Song Hereafter

by Jean Gill

  Chapter 3

  Estela hiccupped. She self-diagnosed another measure of honeyed wine, which was perhaps not watered as much as usual. No, probably not, she reflected happily, drinking a little more of the hiccup cure and settling even more comfortably into the soft depth of damask cushions. A little bowl of sweetmeats was conveniently placed, and the sticky confection of honey and nuts was no doubt desirable as a way of preserving her from cold humours.

  After a day working in Malik’s library, making notes on medical complaints and treatments, Estela felt entitled to relax, and she felt more at home here than in the cold castle in Barcelone where she passed her days as the celebrated troubadour. Celebrated, hah! Estela took another sip of wine. If she’d realised how uncivilised this court was, she’d have been less enthusiastic in accepting Queen Petronilla’s invitation. The local musicians barely knew the names of the great troubadours! If they knew of Dragonetz, it was as Barcelone’s new commander, not as the man who’d composed the most famous aubade of all. And sung it with her, his rich baritone blending with her soprano to make the lyric come alive. Her insides dipped with longing, not just for her homeland.

  ‘How do you bear Malik’s absence?’ she asked Layla. Mutual respect had grown to something warmer between the two women while their menfolk were travelling. ‘I can’t imagine years apart, such as you knew.’

  Layla was also lounging on cushions, elegant despite the signs of more years than Estela carried. Her hair showed grey at the roots but was blackened, and shiny with henna, and she’d left it long and loose – another sign of their intimacy. Night-black eyes outlined with kohl added to her glamour. Estela imagined Layla’s younger days as a harem education in silken sensuality, but she would never have been so intrusive as to ask about such matters. Except in the interest of medical science. She suddenly remembered a term from the afternoon’s reading that had been beyond her Arabic and made a mental note to ask what it meant. Later.

  ‘I do everything he disapproves of,’ Layla replied lightly. ‘Drink wine and gossip.’ Estela raised her goblet in toast to wine and gossip. And waited. Sure enough, Layla cared enough for the younger woman to give a more serious answer.

  ‘We had six children and Malik chose exile for their sake, and for mine.’ She shrugged, fatalistic. ‘It was exile or death. Just because his family lost Zaragoza did not mean they lost their right to be kings. Our people would have fought to put Malik on his throne if he had just raised one finger.’

  ‘Why didn’t he?’

  ‘Because they would have lost. Again. He knew our time was over and the Christians’ time was come.’ Her face dragged down into the lines of old sorrows. ‘I know he was tempted to raise that one finger and see who came to his call. To leave this world shouting aloud that he was the King of Zaragoza, son of kings.’

  Estela added this detail to her knowledge of the man who had taught her so much, and who shared her love of medicine, music and Dragonetz. Had her serene mentor really been a young firebrand, ready to win back his Moorish kingdom with a thousand corpses? His wife’s dark eyes said it was so.

  ‘Then Ramon Berenguer offered him another way. If Malik left his country, there would be peace here. Promises were made.’

  ‘Were they kept?’

  Another gesture of resignation. ‘Berenguer did his best. But you know how it is.’

  Estela did indeed. It was complicated. Although daily life in the city mixed Christians and their infidel neighbours, there were rules, both written and unwritten, about socialising. Even that most strict of abbots, Bernard of Clairvaux, preached tolerance of Jews, pointing out that Jesus was a Jew. But the letter of the law demanded segregation. She should not even be dining with one of Malik’s faith and yet they all blessed their bread before they broke it – Muslims, Christians and Jews!

  Layla continued. ‘And Malik ended up an anonymous servant in Douzens.’

  ‘With the Knights Templar.’ Layla nodded. ‘He was given to them as if he were a cart or table for their use! Imagine! But he told me his real work was to learn, to know his enemy. He was to keep Berenguer informed of all the politics he heard while serving food or digging their gardens.

  And Berenguer passed on the messages Malik sent to me. Angry at first, and he took no pains to hide this. Then he found pleasure in the herbs and simples of a monk there. Malik said the brother was a true man of faith, though not of ours. He cited scripture to Malik and brought him back to a different book. Malik read the Surahs,’ Estela looked puzzled so Layla explained, ‘the chapters in the Koran. He quoted this one to me often, And Indeed, Allah is with those who are of service to others. He found his own true beliefs while dwelling in the house of a God that was not his.’

