by Jean Gill
THINGS HAD BEEN GOING well. Dragonetz had shared Malik’s letters, given Estela the little wooden box. While she was distracted, removing each blade and muttering what might have been ‘piercing’ and ‘fine excision’, Dragonetz mentioned the summons from Aliénor.
Estela’s fury made Aliénor’s threats seem like froth. Dragonetz had not expected the direction it took.
‘No,’ he told her.
‘Yes,’ she replied, and she would not be shaken. For every argument he came up with as to why she should not go with him, she found a counter-argument that made good sense.
‘I was hoping for the patience and understanding that you showed when I told you I was going on pilgrimage.’ He hoped his expression was a cross between puppy-dog and righteous disappointment.
‘You forfeited any rights to such wifely forbearance when you showed yourself capable of jumping off a bridge because you’d seen your own reflection!’
‘That’s harsh,’ he protested. ‘The rivers were so dried up there was hardly any water and I felt no urge whatsoever to jump off bridges. I just wanted to walk, and not watch you crying.’
‘Then you should be happy. There will be no crying this time because I’m going with you.’
He tried another tack. ‘You said you ought to go back to Barcelone and check on Malik. You could take Musca back and wait for me there.’ He knew it was low to use their friend’s illness in such a way and so did she.
‘Shame on you!” She rounded on him. ‘Malik tells you not to come to him so you think I should stand in for you and ease your conscience while you go adventuring with Aliénor?
‘For Aliénor,’ he corrected meekly, earning another glare. Undaunted, he tried, ‘Musca needs his mother.’
‘Musca needs his father to come back alive! If your Aliénor can leave a child to go on crusade then I can leave mine for a few months. He has his nurse, a playmate, Gilles, Nici and they can live in the house Malik has so kindly offered. They’ll be in heaven and much safer there than in that foetid city!’
Dragonetz hadn’t realised how much Estela hated Barcelone and made a mental note to find out why. His conscience twinged. He’d been pre-occupied, not sensitive to his lover’s needs.
Unfortunately, a twingeing conscience did not help him come up with good arguments for leaving Estela behind.
‘And another thing,’ she pressed home her advantage, ‘what exactly is this mission that you are the only man in the world capable of carrying out? And how long will it take you?’
‘I don’t know.’ The admission was the final capitulation and she jumped on it with enthusiasm.
‘Then we’ll go and find out!’ She rightly took his silence for her victory. ‘Can I ride Sadeek?’
‘We won’t even take Sadeek.’ He struggled to re-assert some authority. ‘We’ll hire horses and change them. It’s a long way.’
Then, at last, she looked doubtful. Damn. He should have talked of the hardships of the trip, right from the start. Too late. She’d never give up the idea now.
Chin jutting, she said, ‘How long a way? And where is Angers anyway?’
Then he laughed. ‘Three weeks,’ he told her, watching her jaw clench. ‘And I would rather start from anywhere other than here to get to the Frankish north. Angers is in her husband’s duchy of Anjou.’
Inspired, he added, ‘Or we could take a sea route?’
Her face took on a greenish tint but he was right. Not even the prospect of her usual sea-sickness could change her mind. ‘We can discuss the finer details of northern politics on the journey,’ she told him airily. ‘I have to pack and instruct our household. I’ll need Gilles to employ a trustworthy steward – I was never happy with the one we left in Barcelone – and more servants, to supervise the move to Malik’s house.’
She continued thinking aloud, planning. ‘I need to make lists for the steward, provisions to buy in... he must not pay more than three solidi for a quarter of mutton or a side of beef, and he should check the hearth in the new kitchen. If the pot so much as touches even the burning embers, vegetables will stick to the bottom. And he should only buy wild duck, with black or red feet, not the domestic ones with yellow feet. The cook will leave if she has inferior produce and we are so lucky to have her. Gilles, I need to speak to Gilles.’
