The War Without Love
Short Fiction in honor of CJ Sansom
Holly A Brown at Medieval Musings has created a memorial writing event for the author CJ Sansom, who died in 2024. Sansom wrote the Tudor-era Matthew Shardlake series, as well as the outstanding Winter in Madrid. Participants were asked to write a short historical mystery featuring a sleuth and his assistant, honoring Sansom’s style. I hope you enjoy The War Without Love, a tale of the troubadour Bertran de Born, set during the era of Richard the Lionheart.
THE WAR WITHOUT LOVE
Southern France
February 1183
The castle of Hautefort emerged from the snow-covered hills of the Dordogne valley. The smoky tang of wood fires was in the air. A rider, cloaked and hooded, stared at his former home, warmed against the chill by the rage rising in his breast. Beside him, a scrawny young man braced for an explosion.
“De Born, you’ve got a lot of balls coming here.”
Bertran swept the snow from his beard and shoulders. His servant Papiol scraped the mud from Bertran’s boots. Bertran unconsciously rubbed his protruding belly, staring hungrily at the warm, candle-lit hall where he had played as a child, sung as a man, and ruled as its lord. He’d crawled the stone floors, memorized the tapestries, frequented every bench.
“Count Richard, how could I not? When you decided to host a Candlemas tournament of song, I could let no man best me in my own hall.”
Bertran de Born was a knight, and perhaps the most famous troubadour in all of France. Richard was Count of Poitiers, Duke of Aquitaine, the future ‘Lionheart,’ and son of King Henry II of England and Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine. The sons of Henry and Eleanor—Henry the Younger, Richard, Geoffrey, and John—were violent and rebellious, constantly at their father’s throat—and each other’s. People called them ‘the Devil’s Brood.’
A feral smile lit Richard’s angular face.
“De Born, it’s not your hall. When you joined my brother Henry’s war against my father, you lost the right to call it so. And I have taken it by arms; it is doubly not yours.”
“They called it ‘The War Without Love,’ did they not, when you yourself rebelled against your father?”
Richard eyed Bertran stonily. “When he crowned my brother Henry ‘the Young King’, I confess I forgot myself for a time. But that was a decade ago. You forget yourself now. You owe my father your loyalty.”
“One Henry or the other, I will have my lands restored.”
“It is fortunate this tournament is under the flag of peace, else I would slay you where you stand.”
“Count Richard is a man of his word, it is said, and for that, if nothing else, I am grateful.” Bertran, a provocateur, smiled his most insincere smile. “Will you be performing?”
“As I fund the prize, it would be unseemly for me to compete.”
“Just as well, my Lord, it would doubly sting to lose your purse, and to me.”
Bertran scanned the room as he jousted with Richard. This wordplay did not require his full attention, knowing Richard’s blade would remain sheathed. He knew most of the knights present, knew they would sing, knew they could not compete with him. He’d ridden for three days to attend, composing a sirventes, a political song, along the way. The usual suspects were here: wealthy lords, beautiful ladies, and servants. My servants, he thought angrily. Bertran was arrogant as any lord, but made a point to know the servants wherever he was. Only servants knew certain things, and Bertran believed power came not only from a sword, but also from knowledge, and song.
One man he did not recognize. Long black hair, carefully groomed. A countenance opaque, yet watchful. Handsome, but for the livid scar running down his left cheek.
“Who is that?”
Richard just laughed. He clapped his hands loudly, and the room fell silent.
“It’s time to sing.”
The troubadours sang. They were knights; they sang of war and glory. They were men, and sang of love. Courtly love, the secret love between a knight and a lady, herself likely locked in a loveless arranged marriage.
Bertran was not above singing his way beneath a lady’s skirts, but… Let others sing of love. Today is a day for war. His brassy baritone rang out.
I love the time of Easter,
When leaves and flowers appear,
And it pleases me to hear the songs of birds,
Those echoes in the ear.
The beauty of spring was the traditional opening of a canso, a love song, and he delighted in the ladies’ dreamy expressions as they prepared for a tale of doomed love.
It pleases me when raiders set people running,
Knights arrayed and castles besieged,
The horses of the dead running free.
Arms broken, heads shattered, give great joy to me.
He sang on, relishing the pained looks on the faces of the ladies. The men were nodding.
Barons, pawn your castles,
Be ready for your war.
Papiol, go speedily to “Yea and Nay,”
Tell him there’s too much peace in play.
The audience gasped as he invoked Richard’s hated nickname, ‘Sir Yes and No.’ Then there was stunned silence. The room looked as one at Papiol. Would he approach Richard? The sound of one man laughing filled the silence.
“At last, we agree on something,” Richard said. “There’s too much peace about.”
Afterward, Bertran worked the room, coming face to face with the man with the scar.
“It takes a certain kind of man to bait the bear in his own den,” smiled the man.
“It’s not his den,” snapped Bertran. “It’s mine. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure?”
“Indeed. I enjoyed your song.”
