Troubadour by Mary Hoffman

not particularly sympathetic to the Believers but Bertran taught his new song to the joglar s at court and saw that his message had once again been understood.
    For those who had ears to hear, the canso was both a warning and a call to arms, yet was still on the surface a poem of fin’amor , which no one could take exception to.
    And while the joglar s were singing it in Narbonne, the Pope’s messenger was in a tavern in Arles, plying Borel the ferryman with strong wine.
    ‘So you saw the whole thing?’ asked the messenger.
    ‘I did,’ said Borel, who had been bought many a drink in return for his account of the murder. With each telling he embroidered the story for his listeners with some new detail.
    ‘It must have been terrible for you,’ said the messenger encouragingly, signalling to the tavern keeper for more wine.
    ‘Not a night has passed since that I haven’t dreamed about it,’ said Borel. ‘The blood, the Legate’s single scream as the lance went in, the assassin on his horse, the size of a giant.’
    ‘The assassin or the horse?’ checked the messenger.
    ‘The ash-ash-sashin, of course,’ slurred Borel.
    The messenger called for a trencher of bread and meat for his guest; he thought the ferryman was getting drunk too quickly.
    ‘Do you know who it was?’ he asked Borel.
    The man tried to tap the side of his nose and missed.
    ‘Best not to mention any names,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know him myself but there are those that do. Guilhem de Porcelet, for one.’
    The messenger stowed this information away for future use.
    ‘And I believe there was someone in the boat with you?’ he asked.
    ‘That’s right. Troubadour,’ said Borel.
    ‘Did you know him?’
    ‘’Course. Always popping back and forth over the river that one. Been coming to Arles for years.’
    ‘And his name? Do you know that?’
    ‘As well as I know my own. Bernard, no, that’s not right, Bertran, that’s the fellow. Made off on his horse after the killer as soon as he saw there was nothing to be done for the poor Legate, God rest his soul.’
    ‘So,’ said the Pope’s man. ‘Bertran the troubadour. Is he known by any other name?’
    ‘Miraval. No, hang on, that’s the other one. Miramont! Bertran de Miramont. Anyone here will tell you about him. Handsome devil. All the ladies love him.’
    ‘Not a devil, surely? He tried to help Pierre.’
    ‘ Oc . But he doesn’t love the ladies back, you see.’
    ‘You mean he is an . . . unnatural, a sodomite?’
    ‘Nah. Too pure for that or for the ladies. Still he did go after the murderer.’
    ‘But didn’t catch him, as far as you know?’
    ‘The rumour is,’ said Borel. ‘That he lost him in Beaucaire but that was my amic Simos told me that. He brought the troubadour back in the ferry a few days later. Simos and me, we take turns on the boat. He’s on it now.’
    The innkeeper brought Borel’s food and the messenger sat back and let his informant enjoy it. He had three useful pieces of news to take back to Rome: that one Guilhem de Porcelet knew the killer, that the witness was Bertran de Miramont and that the handsome troubadour was ‘too pure to love the ladies’. It had not been a bad evening’s work.

    Winter was finally defeated and the days were beginning to stretch out longer again. Warmth returned even to the hills of the Midi and fur-lined cloaks were folded up and laid in cedar-wood chests. Elinor had tried on her joglar ’s outfit in secret and Alys had agreed she could pass for a boy as soon as her hair was shorn. But they couldn’t do that till the day of the escape.
    Lucatz and his troupe of joglar s normally moved on in April and he had not demurred when Perrin had suggested they might head eastward. He might be jealous of Bertran but he was not fool enough to ignore his advice.
    March was coming to an end and Thibaut and his daughters were still at Sévignan. Elinor prayed daily that they would just go back home to their own bastide without