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    The Mad Woman of La Catalane: Accidental Heretics, #3.5
    The Mad Woman of La Catalane: Accidental Heretics, #3.5
    The Mad Woman of La Catalane: Accidental Heretics, #3.5
    Ebook100 pages1 hour

    The Mad Woman of La Catalane: Accidental Heretics, #3.5

    By E.A. Stewart

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    About this ebook

    Isabella, the steward of Valeros in the eastern Pyrenees, has twice been falsely condemned as a heretic. In 1210, Isabella and Tomas, the mercenary she married, identified their archenemy: a secret society called Crux Lunata. At the siege of Minerve, Isabella narrowly escaped being burned with the town's heretics.

    In late summer 1211, Isabella and Tomas set out to join Pedro d'Aragon's long-planned invasion of Andalusia. However, the Crux Lunata still pursue them, and Isabella flees for her life, seeking safety among the heretics hiding in caves in the hills.

    The Mad Woman of La Catalane, a novella, supplements the story told in Crux Lunata, Book 3 of the Accidental Heretics adventure series, a saga of people caught in the invasion of southern France known as the Albigensian Crusade.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJugum Press
    Release dateJan 14, 2017
    ISBN9781393559283
    The Mad Woman of La Catalane: Accidental Heretics, #3.5
    Author

    E.A. Stewart

    E.A. Stewart is an American writer whose Accidental Heretics series and new Legends of Valerós series explore intrigues in France and Spain in the 13th century. Ms. Stewart lives and writes in Seattle. She also writes contemporary fiction as Annie Pearson.

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      Book preview

      The Mad Woman of La Catalane - E.A. Stewart

      The Accidental Heretics Come Home…

      For some, peace is never possible.

      ISABELLA, THE STEWARD OF Castell-de-Valerós in the eastern Pyrenees, has twice been falsely condemned as a heretic. In 1210, Isabella and Tomás, the mercenary she married, identified their archenemy: a secret society called Crux Lunata. At the siege of Minerve, Isabella narrowly escaped being burned with the town’s heretics.

      To avoid the crusade against Cathars in the Languedoc, Tomás, Isabella, and her son Sebastián traveled to Cairo, where Tomás claimed his son Yusuf.

      In late summer 1211, Isabella, Tomás, Yusuf, and Isabella’s son Sebastián set out for Barcelona to join the Valerós knights, who are training soldiers for Pedro d’Aragón’s long-planned invasion of Andalusia.

      1

      The Market Town

      The Narbonne-Girona road

      September 29, Michaelmas, 1211

      AI, DONZEL. IF YOU DRESSED better, you’d get more respect.

      A southern seigneur pushed his way inside the market booth to purchase a painted leather baldric, shoving past Isabella, who held the modest cuirass she intended to buy, forcing her to stumble and knock over the vendor’s stand of freshly tanned belts and baldrics, the smell of hot leather filling her nose, cows-foot oil smearing her hands. The seigneur’s dog, more wolf than Great Pyr and big as a vintner’s pony, buried its nose in her breeches. After regaining her balance, she scratched that place near its ears. The beautiful beast looked up at her as if in love, slobbering over her hand and sleeve.

      "Leave my dog alone, boy. If you don’t want to lose your hand and half your punxor."

      Being mistaken for a man was good. The disguise had kept her safe while travelling with Tomás and Sebastián in Cairo and on Cyprus. Now they were traveling from the Languedoc to Barcelona, but even on this peaceful road between Narbonne and Girona, she preferred having all the benefit of unadorned squire’s leathers and light chainmail.

      Being shoved aside: not so good. Isabella glanced back at Tomás, who was dickering for woolen stockings at the stall next door. She waved off Tomás’s concern about the man who brushed against her. It was her duty to assert the honor of the inheritors of Castell-de-Valerós. In this part of the Pyrenees, even these lower hills, household honor was a newborn’s first breath.