  To serve others. Estela thought of Malik’s skills as a doctor, of all he’d taught her, of her own vocation.

  ‘When he came home, I did not recognise him. But my heart did. Because I had been changed too and we were a match for each other.’

  ‘How did you change? How did you stay true?’ Estela never doubted for a second that Layla had stayed true. As had she. But for that one moment of weakness with Dragonetz’ friend, Geoffroi de Rançon, God rest his soul. Just one kiss, when she’d been alone so long. It had meant nothing, and yet, she wondered whether that kiss prevented Dragonetz grieving for his friend. He behaved oddly at any mention of Geoffroi and she kept her own tears private, when she could. Another friend lost too young. Such a tragic death. She shook off the morbid thoughts and concentrated on what her friend was saying.

  ‘Six children,’ Layla repeated and laughed. ‘My two eldest boys would never have let a man near me who wasn’t old, ugly or a close relative! And they’re still the same. As to how I changed... like Malik, I was angry. I should have been Queen of Zaragoza, living in the Aljaferia, the Palace of Joy – you haven’t been there?’

  Estela shook her head. ‘The Queen–’ she broke off and flushed.

  Layla patted her hand. ‘I’m used to it. If I cried every time someone said ‘the Queen’ and didn’t mean me, I’d have drowned years ago.’

  ‘Petronilla wanted me with her for the birth,’ continued Estela, ‘and she’s not left Barcelone this winter. She is reluctant to leave home.’ Strange for Barcelone to be home for the Queen of Aragon but Petronilla had lived there under her betrothed’s roof since babyhood. Everything about Petronilla’s upbringing had been strange. ‘I think she might go to Zaragoza after Whitsun...’

  ‘Whitsun?’

  Sometimes you forgot that your friend lived different festivals, a different calendar. ‘May,’ clarified Estela.

  ‘They also call the Aljaferia the Summer Palace. You should have seen it then, with oranges fruiting in the garden and the sparrows drinking from the fountain. Where Malik should have walked in the path of his ancestors, and I beside him. But the waters ran through a different channel. At first, I hardened my children to hatred. Each day a list of wrongs. And it was so easy to stir up rebellion, to connect with those on dark streets with revenge in their hearts.

  One day, my daughter Janni came home from her studies of the Koran and said she’d seen a dog skewered like a sausage because he was in the way – those were her words. I held her, hoping to heal the hurt she must be feeling and she wriggled out of my arms, said, ‘It’s all right, Mama. It was a Christian dog. I wish it was his owner and his head hung from the battlements of the Aljaferia along with all his fellows.’ Her eyes were stones and they fell into the pool of my shame, stirring up the wrong I had done.

  I found Malik’s messages, read them all, from his first outpouring of bile to the Surahs in the recent ones. I followed in his footsteps to regain the true path and I held my children close by my side. You have seen Janni?’

  ‘She makes sweetmeats fit for the gods, and her children’s laughter brings joy to her eyes.’ Speaking Arabic made the formal phrases natural even to Estela’s clumsy command of the language.

  Layla nodded. ‘Just so. And her children’s laughter
brings joy to my eyes too. I am a queen to my family. And to my husband. I have learned to say Inshallah with my heart not just with my lips.’

  Estela thought of the queens for whom she’d sung. Petronilla, forever compensating for original sin and convinced that her baby son’s sickly disposition was God’s punishment. Mélisende of Jerusalem, whose very healthy adult son had taken her to war in order to win by force the inheritance his mother was unwilling to cede. And Aliénor of Aquitaine, ex-Queen of France and would-be Queen of England, hoping that Henri of Anjou’s seed would be stronger than Louis’ and bring the sons her ambition craved.

  Queens bled, birthed and were judged by the number and quality of their sons even more than other women. Was that what it meant, to be a woman? Was she, Estela, merely Musca’s mother and a poor example of fertility?

  As if reading her thoughts, Layla asked, ‘What sort of woman do you want to be, Estela?’

