Sybille: Life, Love, & Art in the Face of Absolute Power

Foreword

Like all biographers I immerse myself in not only subjects’ personal experiences but also in the history of their times, all of which involves the careful selection of detail. After years of collecting countless scraps of information, we face the task of distilling our material into a reasonable narrative, with facts checked and double checked. The problem with any fact, of course, is the little matter of truth. A fact is always liable to be a complete lie, or exaggeration, or—perhaps the most frustrating—partly accurate. Teasing out the truth of any so-called fact can make you crazy.

Back in 1977 I published a biography of Eleanor of Aquitaine, who become the queen of France and later England in the 12th century. Growing up in the south of France, an area renowned for its poetry and music, she not surprisingly would be a leading patron of the arts, and her courts would welcome serious poets called troubadours. These writers and musicians, as I stated in my book, were males. While the idea of a female poet was not unknown— of the 450 troubadours known by name, 4 are women— the composition of literature was not considered an appropriate pastime for women.

Shortly after publication a reader informed me that as many as 20 southern women wrote songs, and she went on to list some of the most prominent: the Countess of Dia, Azalais de Porcairages, Maria de Ventadorn. I had never heard of these trobairitz (the feminine of troubadour).

Investigation revealed that little is known about them, actually. Indeed, their reputations had crumbled into various stages of neglect. Several left only snippets of their poetry while others were missing biographical details and, even worse, their very names. Their work was attributed to the ever-useful byline, Anonymous.

Still, I had overlooked a whole school of poets because the standard modern reference works on medieval lyrics (written by male scholars) apparently regarded the work as pulp poetry, unworthy of notice.

Living in the 12th and 13th centuries in the Languedoc region of southwestern France, these poets were educated women from the upper classes, not exactly the kind of bluebloods one would expect to be composing love poetry. Writing in Provencal, they chronicled universal themes: the pain of love, the pleasures of a beautiful face, experiences with jealous husbands and hopelessly sad-sack lovers.

The trobairitz had a wonderful way of getting straight to the point:

Elias Cairel, I want to know

the truth about the love we two

once had; so tell me, please,

why you’ve given it someone else...

It is the rare medieval woman whose personal story was recorded in any detail. Even an extraordinary figure like Eleanor of Aquitaine left no writings of her own; the record of her life was preserved by male chroniclers, typically churchmen who had trouble accepting the extent of her power and influence in European politics.

My heroine, Sybille d’Astarac, is a fictional character. So little documentary evidence exists about any individual trobairitz that it was impossible to form a decent composite. Therefore, almost all the particulars of my poet’s life had to be invented.

The youngest child in a wealthy Toulouse family, Sybille grew up in pampered luxury. Languedoc was a gentle lyrical land of sunny skies, perfumed by lavender and honeysuckle, infused by a lighthearted view of life. In all the years anybody could remember, romance transcended fighting, music was favored above business, religious tolerance was taken for granted. A somnolent, sun-blazed Camelot with vineyards, the country was unprepared for insanity. What Sybille expected was an orderly lifetime of comfort and privilege, but her destiny was to be hardship. And things continued to get worse after that. Her youthful cansos, sweet traditional love poetry, eventually changed to confront the suffering inflicted on her country.

The Catholic Church, in 1209, when Sybille is 15 years old, mounted a crusade to destroy the Cathars, a popular religious sect considered heretical. Languedoc became the scene of bloody battles and razed cities, all of which failed to eradicate the Cathars. Ultimately, they were cleared out by means of the Inquisition, but the purge also brought about the collapse of a civilization.

While a holy war forms the backdrop, the novel is mainly about women poets and the murderous conditions under which their work was produced. Decades of religious wars pulverized Languedoc, leaving my heroine old and ill and, finally, alone. Her daughter, at the end of Sybille, boards a ship sailing for England. Escaping a homeland that lay in shambles, Nova is a refugee who seeks a peaceful exile in a foreign country. And with her she carries her mother’s verses, roughly 40 or 50 sheets of parchment.

She knew that everything is perishable: human lives, families, wealth, love, art. Even God, from whom all blessing are said to come, can Himself be destroyed by men. She knew that parchment might be used for kindling fires, for wrapping cod, and yet she also knew that her mother’s words must somehow be made to survive, so that what had happened in her time and place should not be forgotten.

In reality, practically no trobairitz poetry did manage to survive. Art generally exists for hundreds upon hundreds of years by chance, having the blind fortune to avoid natural and human chaos. It is fanciful to imagine anyone today would still be reading the work of Sybille d’Astarac. Will the poems of Emily Dickinson resonate in 2800? It’s nice to think so.

Marion Meade

June 2011

New York City

Note

I do not know how the Cathar religion originated. It is believed to have started in Bulgaria, probably during the tenth century, and to have spread rapidly westward along the rim of the Mediterranean. By the year 1200, perhaps half the population of what is now southern France had rejected Catholicism for the rival faith. To reclaim its own, the Catholic Church made war, unsuccessfully, with fire and sword. Then came organized psychological violence—the Inquisition.