“Yes, but your name?”
“People call me the Knight with the Scar.”
Richard interrupted.
“Want your lands back, de Born? Kneel to my father, renounce my brother, and tell me where I can find him defenseless.”
Richard leaned in. Quiet rage lurked beneath the expressionless veneer on his face.
“Consider it. Now, it’s time for you to leave. Give my brother my regards. Tell him I hope to meet him on the field of battle.”
In Limoges, Henry the Young King was in his element. As Bertran entered the main hall, Henry lounged while a knight sang. Henry was tall and fair of face. His father had given him no source of income; he borrowed widely and spent lavishly. His creditors believed their investment would pay off when Henry’s father died. So Henry dressed well, drank better, and always threw a good party. The flushed faces Bertran saw were evidence of that. Inevitably, people started calling Henry the Young King ‘YK,’ a familiarity he permitted as a cat accepts stroking.
“Give us a song, de Born!” YK yelled.
One Henry or the other, I’ll get my castle back, Bertran thought.
“Of course, my Lord, I thought you’d never ask.”
Bertran had not even had time to get clean boots; he sang in his hose. This crowd would get no song of war; the ladies here had desires he needed to satisfy. For them, he sang a canso of forbidden love between a knight and his paramour, full of passion, double entendres, witty wordplay. That the knight’s paramour was married to another man bothered no one.
As Bertran sang, he faltered. The Knight with the Scar! He had no business here. Only Bertran was foolish enough to enter an enemy camp under promise of peace. The man must be a spy. Concluding his song, he went to question him.
“Sir Bertran, that was delightful, I cannot get enough of your songs!”
Lady Yquebeuf, the darkly elegant wife of YK’s chancellor Adam Yquebeuf, had materialized in front of Bertran as he tried to reach the knight. He sighed. The code demanded he give his full attention to a lady of the court.
“M’lady, you are too kind.”
“I’m told Queen Eleanor keeps Courts of Love, to judge lover’s quarrels between supplicant knights and their mistresses, is it so?”
“I am sure I would not know, m’lady,” Bertran responded, laughing. “I’ve never had complaint from any of my lovers.”
“Do not dodge my question, Sir Bertran. Do these courts exist? For a knight to wrong his lady is something which must be punished, surely? I wish I could go.”
As she spoke, Bertran saw the Knight with the Scar arguing quietly with William Marshal, the renowned warrior and the Young King’s right hand. But Lady Yquebeuf was insistent, and courtly courtesy forbade Bertran from disengaging. Bertran knew the courts were entirely legendary, but not everyone wants the truth.
“They say Queen Eleanor and her daughter Marie of Champagne hold secret court in Poitiers, m’lady, but I do not know the truth of it.”
Now it was Bertran’s turn to sigh. While he was speaking with Lady Yquebeuf, the Knight with the Scar had disappeared. He’s not going anywhere, I suppose. Making his excuses, he went to find the Young King.
YK was more than a little drunk. Still, Bertran needed his attention.
“My lord, a word?”
“Of course, de Born!” YK said, too loudly, surrounded by sycophants.
“Alone, my lord?”
“And we were having such a good time,” YK groused, gesturing for everyone to disperse. “What is it, that will not wait?”
“There was a knight here, a man with a scar on his face. Who is he?”
“Not entirely sure. I think Yquebeuf brought him.”
“My lord, you recall I have just returned from Hautefort, which your brother has taken from me.”
Bertran was careful not to disparage Richard; though the Young King hated Richard, he was sensitive to any slight to the Plantagenet name. Bertran had staked everything switching his allegiance to the Young King; he could not afford to antagonize him.
“Yes, we agreed it might yield intelligence on my brother.”
Bertran hesitated.
“I saw the man at Hautefort with Richard. Are we sure of his loyalty? I suspect him as a spy.”
YK looked around, did not see the man.
“He’s gone to sleep, I suppose. Tomorrow, we’ll beard him, get to the quick of it. I’ve no reason to doubt him, but your news suggests caution. Find me in the morning.”
The revelry continued. Bertran, exhausted from his travels, retired early.
Papiol woke Bertran in the pre-dawn light.
“Trouble, my lord. The King wants you.”
Bleary-eyed, Bertran followed Papiol to another room, guarded by a young knight. As Bertran entered, he saw YK staring at a man’s body on the bed. It was the man with the scar, a knife protruding from his heart.
“What do you make of it, de Born?”
“Well, murder, but you knew that.”
YK gave Bertran a hard look. “Did you have anything to do with it?”
Bertran’s heart lurched. “What? No!”
YK looked at Bertran for a beat, then said, “I changed my mind last night, I came to him after Matins, questioned him about his movements and his loyalty. He said he was worried you would betray me, promise Richard anything to get your lands back.”
Bertran laughed nervously.
“Ridiculous. I would not, nor would Richard take me anyway. You know how the man prizes loyalty.”
YK studied Bertran for a moment.