  No doubt due to the wine, Estela brimmed with tears, envying Janni. Her own mother would never know Musca. Her thoughts shied away from her father and brother, who would prefer her dead. Dragonetz’ family would probably be ashamed of his son, their only child despite three years together. Founding dynasties did not seem to be her forte.

  And yet she did have a dream. ‘I want to be like my mother,’ she confessed. ‘She died when I was eight.’ Like Layla and the word queen Estela had practised speaking of her mother’s death so as not to feel the words. ‘But I watched her in her duties on the domain. She knew every villager, every animal, every plot of land and how to tend them. She knew herbal medicine and was not afraid to visit where there was sickness.’ She whispered the truth that had made her brave as a little girl. ‘And she loved me just as much as my brother. She said I should never ever bury my talents and she gave me the oud.’

  Only as she spoke, did Estela realise fully the answer to Layla’s question. ‘I want to be a loving wife and mother, I really do, and to place my husband and children’s needs above my own. But there is something in me, that my mother encouraged, and if I keep singing and keep learning, then I will make her happy, where she is now. I would love her to see me as Lady of Dragonetz’ domain, with Musca and however many children God wills, with plentiful harvests, honey and cheese. I want us to sing our songs. And I want to write up my studies of Malik’s books.’

  ‘That is a lot of wanting,’ said Layla, gently.

  ‘I know,’ sighed Estela. ‘If I were Petronilla I would be at confession all day.’

  ‘The poets have written of this feeling.

  ‘Watch the river flow and wonder whether

  you travel with or against its force

  and why.’

  Listening to the music of Arabic, Estela suddenly remembered the word from her day’s reading that she needed to be translated. ‘What does mwsabiaqa mean?’

  Layla choked on a sip of wine. ‘Estela! I hope you are not suffering from Dragonetz’ absence to that degree!’

  ‘I thought it was a medical term,’ clarified Estela, without adding that she’d found it in a book entitled The Sultan’s Love Potions, found between The Sipping of Saliva and the Fruit of Lovers and A Treatise on Whether Engaging in Coitus with Low Frequency Increases Lifespan. All very educative, and requiring copious notes.

  Layla still looked suspicious. ‘It is a word for what the Greeks call gynaikerastria.’ Estela must have looked as blank as she felt.

  ‘Love of women,’ explained Layla, ‘as was common on Lesbos where the Greek poet Sappho wrote of the art of loving women.’

  ‘Ah.’ She feigned complete understanding. She obviously had a lot of further reading to do, and wondered how much of these scientific minutiae Dragonetz knew. After all, he and Malik spent long nights round a campfire when on campaigns. What did they talk about?

  ‘That makes sense. Thank you.’ What was the reference in ‘The Sultan’s Love Potions’? Ah, yes. ‘If a man can’t lead a woman to her satisfaction, then she might turn to another woman.’

  Estela considered the implications with suitable detachment. There is never any shame in science, she reminded herself of the Arabic quotation, dismissing a fleeting thought of her father confessor’s probable reactions to her studies, should she mention them. She was not Petronilla. She resolved to write up the note with her conclusions in the morning.

  ‘My Lady?’ A girl approached Layla and prostrated herself.

  ‘Gizlane,’ Layla gently reminded her. ‘A bow of the head suffices.’

  The girl coloured, stood up and bowed her head, in one graceful movement that matched her name. ‘My Lady’s other guest has arrived.’

  Layla clapped her hands and her ear-rings jangled in excitement. ‘This falls well. Please bring her in.’

  ‘A new servant?’ Estela asked, knowing full well that one of Layla’s manservants bought slaves at private sales so she could liberate at least some of her own faith. Unless you could do likewise and offer employment, it was better to avoid Plaça Nova in the morning and Plaça Sant Jaume at any time.

  Before she’d known what was traded in these markets, Estela had stumbled on the horrors of people chained and whipped, displayed like meat. If her man Gilles had not taken her arm and rushed her past the haggling buyers, Estela’s healing instincts would have drawn her into endless work. Nici was treated better than these poor heathens! How could this beautiful girl have come from such foul treatment?