The sect was known by several names—Cathars (Pure Ones) or Albigensians—but most often they were referred to as the heretics. They themselves did not give any special name to their own church, only calling themselves Christians who were trying to follow the plain, unadulterated, and undeniably radical teachings of Jesus. It was the Church of Rome, the Cathars insisted, which had deviated so greatly from Christ's original ideas that it deserved to be called heretical.

While my narrative ends with the capture of Montsegur, the Cathar church was not completely destroyed until the fourteenth century. Efforts were made to eradicate every trace of its doctrines and rituals, including any clues that might explain the religion's enormous popularity. Readers wishing to know more about the history and politics of these events are referred to Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie's Montaillou and Zoe Oldenbourg's masterful Massacre at Montsegur.

M.M.

And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth.

—Revelation 6:8

Chapter One

Stop jabbering, child. You're giving me an earache.

The small girl halted midsentence and clamped her lips. Her eyes closed, and she began to rock unsteadily from side to side, each swing of her body releasing a cataract of restlessness.

Sybille. Again the silken voice sighed. Please try to be still for once.

She struggled to hold back her tears and cast a wounded gaze down at the marble tiles, then up at the tapestry showing the Resurrection. When deprived of all other alternatives, she could express mood with her chin: chin defiant, chin meditative, although the latter was rarely to be seen. Now she muscled an apologetic chin, as if to say, Forgive me, Lady Mother. But Douce d'Astarac's attention had moved on already.

Some hours earlier the child had tottered into her mother's bedchamber and planted herself, belly down. It was cool and sweet there on the rug. She lay still and watched the cat sleeping. Soon the door would open and her mother would glide in on waves of lavender. At her heels would tramp a servingwoman, arms lumped with bundles, the harvest of a morning's shopping in the bazaars of Rue de la Pourpointerie. No need to visit Damascus or Constantinople, Douce would say. The best comes to Toulouse. Douce knew about the best.

The bells of Saint-Sernin signaled noon. Within the child's head there was a silence ticking. After a while she began to hear sounds, not real words but a pulse that seemed more solid to her than words. Fast- slow, fast-slow. There was almost a kind of trot to them, she discovered. Forgetting her mother's absence, she played with the silence, with the sounds that were not yet words, and then at last with the words themselves. She thought:

Think of a word

to go with

ardit:

Valiant.

Maybe strong and valiant.

One Gawain

Two brave Charlemagnes

Three valiant courtly Tristrams.

A Roland

A Roland

A Roland calling Olivier.

Ardit e poissan.

Ai!

Then, quite excited, she added a dragon. Very large, very ugly, and he breathed fire. But when she tried saying that line aloud, it was too long and she ran out of breath. The sounds inside her head did not match those on her tongue, alas. And then Douce returned, and the child rattled out her poem, which grew longer and more meaningless until she found herself yawing in a labyrinth of words. At last her mother had silenced her.

From her place on the floor, Sybille could see nothing but her mother's feet. The rest of her had vanished among the cushions on the big featherbed. The servingwoman took away Douce's gloves and alms purse; she returned to tug off the riding boots, which she replaced with a pair of brocade slippers.

Precious objects abounded in her mother's room. Sybille knew each one of them: the prie-dieu with its crucifix of gilded brass in which the figure of Christ had been inlaid, the crystal scent boxes with their lids of gold and rubies, the chased goblet made by a goldsmith monk of Limoges. Nearby hung the cittern, its wood spangled by bars of sunlight. Every object was extraordinary. Like my mama, Sybille thought.

Wine, Na Douce? the servant was murmuring.

Please.

Familiar sounds moved like psalms above Sybille's head. She could hear the tinkle of the goblet, the swooshing of ostrich feathers as the woman fanned her mistress.

Mama, Sybille called out hoarsely. May I come up?

Don't be silly. When did I ever say you couldn't? You won't believe the splendid things I found.

With a running leap she catapulted herself onto the bed and plopped headfirst into a cave of grass-green silk. The bed was mounded with silks, brocades, and taffetas in shades that would shame a rainbow. Her mother held up the green cloth. From Persia, she crowed. Along its edges shimmered bands of gold embroidery, worked with violet silk into a vine pattern of nightingales and griffins. Douce had never heard of the word simplicity; but then nobody had ever brought it to her attention.

Was it costly?

Douce shrugged her shoulders. Costly? Everything is costly. Look at this one. She unfurled a length of white samite interwoven with gold and silver threads. From the shores of the Nile. Or so that pig of a Genoan told me.

Beside her, Sybille leaned on one elbow. She had discovered a bag of crystal buttons and began lining them in rows.

Now tell me what my baby did today, Douce said, yawning.

I'm not a baby.

Nonsense. Douce pinned her down until she shrieked with laughter, and then she moistened her mouth and neck with splinters of little kisses. My fat little girl. A hailstorm of buttons rattled to the floor. My baby cake, sweet as new butter.

Mama, stop! She squealed and thrashed her legs, full of pleasure. It tickles. After a while Douce tired of the game, and Sybille butted gently against her side, breathing in the fragrance of lavender. I want to stay here all day, she thought. Seconds later she was bouncing on her knees. I made a poem while you were gone.

Very nice. Make another tomorrow.

But Mama, don't you remember? It displeased you.

What an idea. It was charming. But Sybille, my dear, it rambled a bit. Verse must be tidy and fall sweetly upon the ear.