“Very well. Find me the killer, and we can consider the matter closed. And I will restore your lands.”
Bertran spoke to Papiol in hushed tones.
“The man was a spy, I’m sure of it. Sent by Richard, or perhaps the old King Henry. The motive for the man’s death is obvious. But why the secrecy? It was within the Young King’s rights to kill him…”
Papiol pondered. “Perhaps it was a matter of love, Sir Bertran, not war. He was stabbed in the heart, after all.”
Bertran snorted. “You’ve been listening to too many of my songs. People don’t kill for love. The man was a spy, assuredly. Who would have done the deed for YK? And how do I accuse them, without implicating YK as well? I must think on it…”
“Perhaps we should find the killer, and worry about the politics afterward?”
Bertran grinned.
“Nonsense. It’s never too early to worry about politics. Let’s go find the servants.”
A conversation with a servant Bertran knew, greased with a few coins, yielded interesting information. William Marshal had been seen entering Queen Margaret’s chambers in the late evening. Bertran swore. The charge of adultery was a dagger pointed at Marshal’s heart. But it complicated things—Marshal might be innocent, though murder of a spy was a lesser crime than adultery with the Queen. They also learned that the Knight with the Scar had been seen going into Lady Yquebeuf’s room. Bertran swore again. Am I the only one that didn’t fuck last night? Courtly love, indeed.
“Let us have a conversation with the Marshal,” Bertran said to Papiol.
William Marshal was a tournament champion across Europe; he was dangerous with a weapon. He’d saved Queen Eleanor during a raid a decade ago, and had been the confidant of the old King Henry, Eleanor, and the Young King, so he was dangerous politically as well. Cornered with evidence of adultery, he was thrice dangerous. Bertran approached cautiously.
“My lord, you have heard of the recent death. Our lord has asked me to investigate. I regret that I have delicate questions.”
William looked at him blandly.
“There is no easy way to ask this. But I saw you argue with the man last night, and I have learned you entered the Queen’s chambers later in the evening.”
William watched him, expressionless. Bertran spoke again.
“And so?”
“I have not heard a question yet.”
Bertran’s blood rose, and his anger got the better of him.
“God’s blood, man! Did you kill him? Are you sleeping with the Queen?”
“No, and no.” William’s expression did not change.
“I can confirm with the Queen your presence; it would be proof of your innocence. But it will expose your liaison. Is that what you want?”
“You must do as you see fit. Was there anything else? I am not used to having my honor impugned by wandering minstrels.”
Bertran’s blood rose further, but he managed to restrain himself. The man was dangerous.
“Very well, my lord. You understand, these questions must be asked.”
“Get out.”
Abashed, Bertran whispered to Papiol as they left.
“A visit to Lady Yquebeuf, then.”
“Why, Sir Bertran, what a delight to see you. How may I help?”
“A few questions, m’lady.”
“Might your servant leave us in peace?” She batted her eyes and looked at him frankly. “I am sure a more intimate conversation may be had thereby.”
“I think not, m’lady, and with respect I question your sincerity. For did you not have another lover visit you last night?”
Lady Yquebeuf’s face crumpled.
“You cannot tell my husband. He suspects, of course, but turns a blind eye. My feelings for my lover, well, all your songs tell us such feelings are to be desired, and satiated. I love him.”
“Yet, apparently, you felt the need to kill him.”
“What? No…”
Bertran stared, and stared, and then her tears began to flow.
“He was seeing another woman, in the court of Count Richard. I learned of it yesterday. The more I listened to your song, the angrier I became, so I went to him. My feelings permitted no other course, and in the heat of our argument…”
Bertran looked at the floor guiltily. Perhaps only war songs from now on. Then he shook himself and replied.
“You have listened to too many of my songs, m’lady. They are just songs. Love is not a feeling, love is action, and that was an act without love.”
Author’s note
In 1170 Henry was co-crowned king by his father, King Henry II of England, and became known as Henry the Young King. In 1173, Henry the son rebelled against the old king, together with his mother Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine and his brothers Richard and Geoffrey, a rebellion known as ‘the war without love.’ Eventually peace was made.
In 1183 Henry the son rebelled again, joined by William Marshal, later dubbed ‘England’s Greatest Knight.’ This time, Richard sided with his father. During the rebellion, Marshal was accused of an affair with Queen Margaret, the Young King’s wife, by Adam d’Yquebeuf and others. Historians believe the accusation was false, invented by Marshal’s enemies to discredit him.
The famous troubadour Bertran de Born sided with the Young King in the 1183 rebellion, and lost his lands, which were given to his brother Constantine. After the Young King died later in 1183, Bertran reconciled with Richard, regained his lands, and by some accounts accompanied Richard on the Third Crusade. The song he sings here is historical, though I have taken liberties with the translation. Forty-odd songs of Bertran survive; at least six of them mention his servant Papiol.
A brilliant retelling/reimagining of this event! Thank you for your contribution to the writing event :)