The domestic details washed over Dragonetz as he imagined Estela’s forthcoming conversation with Gilles. She would have as much difficulty persuading Gilles that he must stay here as he’d had with her – but more success. One mention of Musca, and Gilles would accept the need to protect the little boy. He would however berate Estela soundly for leaving them. There was some satisfaction in that thought.
Later that day, as he headed off to find John Halfpenny, Dragonetz noticed Estela carefully packing the box of surgical instruments, still talking to herself. He only hoped she hadn’t packed her leeches but if she hadn’t, and he asked, she might well do so. He kept very quiet and left.
Chapter 10
The horses were watered and tethered, the southern evening was balmy, and a night in the open was no hardship. John Halfpenny had withdrawn to a discreet distance and was flat out with his eyes closed. Dragonetz rested his back against a tree and watched Estela, as she sat in the dwindling light from their cookfire, writing.
When she’d pulled the wooden board, paper, quill and ink out of her saddle-bag he’d teased her about wasting precious space on such luxuries. Then she’d told him, ‘I’m writing a guide to travelling, for Musca, so he will benefit from our experience, and so he will know I thought about him every day. When I rode after you, I thought how useful it would have been to read guidance on such matters as food, greetings, local customs, dangers, precautions and medical treatment for emergencies. So, I am writing such a book. After all, we have travelled widely.’
‘That’s a good thought,’ he told her. When he looked over her shoulder and realized the level of her guidance, his respect increased. ‘Truly, I think this would be useful to more than Musca. We shall have it copied when we return.’
He was rewarded with a glowing smile but she quickly returned to her work, making the most of the dying light. He must wait until the embers turned to ash before he could hold her under their blanket and watch the stars together. He ‘accidentally’ kicked a little earth over the fire as he walked past, earning a reproachful gaze.
He sat down and waited, watching the quill scratch its route across paper from his mill. Words. Travel. Time in between the start and the destination. Perhaps he should say this to Estela and she could add his thoughts to her journal. Perhaps there would be a song from their journey.
The next thing he knew, Estela was shaking him awake so they could lay out the blanket and snuggle under it. He had not known he was so tired but sleep claimed him again straight away. The stars danced in all their brilliance, without his appreciation.
As they journeyed, their destination seemed ever less important and the road itself lulled them into a daily routine of provisions, care for themselves and the horses, breaks, food, water and sleep. Sometimes they camped outside, sometimes they found lodgings and a change of horses. Silences were as comfortable as speech, which came without the niceties or tact of social convention.
While crossing the Pyrenees, he told her he’d seen a notary, made a will leaving everything to her and acknowledging Musca. She wondered what that meant and also what it would mean, one day in an unimaginable future without him. She didn’t want to think about it, so she didn’t.
Somewhere after Bordeaux, he said, ‘You travelled like this with him.’
‘We travelled together,’ Estela said carefully, ‘and the road makes comrades of those who travel together, but it was not like this. With him,’ she too found it easier not to say Geoffroi’s name, ‘I could talk about you, hear stories of your childhood and youth.’ Bitterly, she added, ‘Some of them may have been true.’
‘And some of them damned me as a bully who’d been forgiven by the saintly knight
.’
Estela said nothing.
They passed Poitiers, neither of them saying that this was the closest they’d been to Dragonetz’ family home since they’d been together. Only two days’ ride away.
Instead, Estela said, ‘I think about him. My brother.’
‘I think about Ruffec,’ he admitted. ‘Maybe we never forget where we’re from but we can choose what hold it has on us.’
‘Maybe,’ she said and wrote more of her book.
‘Can I read it?’ Dragonetz asked one evening.
From then on, Estela passed him her notes from the day before, during their mid-day break and Dragonetz read them aloud. John Halfpenny sat with them, his face intent as he listened to extracts from The Wise Traveller.
Wine
Shun the company of any person who is in a state of inebriation and banish any such from your service. Be moderate in your own consumption.
‘Inebriation,’ began Dragonetz. ‘Do you remember that night...’
Estela’s lips tightened. ‘This is a book of guidance, Dragonetz, not a journal of our wilder moments.’
‘A pity.’