Sybille opened her mouth to offer excuses but grunted instead. The only person who took her compositions seriously was her mother, but then Douce was the only one who mattered anyway. She was acknowledged as an authority on poetical literature. Not that she herself wrote, indeed she had difficulty spelling her name, nor did she read. But shortly after the birth of her second son, at a tournament near Albi, she had caught the eye of a famous troubadour, who had composed a three-stanza tribute to her beauty.

This Folquet de Marseille, of course, had honored a score of ladies with similar impromptu ditties, a fact Douce had no trouble ignoring; she had wrapped the manuscript in silk and given it a place of honor on her chest. Occasionally Sybille was allowed to approach this shrine and view the parchment, but never actually to touch it. It made no difference that Folquet had abandoned poetry, and the fashionable ladies who had inspired it, to enter the monastery of Le Thoronet. The honor, bloated by now into the status of family mythology, could not be disputed.

That Douce would bother to discuss poetry with a child never ceased to amaze and thrill Sybille. When I grow up, she told her mother, "I'll be a troubadour and write cansos like La Comtessa de Dia."

Trobairitz, Douce corrected her. Not troubadour. Use the feminine. Now, what was I just saying? Oh, yes. The last words of lines must rhyme. I think I've mentioned that. Surely I said that before. Rhyme your lines.

I know.

It's the sounds of the words that matter. And don't forget adjectives. You want plenty of adjectives.

God's teeth, Sybille broke in loudly. You told me.

Shh. Don't shout in my ear. She turned her head away and closed her eyes. A love song without adjectives is like a sky without stars.

Sybille said quietly, like an adult, But I don't like adjectives.

Of course you do, Douce insisted. Her voice washed out to a mumble.

They're stupid. To tell the truth, she was angry because she had more or less forgotten what an adjective was. From somewhere below came a racket of high-pitched voices and then the cook, shouting. Her brothers must have thieved something from the oven. Sybille studied her mother's face. Mama?

Just when she decided her mother was asleep, Douce murmured, I bought you something. In my purse.

Sybille jiggled down and went to find the purse. There were a few coins and a length of pale-blue ribbon embroidered with seed pearls the color of clouds. She turned to the bed and said politely, Mama, thank you. She couldn't help thinking the ribbon was pretty but not the nicest she had ever seen. No matter what God or Douce gave her, she always wanted more.

She lingered on the floor, feeling the smoothness of the pearls with her fingertips, until her sister came and took her down to the courtyard. It was hot and noisy, the sun hobbling high up in the sky like a double-yolked egg. They stopped in a vein of shade under the wall where the cobbles were coolest, and sat with their legs stretched out as stiff as sticks. Sybille thought her sister might feel bad because their lady mother had brought her nothing, but her sister said she did not care, truly, about ribbons. She had a box of them. Sybille knew that was true.

Fabrisse.

Her sister was watching their brothers chip at each other's shoulders with wooden swords.

"Listen to my canso." She hunched up her knees and spread the ribbon across them. It's about a frightful battle up in the mountains. This brave knight has a magic sword. He and his friend kill a whole bunch of infidels at Roncevaux. All by themselves.

Fabrisse rolled up her eyes.

Listen, they both die at the end. Isn't that wonderful?

I've heard it. Fabrisse smiled in her superior way. "It's called Chanson de Roland."

That was true. No, she said stubbornly. I made it up this morning, so help me God.

Hush, Fabrisse said. It's wicked to tell lies.

She searched for a persuasive detail. They chopped off everybody's heads. A hundred thousand bloody heads.

Disgusting.

Why won't you believe me? Why? She laced grimy fingers around the ribbon. 'There was so much blood it ran down the sides of the mountain and drowned a whole village. I swear it." She smiled, delighted with herself.

You really are revolting. Fabrisse grimaced. If I were you, I'd make a song about something beautiful.

But you're not me, Sybille thought. Out loud, she said, Like what? Half turning, she tried to lock her arm through Fabrisse's.

Her sister wrenched away. Look, she said, jerking her arm toward the corner of the yard. There.

Blinking, Sybille followed the direction of Fabrisse's arm. All she could see was the sunlight lifting out of a rosebush. They were only flowers. A rose is nothing, she protested.

She fell silent then, picking at the pearls with her thumbnail. Across the yard Pierre and Mathieu sprawled under an olive tree. They looked sweaty and out of breath. She tried to imagine her brothers with their heads chopped off and shivered. She thought of petals of every rose on every bush in the world, petals without number bleeding into the earth; of every woman and every man who had breathed, or would breathe, and then had stopped breathing. She began to cry, because living was ugly and beautiful, because each thing lived only to die, because she would die. It was the one promise never broken.

She squeezed shut her eyes and asked Our Lady to make her a good person, like Fabrisse. For several minutes she sat there praying in the fiery blear behind her eyelids, before her chin thumped on her chest and the blue ribbon slipped down into a muddy crack between two cobblestones. She pretended to be asleep until she slept.