  ‘What a lovely name,’ Estela said gently, earning a tentative glance from the girl.

  ‘It means Gazelle,’ Layla explained. ‘I thought it suited her. Yes, I think she will learn her duties quickly.’ Gizlane flushed at the praise. ‘And my steward always chooses well. He knows the merchant.’

  He would do, thought Estela, having been a slave himself. At least he now had power over the merchant, not the reverse.

  ‘You are lucky,’ Estela told Gizlane, who bowed her head in acknowledgement. The long, graceful line of her young neck. Gazelle indeed. Was she lucky? What if Estela had been captured by southern Saracens, sold in Granada? She shuddered, took another sip of wine, repeated Gilles’ words to her. You cannot right the world. You will just lose yourself in sorrow. What would happen to Dragonetz and Musca – and me – then? She’d laughed, replied, ‘And Nici!’ but truly, something about this urban life sapped her spirits.

  ‘Ella!’ Layla greeted her new guest. The woman who joined them was younger than Layla, also beautified in the Eastern style. Petronilla frowned on make-up, but, in Aliénor’s company, Estela had become familiar with rouged cheeks and lips, lead-whitened skin, and eyes brightened with belladonna – although Estela had heeded her mother’s warnings of such substances.

  From her accent, the newcomer was clearly Jewish. On hearing her name, Estela gasped and jumped to her feet. Not even the mellow effect of the wine could dull the awe inspired by a singer who had brought even the prosaic court of Barcelone to tears. A singer who came from Cordoba, that sophisticated city in the mythical south still known as al-Andalus, and who was here in friendship to give a private recital.

  After appropriate courtesies, with appropriate quantities of wine, Layla spoke the words Estela had been waiting for. ‘Will you sing for us?’

  ‘If you will play?’ was Ella’s reply. Layla reached for the flute she called a nay and tested a few husky notes. Estela’s fingers itched to find the notes on her oud but she clasped her hands in her lap and bade herself listen. From the first pure notes, she didn’t have to try to sit still as the song caught at her soul, even if she missed the meaning of some words. Ella recited the lyric, translating the Judo-Spanish words into Catalan and then sang it again.

  ‘Arvoliko de yasimín,

  Yo lo ensembrí en mi guerta.

  Yo lo kresí, lo 'ngrandesí,

  Otros s'están gozando.’

  ‘I grew this jasmine tree from seed

  in the garden that was mine alone.

  I tended it and so it bloomed

  but for others’ plea
sure, never mine.’

  The lament reached its heart-wrenching close, the plaintive flute fading to echo.

  ‘No ay ken sepa mi dolor,

  Ni ajenos ni parientes.’

  ‘No one knows my pain,

  not my kin, not anyone.’

  ‘Beautiful!’ Estela wiped her eyes, feeling no shame.

  ‘It is an old Sephardic love song,’ Ella told her.

  ‘You must write the words down for me! Can you teach me the oud accompaniment?’

  ‘I can.’ Layla stretched out her hand for Estela’s oud. ‘I will show you, then you can repeat it.’

  And so the evening blossomed in the violet dusk. Three black-haired, olive-skinned women spoke of poetry and song, as the night grew velvet dark with the promise of spring. What was the difference between a Moor, a Jew and a Christian in the privacy of a stone mansion in the wealthy suburbs of Barcelone?

  Only my eyes, thought Estela. But for my Christian-coloured eyes we could be a family. Three generations of women. The thought warmed her.

  ESTELA PAUSED AT THE narrow slit of window, breathing in the first scents of spring; jonquils and, of course, jasmine perfumed the night air. She should blow out the candle, seek sleep, but the same force that woke Layla’s garden made her restless. She didn’t hear him enter the room, so soft-footed he could be when he chose.

  ‘Stand still.’ An order.

  She closed her eyes to imagine better who and what were behind her. And she stood very still. This was not a moment for questions.

  She heard steel drawn from scabbard, ragged breathing. So, he was not unmoved. Good.

  The blade swished like a hawk’s wing and the candle flickered in the arc of air. Estela shivered as the tip of a sword touched the nape of her neck like a damascene kiss.