to ignore the pestering odor, he focused on Marcel, who pumped water into the big pitcher.

Marcel said, Still warm, my lord! The rooftop water seldom cooled down during these short summer nights.

Raimond said, But not warm enough to suit me!

Renaud knew his lordship liked warm water in hot weather for what seemed a very strange reason. His lord said, The warmer the water, the cooler I feel when bathing is over. Perhaps his lordship referred to comparisons, but it still seemed strange to his squires.

Raimond said, Chances are, in Les Baux there are no cisterns with indoor plumbing. If for some unforeseeable reason we ever find ourselves spending time there, you lads will be forced to bring in water by the bucket!

His squires grimaced, and Raimond chortled. Not one of them believed this would ever come to pass.

"This is the day of decision, lads! The representatives of the papal and