This day, in the spring of 1198, would remain her earliest memory. Later, when all those voices were stilled forever, she would sift her recollections in bursts of frustration. Surely her beginnings were marked by something more consequential than hair ribbons and squabbles with Fabrisse; events of importance must have taken place, if only she could remember them. But time had scrubbed memory clean, the way a tearing stream grinds smooth a boulder. It would eventually occur to her that the days of her childhood had been stained by a sameness and that this absence of turbulence was what is called peace.

Before the beginning of the new century Sybille had never known any other life existed but the one she was living. The Astarac mansion behind Saint-Sernin square, in the faubourg of Toulouse, had been built of the same ruddy-red brick as the city walls and was undeniably impressive. True, it was not quite as large as the neighboring Maurand house, which, before Sybille's birth, had had a fortified tower on its roof. But things had gotten hot between Pierre Maurand and the Church, and he had been forced to remove the tower. In any case, the fortifications had been nothing but a conceit, and a rather silly one at that. When had a burgher's home been in danger of a siege?

Sybille's father was not a native Toulousan. His youth had been spent on his father's lands in Astarac, or at the smaller but more comfortable castle inherited by his mother in the district of Fanjeaux. There was other ancestral property as well: villages and vineyards and fields, acre upon acre planted with grape and olive, all scattered piecemeal within a fifteen-league radius of the city, but these holdings held small interest for William d'Astarac. Twice each year, at Candlemas and Michaelmas, he toured his lands, more from a sense of duty than necessity, and every summer he escorted his family to the castle at Fanjeaux.

This annual exodus to Cantal had its practical side, for William was above all a practical man. It gave a good deal of pleasure to his aging mother, it excited his sons, who spent their every waking moment on horseback; and it offered an opportunity to have the house in Rue St. Bernard whitewashed. As for himself, William d'Astarac bore his ennui with rural life as best he could and hurried back to the city well before the first frost. He was a burgher, he said proudly. Not a farmer. Three times he had been appointed a consul, and even now it was politics and his precious library of leatherbound books that occupied his time. These two activities were, he always said, the only suitable occupations for a civilized man, and he could be very testy with anyone who disagreed.

The Astaracs were Catholics. But Sybille's grandmother had abandoned the old faith. She had become intrigued, almost obsessed, by new ideas, new ways of thinking about God that seemed closer to the original teachings of Jesus.The adherents of the new faith were known as Cathars, or the others, but they referred to themselves as the Good Christians. How these unorthodoxies had traveled over twelve centuries from Nazareth to southern Europe was not particularly clear. In those days the southerners never thought to question where an idea had come from. It was interesting, or it was not. If it possessed beauty and charm, so much the better. Many of them accepted the two gods of the heretical Good Christians. Just as many did not. There was little competition between the two faiths. Both were careful to respect, both were careful to tolerate each other because to do otherwise would have been discourteous.

Sybille could not remember a time when her family had not been powerful, when people as far distant as Avignon had not been honored to receive invitations to their banquets. The Astarac reputation for hospitality was legendary. In the courtyard torches would smoke fitfully, thrusting aside the darkness; the chandeliers in the great hall cast coppery nimbi upon white tablecloths and whiter bosoms. Pages would strut between kitchen and hall parading roast peacocks whose iridescent feathers had been reattached. Later, once Count Raymond had appeared, the dais would be commandeered by jongleurs and vielle players, the drone of their songs washing across the rooftops. Even the priests of Saint-Sernin, people said, interrupted their chess games to hum a canso. Sometimes a troubadour would come to perform his work for the assembled ladies and lords and depart in the gathering dawn with a stallion for his night's work.

This was the way it had always been for the Astaracs. There was no reason to imagine it would change.

Is there a reason we're attending this thing? William d'Astarac asked his mother. I mean, a good reason.

Na Beatritz squeezed out a crusty smile to show his grumbling was not being taken seriously. For the good of your soul, my dear boy. Though I don't suppose you would call that a sufficiently good reason.

Lady Mother, he rumbled, we are not of one mind in this matter.

It was the Sunday morning before St. John's Day. The family was on its way to Montreal, to a meadow just outside the town walls, where representatives of the rival faiths were going to have a debate. There were many of these occasions in the summer. People enjoyed listening—it was good entertainment—but they also had an opportunity to socialize with their friends. Directly behind William and Beatritz, Sybille jogged along on her white mare, listening to them bicker and scratching the mosquito bites on her neck. By now the sun was up and pumping down June heat on the olive groves and almost frying the rose-tiled roofs of the manor houses.

Beatritz gave a loud sniff. I have no wish to quarrel with you, son. Let us drop the subject.

Are those Spaniards still hanging about?

If you mean the bishop of Osma, yes. And Brother Dominic. He preaches quite often.

I can't imagine why, William said heatedly. Now, what docs Rome stand to gain from two Spanish monks wandering barefoot around the Lauraguais and sleeping in ditches? Nothing. That's what the pope doesn't understand. The Good Christians worship the Almighty in their way and we Catholics in ours. And all of us are going to keep right on doing it. So what's the point of making a fuss? He blotted his brow with the back of his hand. Missionaries indeed. Aren't there any heathen left in Russia?

How you do get yourself worked up, Na Beatritz shouted. And then you miss the point entirely.

The point is—

—that the pope regards all of us as pagans. She looked across with a peppery smile.

Rubbish.

