Thibaud felt a burning resentment. He had no desire to go to war. He was not out of sympathy with the Albigensians. They had been foolish perhaps in trying to pit themselves against Rome, but he was all in favour of the easy comfortable life they had so enjoyed. Raymond of Toulouse was a man of culture and a friend of his. Raymond was more interested in music, literature and discussion than in war.
And he, Thibaud the Troubadour, was being asked – nay, commanded – to leave the comfort of his castle and go to war.
And he must … because he was a vassal of the King and the King commanded him.
With something less than a good grace Thibaud set out for Avignon, but as he rode along he sang one of his latest compositions, the subject of which was the beauty of a lady whom he could not get out of his mind – and all knew that that lady was Blanche the Queen.
He would have liked to sing of a rare passion between them which both admitted to in secret, but it was not true and might even be considered treason. He could imagine those cold blue eyes on him if he hinted at such a relationship between them. She would banish him from court and he would never see her again. So he had to be careful.
So to Avignon – that rich and beautiful town which owed its prosperity to its clever trading and the peace it enjoyed with the neighbouring Counts of Toulouse. The people of Avignon shared a desire with those of Toulouse to live in peace and comfort, they loved music and welcomed the troubadours of Toulouse and with them shared the new ideas and found great pleasure in discussing them. Avignon was not going to give in easily.
Thibaud arrived in a mood of discontent which was certainly not dispersed by the sight of the grey walls of the town which looked impregnable and the soldiers encamped outside them weary and disillusioned for they had come expecting a quick victory.
When Thibaud went to the King to inform him of his coming and to pay his respects, he was shocked by the sight of Louis whose skin was yellowish and his eyes bloodshot; he was a sick man, concluded Thibaud.
He asked after the King’s health and received a short reply that there was nothing wrong with it.
An opinion I do not share, Sire, was Thibaud’s inward comment, but he bowed his head and said he was glad to hear that was so.
‘The town has some strong defences,’ Thibaud ventured.
‘That’s so,’ replied Louis. ‘But I shall take it … no matter how long I stay here.’
Thibaud thought: A vassal owes his lord but forty days and forty nights. I am not prepared to stay here longer.
They studied each other – the Queen’s husband and the poet who declared his love for her in his verses. My verses will outlast you, my lord, thought Thibaud.
‘I am glad you came,’ said Louis. ‘It reached my ears that you were reluctant to do so and had you disobeyed me I should have been obliged to take measures against you.’
‘My lord, I came to your command. I have sworn allegiance, and when you call me to battle I owe you forty days and nights of my service.’
‘I should have been forced to make an example of you, Thibaud,’ the King warned him, ‘by laying waste the lands of Champagne.’
Thibaud thought: You would have found stout resistance, my lord, and you are in no position to wage war against those who would do you no harm if you left them in peace. You have mighty enemies. The English will soon be at your throat. You need friends, Louis, not enemies. You poor creature. Her husband. I know I am over fat, too fond of good food and wine; but for all that I am more of a man than you are.
He said: ‘It is not good, my lord, for there to be dissension in your own ranks. So I am here to fight with you in a cause which has no great concern for me.’
The King dismissed him and Thibaud left his camp to mingle with others of his kind who had been called to honour their vows. He was not surprised that many of them expressed a similar discontent. They were ready enough to fight for their lands; they would have gone into battle against the English; but even though this war had the backing of Rome and they were said to win Heaven’s forgiveness by taking part in it, their hearts were not in it.
‘Forty days and forty nights – well I dare swear it can be endured,’ said Thibaud.
‘Do you think the siege will be over by then?’ was the reply. ‘They have food and ammunition within those walls to hold out for a year.’
Thibaud shrugged his shoulders. ‘But I, my friend, have given a vow to serve only forty days and nights.’
The weary siege went on. The people of Avignon were truculent, believing that in time their friends of Toulouse would arrive to save them.
The heat was intense; men were dying of disease and Louis ordered that their bodies be disposed of by throwing them into the river. It was not the best of burying grounds but at least it was better than having rotten corpses lying around.
His own deteriorating health was noticed.
‘My God,’ said Philip Hurepel, ‘the King looks sick unto death.’
Philip Hurepel was disturbed. He was fond of the King as well as being a loyal servant. They shared the same father for Philip Hurepel was the son of Philip Augustus by Agnes, the wife he had taken after he had declared himself divorced from Ingeburga. The Pope had declared Philip Hurepel legitimate as a concession to his mother, but it was not everyone who accepted him as such. However, Philip Hurepel had never shown any desire to assert his right. He was a Prince of France and loved by Louis; in return he gave his affection and loyalty.
He discussed the King’s condition with a group of friends, among them Thibaud.
‘The King has fits of shivering which I like not,’ he said. ‘I fear they are a symptom of something worse. He finds it hard to keep himself warm. I have told them to put furs on the bed. But no matter if he be weighed down with furs he is still cold.’
‘What he wants,’ said Thibaud, ‘is a woman in his bed to keep him warm.’
Philip Hurepel looked with distaste at the troubadour.
‘As a poet,’ he retorted, ‘your thoughts leap to such matters. The King has ever turned his back on such amusements.’
‘’Tis an old custom,’ said Thibaud. ‘I merely mention it. When an old man cannot keep warm at nights there is only one remedy. I have seen it work again and again.’
‘Such talk is disloyalty to the King,’ said Philip sternly.
‘Thibaud is right,’ put in the Count of Blois. ‘A naked girl of sixteen years … that is what he needs.’
Philip ran his hand through his shock of hair which his father had remarked on and from which he had acquired his nickname. ‘Louis would be furious,’ he said.
‘He would have to admit that the remedy proved to be a cure.’
‘I have been close to the King for many years,’ said Philip, ‘and never have I known him to take a strange woman to his bed.’
Thibaud folded his hands together and raised his eyes. ‘Our King is a saint,’ he said with a hint of mockery in his voice. There was a great deal of mischief in Thibaud. The King was ill – sick of a fever. It might well be that he was a little delirious. What would he do if he awoke in the night and found a naked girl in his bed? Would he think it was the incomparable Blanche?
He had ever been faithful to his queen. He loved her; but so did Thibaud. Perhaps they had different ways of loving. Thibaud was romantic; he had to admit he enjoyed this saga of unrequited love. Louis would never indulge in such fantasy. Why should he? He had the reality.