Free The troubadour's song by Patricia Werner

they passed turned into blue ridges in the distance. They passed a walled abbey, its gardens spiked with cypress trees. But they dared not stop to take a meal yet, and so pressed on into the hills, winding upward and downward, sometimes keeping to the road, sometimes striking off on a cart track that passed through small villages where the peasants busy with early-morning chores stopped to watch them.
    Allesandra inhaled the great solitude of the hills as they rode on, stopping occasionally to water the horses and take a drink themselves. They still had more than a day and a half's ride ahead, when they paused to breakfast on bread and cheese.
    They began to question peasants they encountered. "Have you seen any French soldiers?" Allesandra asked a woodland farmer who stopped with his load of chopped logs.
    He shook his head. "Heard they were in the towns north of here, but none come this way. Not that they're welcome."

    "Thank you."
    But as the day waned, they tended to be more alert. When they came to a straggle of houses built along the road, they paused well in the distance to scout for any sign of soldiers. They stopped to dine at a simple tavern, but gained no more news.
    Roussillon nuzzled her when she came out of the tavern, and she offered him pieces of an apple. Her heart warmed to the big horse and she declined to trade him for a smaller palfrey when she had the opportunity.
    Allesandra was bone weary. And even though the thought of home urged her onward, she knew they had to rest. So when darkness fell, they asked for rooms at an abbey that took in guests. They left again early next morning.
    Jaufre helped her mount again for the last stretch.
    A mist seemed to hover over the mountains in the distance, but they pressed on. By late that day, the sun glinted on rocks and soil, turning everything to flame. Allesandra must have dozed in the saddle, for she was jerked awake when they stopped on the crest of a low hill on her own lands and looked across the narrow valley that spread upward to her own chateau. A feeling of welcome should have pervaded her sore body. But instead a tremor of fear paralyzed her as she stared upward.
    From the cylindrical keep and the two square towers that topped the yellow sandstone walls flew pennants with fields of blue and drops of gold—not the colors of Toulouse, but the fleur-de-lis of the Capetian kings of France.
    Five
    She was too late. The sting of grief grew to a simmering anger and then one of despair. Her home had been taken by the French already, but how?
    "Come, Roussillon," she said, and kicked his sides, leaning

    forward. Nothing was to be gained by hanging back. It was her duty now to find out what devastation had been wrought by the French and who had commanded it.
    Jaufre flew with her through the meadow and then up the slope toward the bridge over the dry moat that surrounded the castle. Castle Valtin rose on a rocky hillside to command a long valley that twisted through the mountains and eventually led to the passes through the Pyrenees. To their right, the summer's harvest stretched in rows along a gentle slope, waiting to be gathered in. She saw no evidence of carnage such as there had been at Muret, but. . . dear God, were any of her household knights dead, servants ill treated? Her heart twisted inside her as she conjured up the worst.
    They drew up to the gatehouse where French guards stood with lances crossed barring the way.
    "Let me in!" she shouted, Roussillon rearing on his hind legs as she jerked him to a stop.
    A sergeant-at-arms stepped forward. "This castle has been taken in the name of the king of France. Who wishes to enter?"
    "Lady Allesandra Valtin," she shouted. "Get out of my way. This is my castle."
    And she turned her charger preparing to run them down, for the way across the drawbridge behind them was open.
    But their lances parted as she charged across the bridge, her retainer behind her. And then she was under the upraised portcullis and