All right, all right. You say rubbish. Of course it's not my place to contradict you. You're a grown man. Actually she still thought of him as a small boy who required constant instruction. But you're unfamiliar with the situation in this district. I'm only trying to explain the thing to you. Her face cracked into a glare. For your own enlightenment.

Thunder! But you haven't explained a damned thing so far.

You're hopeless, hooted Beatritz.

William groaned. Mother.

Sybille smiled into her sleeve. Fearful lest she miss the old lady's next bolt, she nudged the mare's nose level with her grandmother's elbow. But Beatritz had snapped shut her jaw and was staring down the narrow strip of road; William had turned away to study a mule wandering through some peasant's young vines. In Na Beatritz's presence her father's dignity, worn like a cloak in all weathers, swiftly disintegrated. Sometimes Sybille felt sorry for him, because in these scuffles with her grandmother, he won seldom. No, never.

Far across the fields Sybille could see Montreal humped on the crest of a hill. Its slopes shivered with almond blossoms. The fortified town cut off the road and peered out over the valley like a gargantuan watchdog hunkered on its hind legs.

Na Beatritz, she called out. Do you think there will be any fiddlers there?

Beatritz shook her head. What an idea. I've told you. The Spaniards are going to present their views on God. And then we Christians will have a chance to give our side.

Debating about God sounded quite ridiculous to Sybille. Ridiculous and boring. Everybody praying. She hoped there would be at least one fiddler. Even a bad sackbut player would do.

Then, Na Beatritz was saying, it will be decided who has won.

Sybille's brothers pounded by in a torrent of hoofbeats, whooping and dumping a cloud of dirt in their wakes. Sybille closed her eyes and tried not to breathe for a moment. She expected her grandmother to yell after them, but she did not. Sybille asked, Oh, like a tourney?

I suppose.

But who picks the winner?

Don't know. Someone.

I don't see who could decide such a thing. She shuffled forward in the saddle.

The judges.

Sybille gave a cackle of laughter. Almost all the noble families in these parts were Good Christians. If local people were going to judge the contest, there could be little doubt of the outcome. That's stupid. I think—

Damn it, Beatritz said, go back and ride with your mother. You're a pest.

Sybille looked over her shoulder. A hundred paces back, Douce was swaying along beside Fabrisse, and they were smiling and nodding. She swiveled forward again. You mean, she said, chin shaking with laughter, if the goodmen win, I won't have to go to mass anymore?

Beatritz gave her a sharp look. You are not amusing.

Rebuffed, Sybille dropped back and scratched her bites furiously. She heard her father cough and say, Lady Mother, don't you find it demeaning? Catholics should not be obliged to defend the superior faith as if it were invented last week.

Beatritz said, You've got it all wrong—

Abruptly Sybille kicked up her mare and swerved around them. She whisked down the road in pursuit of Pierre and Mathieu.

The meadow was thronged. On the far side of the field a platform had been erected for the speakers. The scorched grass had been crushed down and food stalls thrown up; smoke and fat from roasting meat spattered in the noon air. Farther back, in a grove of cork oaks, swayed the pavilions of the noble families, the Tonneins, the Mazerolles, the Durforts. Sybille stamped about impatiently as her grandmother's servants raised the Astarac tent and spread tapestries and cushions on the ground; already the place was crowded with visitors. She itched to get away.

Douce slouched in a nest of cushions, whispering to one of the Durfort women. When she caught sight of Sybille, she feigned a half-scowl. Sweet heart, that bliaut is filthy. Ask Fabrisse to help you change.

I like it filthy.

Go on. Be a good girl.

She started across the pavilion. Near the opening stood Fabrisse, her face arranged into a self-satisfied smirk. In a high-pitched voice she was talking to a knight who had attached himself, leechlike, to one of her sleeves. All the men Fabrisse attracted seemed to be balding. This one, Sybille decided, must be at least thirty. She veered around them and loped up to her father. He was facing the wall, his arm crooked over the shoulder of his boyhood friend, Jordan de Villeneuve.

Papa, buy me a cheese pasty, she wheedled. Buy me marzipan.

William held out a goblet to Jordan de Villeneuve. The Church, he spat. Rome has no respect for deviant beliefs. Make no mistake about that.

Papa—

William never looked in her direction. He reached into his girdle and fished out a handful of deniers. Sybille picked out three. Then she clicked them all into her fist.

Your daughter is high-spirited, William.

My daughter is spoiled. William shook his head with a smile.

Over her shoulder, Sybille yelled, Thank you, Papa.

Ahead, through the trees, she could see people hurrying forward, and she stumbled after them. The air in the meadow smelled like clover and stale wine and burning grease. Her ears were straining for the sounds of music, but she could hear nothing, only people shouting and laughing and a wine crier trying to hawk a tun of claret that was overpriced by half. Everybody was in a hurry to spend money. They stampeded the merchants' tents, shoved themselves up to the food stalls, had no patience about waiting for anything.

Sybille bought a chunk of roast pork, charred black on the outside, and two cheese pasties. The meat must have just come from the fire because it burned her tongue. She gulped it down quickly and then bit into a pasty. Cobwebs of whitish cheese oozed down the front of her bliaut. The pasty man was handing pies to a man standing behind her and roaring for service. Wait your turn, son of a bitch. Do you think I have six hands?

