Outlaw by Angus Donald

Hugh, as I was far more advanced than the other students, and Bernard had also been charged with giving me lessons in arithmetic, geometry, astronomy . . . and music. I was ecstatic, bubbling with happiness: I would spend all afternoon listening to wonderful music, and learning how to make it myself, and, best of all, I would be away from Guy and Will for hours at a time.
    I found Bernard in the small cottage he had been given about half a mile from Thangbrand’s farmstead in a small clearing in the greenwood. I walked there on air, dizzy with joy at my prospects, mingled with some trepidation: would I prove worthy of this great man? Hugh had let slip that separate living quarters had been a condition of Bernard’s acceptance of the job as my tutor. He was a fastidious man, Hugh said, and he would not sleep in the hall with all the other flea-bitten outlaws.
    He did not look particularly fastidious when I encountered him that fine early autumn afternoon, to present myself as his pupil. He was slumped on an up-ended sawn-off log outside the semi-derelict cottage; his tunic, the fine silk one from yesterday’s performance, was only half buttoned, and had what looked like dried vomit down the front. He had lost one of his shoes and, as he strummed his vielle with his fingers, he giggled softly to himself, swaying on his seat. The day before I had seen him a God-like figure, courtly lover, master of music, creator of beauty: today he was ridiculous.
    ‘Master Bernard,’ I said in French, standing in front of him as he sat there head drooped over his vielle, fingering the strings. ‘I am Alan Dale, and I have come to present myself to you as a pupil at the orders of my master, Robert Odo . . .’
    ‘Shhhhhh . . .’ he slurred at me, wagging a finger rapidly in my general direction. ‘I am creating a masterpiece.’
    He amused himself on the vielle, playing little ripples of music and occasionally appearing to nod off for a few moments, before jerking awake. I stood there for perhaps a quarter of an hour and then he looked up and said clearly: ‘Who are you?’
    I repeated: ‘I am Alan, your pupil, and I have come to serve you at the orders—’
    He interrupted me: ‘Serve me, eh, serve me? Well, you can bring me some more wine, then.’
    I hesitated, but he waved me away shouting: ‘Wine, wine, decent wine, go on, boy, go on, go on, go on . . .’ So I went back to Thangbrand’s, stole a small cask of wine from the buttery when nobody was looking, brought it back on a barrow. Then I helped him to drink it.
     
    As my tutor in arithmetic, geometry and astronomy, Bernard was a disaster. In fact, as I remember, he never even mentioned the subjects. But he did improve my French, as it was all we spoke together, and he did teach me music, God be praised: he taught me how to construct cansos and sirventes , love songs and satirical poems, how to tune and play the vielle, how to extend my voice, to control my breathing and many more technical tricks of his trade. He was a troubadour, or more properly, since he came from northern France, a trouvère , and his joy, he told me, was to play and sing for the great princes of Europe; to sing of love; the love of a humble knight for a high-born lady, to sing of l’amour courtois , courtly love, the love of a servus for his domina . . .
    That afternoon, as we drank the wine, and I scrubbed the dried vomit off his tunic with a brush, he told me his life’s story. He was born in the county of Champagne, the second son of a minor baron, who served Henry, the count. He had loved music from an early age, but his father, who did not care much for music or for Bernard, had disapproved. However, bullied by Bernard’s mother, he had arranged for his training with one of the greatest trouvères in France, and had found him a place at the court of King Louis. From the first, Bernard confided in me, he was an enormous success - great ladies wept openly at his love songs, everyone guffawed