Drunken behaviour is a danger, especially when travelling. You might forget to place your candle far from your bed, or to check that it is properly snuffed, and regrets will be too late after the inn has burned to the ground. Drunken travellers fall easy prey to wolves of all kinds, which might wear beast’s fur or fancy velvets but which are alike in their desire to fleece you.
‘I like ‘wolves of all kinds’ and ‘fleece’. That is well found.’
‘Thank you,’ said Estela.
When boarding at an inn, look well at the casks from which your wine is served, that they are oak, clean and free of insects. If you see any specks in your wine, drink it not. Breathe in the wine smell and if there is a hint of vinegar, drink it not. Add sweet water to the wine to maintain a clear head and if you require heat, crushed savory and a spoonful of honey will balance the humours, which suffer from the fatigue and unaccustomed food caused by a journey.
‘You should write about Master Taverner, as an example of drink’s evil consequences, with his wine-red face and nose like a knobbled oak trunk,’ observed Dragonetz. ‘Not to mention his habit of drinking half of each jug he served. Never have I seen such short measures!’
Unable to stay quiet any longer, John Halfpenny added, ‘Short measure be a good topic to make a traveller wise. I can tell you of the different coins and how men are cheated by them while travelling! Not one false penny reached my scrip in all the journey between London and Marselha! But you must know what you’re looking for.’ He tapped his nose knowingly, then his eyes darted from Dragonetz to Estela, worried he’d overstepped the mark.
On the road, all companions were equal and all knowledge shared. ‘I would gladly hear your stories,’ Estela told the moneyer, ‘and learn all you can tell, whether of people, place or goods.’
And so, useful information on the different monies of Christendom, and how to tell false from true, was added to The Wise Traveller.
Just as no false coin could be slipped past John Halfpenny, so innkeepers had no chance of gulling Dragonetz with a spavined nag. He read this particular section with great interest.
Horses
Changing horses will enable you to make a long journey more quickly but beware! Innkeepers are untrustworthy and if you are not to lose time because of an unsound mount, you must check its quality, even more carefully than if you were buying the horse.
You should always see the horse in his stable so you can observe how well he has been fed and cared for, and what manner of man his owner might be.
A horse has sixteen attributes. Three like a fox: short, straight ears; clean, healthy skin and a stiff brush tail. Four like a hare: a fine head, alertness, suppleness and a rapid gait. Four like cattle: wide haunches, a big belly, protruding eyes and low-set legs. Three like a donkey: good feet, strong spine and a good character. And four like a young girl; a beautiful mane, a well-formed chest, defined waist and large buttocks.
‘Did I say that?’ asked Dragonetz. ‘the qualities of a young girl, large buttocks?’
‘Yes, you did.’
‘If I’d known you were going to quote me, I would have chosen my words more carefully.’
‘You know more about horses than I do. I try to quote experts when I can. Even if their language can be a little too colourful.’
‘This is a bit general. You’ll have to write an extra section about Arabian horses like Sadeek. They’re very different from those beasts.’ He gestured at the large-buttocked hired mares, grazing peacefully.
‘The book is not all about horses. It’s a travel guide.’
He read on.
You can tell a horse’s age up until he is seven years old by the formation of his teeth. If he is past seven and without defect, then none will appear.
‘’Tis well I’m not a horse,’ John Halfpenny cackled, displaying his blackened smile.
Between inns, they asked basic provisions from homesteads and farms and sometimes offered small services in return. John Halfpenny repaired a cart; Estela brewed rosemary tea for a farmer’s pregnant wife to encourage labour; Dragonetz chopped wood for an old man who had but daughters.
Essential Purchases when Voyaging
Avoid paying an innkeeper for anything other than essential wine, horses and lodging as he will surely charge you double what you would pay a peasant for foodstuffs or emergency replacement of provisions.
‘You could have mentioned his nose,’ commented Dragonetz, disappointed.
‘The wise traveller might go nowhere near that particular tavern,’ Estela pointed out.