Sybille hung around a few minutes because she could not decide what to do. The heat was burning a jig on her shoulders. She elbowed forward into a crowd, noticed her brothers, hastily retreated. By craning her neck she could see an old man with matted hair and beard down to his waist. Somebody must have hoisted him onto a barrel because his face, withered as a dried goatskin, suddenly popped up above the heads. Even from that distance Sybille could imagine the tunic seething with vermin. Goggling, she crumbled the last of the pasty into her mouth. The old man began speaking in jerks. He told them he conversed with God, and God said He had not created the world. It was hard for Sybille to hear over the spittles of laughter. God only took credit for making the archangels—it was these beings who had created the sun and the moon.

That's nice, someone bawled. What else did He tell you?

The man picked out a woman eating an onion. You there! Do you know how the world was made? He did not wait for an answer. From the sun's piss. And humans were made from the moon's shit. Aye, by God. It has been revealed to me.

The crowd whistled with guffaws, which did not seem to anger the man a bit. You are shit, I am shit. He was smiling and hopping about unsteadily on the barrel, like a small, loud wren.

Ringside, a woman cackled, But what about Christ? What was He?

Shit, replied the old man promptly. Mahomet too.

Sybille laughed out loud. The world was full of lunatics. More than she had imagined. Feeling a hand jostle her elbow, she whirled around. Oh, she said. It's you.

Aren't you going to say hello?

Hello, she said pleasantly. She had not noticed Jordan de Villeneuve's son in the tent. Obviously he had grown; there was an orderly band of fuzz over his upper lip.

Nice weather for this, he said, smiling.

She nodded.

What's going on?

Nothing. She turned away. I've got to go.

Where? The debate hasn't begun yet.

Have you seen any fiddlers? I want to find the fiddlers. She quickened her step, not waiting to see if he was following. She hoped he was not; she didn't much like the idea of Pons de Villeneuve's company. She bumped against bodies. From the tail of her eye she could see him lumbering along behind her.

Have you written any new poems since last summer? he yelled.

She gave a laugh. New poems? I should say. Dozens. She hesitated. All trash. I'll never be a writer.

Sure you will. You'll just be a writer of trash.

She gave him a piercing look to see if he were being mean. Why, she would rather be no poet at all than a bad one. He caught her arm, made a face, then grinned. Who's your favorite troubadour? she demanded.

Never thought about it. I like them all.

Ahead, two or three men had blocked the way to give the customary three bows to a heretic woman preacher and to ask for her blessing. When the goodwoman drew abreast of Sybille and Pons, Pons stepped into her path and bowed. Remembering her manners, Sybille hastily jerked out three bobs of the head. Then she slapped Pons on the shoulder. Don't be silly. You must have a favorite.

All right. His mouth curled down thoughtfully. Then, Bernart de Ventadorn.

She regretted asking and grimaced. God, if He'll forgive me saying so, should have given you better taste.

He shrugged and laughed. Who do you like?

Peire Vidal.

That buffoon! he hooted. He's crazy.

She puffed out her cheeks, indignant. That's why I like him. She bristled. Of course Vidal was mad. But he was also a genius, no one could deny that.

Finally, Sybille spotted a fiddler she knew sitting beneath a carob tree and fingering the strings of a vielle.

Hie, Blondel! she cried.

He looked up, bowed from the waist, and flashed her a toothy grin. Spindle-legged, he had pimples on his chin and a mushroom cap of straw-colored hair that grew in six directions at once. Have you a new song for me, lady? he called out.

She shook her head at him. What are you going to play? Play something gay.

Lady, would you care to sing with me? He scooped up a pair of cymbals from the grass and thrust them at her.

She did not like her voice. It was rich and strong but throaty, filamented with growls. It lacked the sweetness of a woman's voice. Once Mathieu had called her a frog singing in a well, and she had never forgiven him. Since then she felt self-conscious about her voi*ce. Not that it prevented her from singing, and lustily too. If my grandmother finds out— she mumbled hoarsely to Blondel.

Glancing around furtively, she noticed a crowd gathering. That morning Na Beatritz had been specific about the sort of behavior expected of her. No consorting with idlers, jongleurs, or riffraff. Sit still at the debate and no whistling during prayers. Sybille scanned the faces and noticed Pons, arms folded, staring at her with amusement. She gave the cymbals a tentative jangle, grinned at Blondel, and cleared her throat. "How about this one? The other day I was in paradise—"

Quickly he took up the Monk of Montauban's tune. And that's why I'm feeling so gay. The bow raking the strings threw up a sharp trickle of sound into the hot air.

She shouted the next line. Lord, I said, You're making a big mistake— A chuckle went up from the onlookers.

Sybille, happy, slapped her foot against the hard-packed dirt.

An hour later, full of guilt, she raced toward the speakers' platform and tumbled, panting, into a vacant spot next to Fabrisse.

Her sister looked disapproving. She started to speak, then only hissed, Brother Dominic preached.

She followed Fabrisse's glance. A man in dark blue was making his way to the center of the platform. It was Arnaud Othon, the deacon who frequently visited her grandmother. Arnaud began to speak in an absentminded voice. One might have thought he was remarking on the weather. The Roman Church, he began. The Roman Church is not holy. She is not the bride of Christ.