      Girona, isn’t it? She guessed from the man’s accent that he hailed from a Catalan city further south. The town that’s never under siege? High walls? That’s why your fathers don’t have to teach their sons honor? She called it paratge: the honor as practiced everywhere between the Rhone and Dordogne and Tyr rivers. People in this southern part of Christendom held paratge as an ancient tradition, the honor one owed to forefathers and to every person in one’s household. She addressed the big dark dog in an elegant Narbonne accent, while scratching its head: Who’s a good dog? Who’s so pretty? Yes, God made you good and pretty, didn’t He?

      The dog loved her.

      Behind Isabella, Tomás sighed, likely thinking he’d have to rescue her, though he surely knew better. She’d married him, yes, but when dressed as Vidal of Valerós, she invited only problems she could solve without his help.

      I’m the seigneur of Xirgú. The arrogant knight dropped silver in the shopkeeper’s hand, not bothering to look her way. My father died carrying the Cross to Jerusalem. I know paratge.

      Your father knew honor, but died before he could teach it. She didn’t remember Xirgú in any crusader stories told by her grandfather, Pèire Leteric. I am Vidal of Valerós. The seigneur who raised me saw Jerusalem. And Jaffa. And Damascus. And carried home more honor than you’ve pissed into the gutters of Girona.

      Grabbing his fancy baldric from the shopkeeper’s hands, the man confronted her, a sneer distorting his too-handsome face.

      A leonine mane, like the yellow-haired crusader Simon de Montfort, only in the ruddy shade you find in the south. A bold chin, never challenged when jutted into others’ business. Dark, southern eyes under heavy brows. A familiar stare, like in a forgotten dream. Growling, while his dog panted amiably.

      Did your honorable seigneur warn you that undersized donzels must defer to their betters?

      My seigneur was Pèire Leteric of Valerós. He didn’t have betters. Anywhere in the south.

      Tomás again stirred behind her, likely ready for a brawl.

      The man’s brows twitched, his eyes flashed, as if trying to remember a forgotten message. He shoved her aside again and strode past Tomás, intending to bump him in the same way as he did Vidal of Valerós. Tomás stepped back, so the seigneur missed and stumbled. The tall seigneur righted himself and stared down at Tomás. Then he sneered.

      How our blood has weakened. Paratge is sunk in heresy. Our race of men dirtied by blackamoors and Saracen filth.

      It’s Kurd and Berber and a landed Castilian grandmother. Tomás quietly repeated his heritage after the rude man had passed out of hearing.

      Isabella entered the narrow stall, which smelled of sun-warmed leather tanned just enough for road- and battle-wear. The leatherworker glanced up, more intent on the lunch he’d spread on his workbench than the altercations between seigneurs. He quoted an unjust price, and Isabella considered how badly she wanted this particular cuirass.

      Seven silver morabatins? How about four? She agreed to five, since the tattered cuirass she’d worn for the past year’s travel wouldn’t hold up to any more repair. When she pulled off her old vest, that wolf-dog prodded at the gap of her breeches again, wanting another scratch.

      "Hola, gos!" the rude seigneur called, then whistled for his dog, scowling when he found his pet, its big, beautiful head being scratched by the irascible donzel of Valerós. The dog followed its master, one last look back at Isabella.

      You are a mad woman. Tomás’s burned-honey voice in Isabella’s ear. Was that really necessary?

      It was amusing. She tugged on her new cuirass and left the old one to the leatherworker, to do with it what he might. Your brother Chrétien would have—

      Been able to protect himself if his challenge came to blows.

      And what would you have done if he insulted your honor and your family?

      "Punched him in the punxor."

      •

      Yusuf’s and Sebastián’s perpetual banter pulled Isabella back into the world, to the scents and sounds of the market.

      This is the best market town since Toulouse. Yusuf insisted on his claim, likely so that Sebastián might argue against it.

      I can’t agree, Yusuf. Narbonne has a better market than Toulouse. Anywhere is better.

      You’re prejudiced. You hate Toulouse. Admit it.

      "It’s no secret. The gutters of Toulouse are full of false crusaders wanting to burn

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