‘Wouldn’t be wise if he did,’ was John Halfpenny’s contribution.
Should your boot be worn through, you should seek a peasant of your size, with sturdy boots, and give him coin or barter to have the cobbler repair your boot. You should then take his boots thereby avoiding time lost waiting for the mending of boots. He will appreciate the quality of boots you leave for him and he will welcome future travellers.
A wise traveller will have packed goods likely to be of use to those he will meet on the journey, in case services or goods are needed in return. Suitable goods which take up little space are buttons, nails, ribbons, dried fruit, and spices. Coins, gold and jewels enable you to carry much wealth, but are easy to steal, and too valuable for daily transactions.
If you can do a man service by your labour or your skill, this is the best form of payment and can be carried wherever you go, without adding weight to your pack. However, doing such service will take time so the wise traveller will consider the journey to be as important as the destination in his life’s path. No opportunity to do service can be a wrong choice.
‘I sound like Malik!’ Estela looked startled at her own words.
‘That is no bad thing,’ said Dragonetz. ‘And they are good words. A good thought.’
‘Maybe, there is more than one way to be a good woman.’ Estela’s eyebrows were knitted in a frown.
‘Maybe,’ said Dragonetz, gently.
The longer the journey, the stranger it feels to reach its end. It was as if they were blown by a magical wind, transported in their own rhythm, while groups of people came into their ken and went beyond or behind them. Sometimes they travelled with company, and sometimes they went faster, leaving others behind. Sometimes inns came to them, occasionally a town but nothing changed the essence of their day, riding, the three of them.
When they rested among trees, with no onlookers, Estela practised throwing her dagger, appraised by the two men. She would name her target or mark a spot on the tree, measure a distance by paces, and throw.
‘She be good,’ observed John Halfpenny, as the knife flew in an arc from twenty paces, to land straight and true in the red circle on the willow trunk. While travelling, Estela’s make-up was worn more frequently by trees than by its mistress.
‘Learnt as a child,’ expla
ined Dragonetz. ‘She could aim within two inches of my head every time and never hit me.’
‘I don’t believe you!’ said Halfpenny at the same time as Estela said, ‘Dragonetz!’ Too late. Dragonetz had made himself comfortable, lounging against the tree.
‘Here,’ he suggested pointing to a spot above his head.
‘Move your hand then!’ she told him, assessing the throw. Then she shook her head. ‘I’d kill you,’ she told him. ‘You’re too tall for me to be sure. An upward trajectory is more difficult to control.’ She thought a moment and instructed him, ‘On your knees!’
‘My cruel Lady,’ he hammed, dropping to his knees and waving his arms like a lovesick swain.
‘Arms by your sides and stop singing! Your head moves!’
‘You don’t have to–’ objected Halfpenny feebly. ‘I do believe you.’ But the game had taken on a life of its own and the risk was part of the fun.
Dragonetz watched Estela count her paces away from the tree, away from him. She balanced the dagger, holding it in the light grip of an expert, forefinger stretched along the hilt, ready to slide as she let loose. Her arm swung in the hinged movement that powered the blade. Timing of release was everything. He felt rather than saw the moment the dagger flew and shut his eyes. There was barely time to realise how completely he trusted her before the vibration above his head told Dragonetz that Estela’s strike was true.
‘Now your turn,’ Dragonetz challenged Halfpenny, with a gleam in his eyes.
‘What be in it for me?’ the little man asked.
‘Your manhood!’ Dragonetz clapped him cheerfully on the back.
‘It’s more likely I shall keep that if I don’t stand before a thrown knife,’ Halfpenny replied, adding, ‘Not questioning your expertise my Lady.’
‘Of course not!’ Dragonetz said. ‘But you are a man who requires motivation – I understand that.’ He ignored the pleading looks coming his way from Estela. ‘One denarius for playing target this time. And a diamond for you if you agree to target practice any time my Lady requires.’ He saw the greed flare in Halfpenny’s eyes. ‘To be given to you when you leave our service to go to your family. Do we have an agreement?’