Someone croaked, Alas! There was a rumble of polite laughter.

Arnaud smiled professionally. On the contrary. She is the church of the Devil. Her doctrines are demoniacal. He stopped and squinted at the faces below. My good friends, I'll tell you what she is. She is that very Babylon that John, in the Apocalypse, called the mother of fornication.

The face of the sun leaned down. A ceiling of heat quivered over the meadow. I must not fall asleep, Sybille thought, and aimed her gaze at Brother Dominic. He was a smallish man who reeked of weariness and was dressed in sandals and a dust-stained cowl. Against the orange light, his pallor was pasty and unhealthy. Sybille recalled hearing that once he had come to a village near Laurac and some hooligan children had thrown manure at him. Perhaps the story was not true.

Dominic did not appear to have the slightest interest in Arnaud Othon, who was walking up and down, still smiling, mouth opening and shutting. Sybille forced her attention on his words, just in case Na Beatritz should quiz her later on. The Lord Jesus Christ, he was saying, did not invent the mass as it exists now. Neither did His apostles.

She did not believe him. She did not disbelieve him either. She did not care who had invented the mass, any more than she thought it worthwhile to ponder the identity of the inventor of the wheel. Several minutes went by. The deacon was taking his time. No telling how long he might stay up there. She yawned and thought enviously of Blondel. It would be cool under the carob tree. She could imagine him sitting in the spongy grass, counting the coins that had been tossed into his cap. Then, vielle slung over his shoulder, he would start down the road toward Fanjeaux. She rolled on her back and listened to time swimming with songs.

Daylight fled the sky in a great hurry. Between one breath and the next, like the plummeting of a portcullis, the rose stain had plunged to blackness. Cressets dipped from the lowest branches of the trees, and the Astarac tent blazed with enough candles to light a Christmas mass. On the white-clothed trestles had been laid platters of roast meat, fruit, and cheese. Beatritz d'Astarac's seneschal was busy filling platters and rushing them, one by one, over to the ladies; a page floated around swinging a silver censer.

Sybille grabbed a goblet and slipped outside. The breeze hissing among the leaves made a sound like rain.

Please. The man's voice was coming from the far side of an oak tree, directly behind her head. You promised.

Don't. You'll crumple my gown.

But you said—

I didn't say tonight.

Ordinarily Sybille took pleasure in spying on Fabrisse and her fumbling suitors, and then teasing her afterward. Tonight she did not care. Her head felt thick from the sun and the brief nap she had snatched during the speeches. She saw Pons coming toward her.

The Christians won this afternoon, he said. Isn't that wonderful?

She did not think so.

Don't you like them? He swiped at his shaggy hair.

Not much. She felt annoyed. All day long she had heard nothing but God, God. Oh, I really don't care one way or another.

She had known Pons de Villeneuve all her eleven years, could remember playing with him every summer at Cantal and once visiting his father's mansion at Carcassonne, and she was too well-bred to have purposely offended him. Of course, her brothers had never liked him, nor had they bothered to hide their feelings. That was understandable.

Pons, as a young child, had possessed only a single remarkable feature. He had been very fat, clumsy in movement, ponderous in thought and speech, in any game puffing to finish last. He could not pass a table without knocking off half the goblets. Now he was no longer fat but merely stocky and solid, and he made her think of an affable bear, half grown.

Pons, unlike the boys of his age, was never interested in getting his nose bloodied and proving his manliness. He was therefore an outsider. One summer the children had discovered a cliff beyond the oak forest. In a reckless mood, they decided to jump off, into the dried-up creek bed below. Everybody in turn had crept quaking to the edge and gone off—everybody but Pons. How they had taunted him! Afterward, Sybille had questioned him, and he answered without hesitation, I was afraid.

Sybille had been appalled. To admit cowardice was something only a fool would do, and she told him so.

I'm not a coward, he protested. But why take stupid chances?

Why, indeed. A few days later, by no surprising coincidence, Pierre had broken his ankle badly at the cliff and spent the rest of that summer confined to the hall. After that, Sybille eyed Pons with a kind of grudging respect; all the same she never felt completely comfortable with him.

But now she forced herself to go to him. Uneasily she said, What's gotten into you?

Pons said, Don't you wonder why my mother isn't here?

His mother was not beautiful like Douce. His mother was a whiner, endlessly bleating about headaches and constipation. She had puggish lips, like a dog Sybille had once seen in a juggler's act. No, where is she? Did you leave her home?

Yes. He gave her a sideways stare, eyes smoky as rain. She's dead.

For a moment she said nothing. She could not imagine Na Raymonde dead. People were always dying, but she had never remarked it particularly; it had never happened to anyone she knew. She stared stupidly at Pons. The thought of Douce pounded into her head. I'm sorry, she mumbled. Truly I am. Nobody told me.

Pons gazed at the ground.

Tears, hot, salty, itched at her eyes. Claps of laughter rocketed from the pavilion. She did not want to think about Na Raymonde. She hated her for dying. In her throat a sob flowered, fragile as a bud, and she pressed her fist over her mouth and wept.

Her mother came out and folded her arms tight around her head and hustled her to bed. That night, lullabied by the scent of lavender, she slept on Douce's pallet.

She did not see Pons again for two or three years. The next summer the whole family was involved with her brothers, who left to begin their knighthood training with the count of Foix. The way they strutted and showed off, anyone would have assumed they expected to be dubbed in a month, when actually they were only going to be squires, along with fifty or sixty other lads.

And the following year all the attention was on her sister. That was the year of Fabrisse's wedding, and nobody talked of anything else.

Their father complained, happily, that after paying for his daughter's dowry and for the cost of the nuptial feast he would end a poor man. Sybille got used to hearing him rant for whole evenings about the villages and vineyards Fabrisse would have and the wedding guests he planned to invite. He would sit at a table in his library, account books and lists spread under his elbows, and throw back his head in frustration, swearing that he refused to spend one more sou, even if Fabrisse remained unwed forever.

Douce whirled through each day in purposeful agitation. Her trips to the bazaars became more frequent, more frantic. She would buy a silk one day, decide it was not good enough for Fabrisse, and return it the next. Even so, she managed to keep a dozen seamstresses occupied.

In the midst of this Sybille could not help feeling half superfluous, half in exile. Fabrisse was living; she was not. Doucc was sensitive enough to notice this, because one afternoon at the end of Lent, she came to Sybille's room. She sat on the edge of the bed and Sybille climbed into her lap. Finally Douce said, "Why don't you write a canso in honor of Fabrisse's marriage? That would please her."

Sybille sighed. Fabrisse was not musical. She would not care.

We could hire a jongleur to compose the music, her mother suggested. Have it sung at the wedding. You want to, don't you?

The last thing she wanted to do was write a song for Fabrisse. Yes, she lied. I'll try.

So far as technique went, Sybille was developing into a fairly competent poet. She had easily mastered the metrical schemes for canso, sirventes, alba, and tenso, and could produce a well-rhymed song for almost any occasion. She thought about things more deeply now, or imagined she did, but she had yet to find a style of her own. Her verse sounded like copies of Cercamon's or Peire Vidal's. She was a mimic of hand-me-down voices.

A canso for the bridal couple would be no easy matter. The subject failed to inspire her, especially her sister's betrothed. Contrary to tradition and custom, Fabrisse herself had selected him, and William, always indulgent, had let her have her way. Andrew Faure was nothing special. He was neither tall nor good-looking, and he was old, sufficiently old enough to be Fabrisse's father, and had in fact a son two years her elder. For nearly a decade he had been a widower, and he devoted his time entirely to tournaments. Fighting in these events was a passion, virtually his only one, and if he did not ride he came to bet. For this reason he was rarely at home, which, Sybille pointed out to her sister, was not exactly a hopeful omen. But Fabrisse did not seem worried; after they were wed he would stay home. She would see to it.

Worse than all this, Andrew Faure came from Beziers. How did that old joke go? As crazy as the Biterrois. Poor Fabrisse, thought Sybille, how unpoetic, how crass.

She wrote an eight-stanza love song in the mewling style of Bernart de Ventadorn.

Before she opened her eyes, Sybille could hear her sister sobbing and the sound of their mother's slippers padding swiftly along the passageway. A door opened. It's raining! Fabrisse wailed. Mama, why is it raining? Why? The door closed. But after prime the sky began to lighten, and by midmorning the sun was scorching, and Fabrisse complained of sweating to death before she reached Saint-Etienne.

The house was packed. For days each featherbed had been holding twice its usual number of occupants, and some of the wedding guests were obliged to sleep on pallets in the great hall. Upstairs, Fabrisse's chamber hummed with giggling, chattering girls who clustered around the finery Douce had labored to collect these past months. Special hooks had been nailed up to hang the gowns and fur-lined cloaks. Seventeen pairs of slippers stood in rows beside a chest that held twice that number of lace-trimmed chemises and stockings embroidered with tulips and lilies of the valley.

All that morning Fabrisse stood near the window, straight as a beech. Around her knelt and stood half a dozen maids, expertly flitting their hands over her pale body like confectioners decorating a plain cake. The bride was bathed with scented soap, and then oil was rubbed into every inch of her skin. Sodden towels lay in crumpled heaps at her feet. The first layer was applied: a chemise of fine linen, its sleeves worked in gold thread. Then over her head went the bliaut, flaming-red silk cut around the bottom into girons and edged with emerald embroidery set with pearls. Low on her hips was wound a braided cord of pale-green silk, each of its ends studded with a carbuncle. And finally a sleeveless mantle of garnet brocade, lined with delicate emerald silk. Fabrisse was standing because it was impossible to sit.

Douce appeared in the doorway and gave her eldest daughter a bruised look. Fabrisse, my love, you look like a queen. So now you're going to leave me! I can't believe it. Just think of it, my first baby is going away. Oval tears were spilling out of her eyes. Oh, if I ever manage to live through this day. I don't know what I'm going to do.

Fabrisse's face wrinkled like a cucumber pickled in strong brine. Really now, Mama. Stop before you make me cry.

I tell you, I can't stand it. Douce rushed away.

The maids twisted Fabrisse's hair into braids and tied the ends with ribbons. One of the women climbed onto a stool; with a small brush she started