by Jean Gill
‘Gold,’ she began. ‘The gold coins of England. I’d love to hear all about them.’
The Mintmaster looked at her, open-eyed with shock at her ignorance. ‘There be none,’ he told her. ‘English mintmasters do have more sense! Gold’s a terrible metal to work with and far too valuable for trading use. You put in all that work to make coins and all they be good for – if they turn out all right – be for stashing in some lord’s treasure hoard. I want my work in the marketplace, changing hands every day and lasting forever! No, silver be the metal for coins, every time. And weighed true!’
‘Oh,’ was all Estela could say, disappointed. Whatever the Gyptian’s prophecy meant would be no clearer from listening to John Halfpenny. Not that the prophecy meant anything.
There was no polite way to ask the other question of interest. ‘What did you do?’ she asked. ‘Why did you have to leave the country?’
‘Stephen’s men caught up with me.’ Estela noted that King Stephen had no title in the moneyer’s eyes, so he’d been for Matilda in the wars – which meant he would support her son, Henri.
‘The barons all grabbed what they could while Stephen and the Queen fought their wars and each of them did want his own head on his own coins. I had a family... I made coins for whoever forced me. Until Stephen’s men found out. I had warning and ran.’
‘If they didn’t catch you making them, how did they know you were the moneyer.’
‘Because I was stupid. I rushed the work and did not blunder my name enough.’
‘Blunder?’
‘Beat out the shape.’
‘What will you do when you go back?’
‘Find my family.’ There was a silence. Both knew the darker possibilities. ‘When Henri’s king, I’ll go back to Winchester – the King’s Mint – and offer him my services. I’ll recall every one of those damned irregular coins and hammer my name out of them all! And I’ll deface all those which depict Stephen!’ For the first time, Estela saw beyond the funny little foreigner to a proud artisan, whose work had pleased kings. Before disgrace, forgery and dungeons. His eyes guarded shadows. When Estela had touched him to wake him or call him for food, he flinched instinctively. She’d become more careful, spoke to him first.
‘What if he loses? What if Stephen wins?’ The open road was as good a place to talk treason as any.
A shrug. ‘He’s weak. Henri will win.’
‘What about Stephen’s sons?’
‘They are their father’s sons. They won’t withstand Henri. I’d bet all my money on Henri for king.’ He gave a weak smile at the bad joke.
What if he loses? Like his mother had. She and Dragonetz would be far from home, at the mercy of some barbaric Welsh prince, surrounded by hostile Marcher Lords, in a land at war with itself.
She kicked herself, mentally. They would be in exactly the same situation if Henri won.
Money
As you travel north, you will observe different types of coin in use, designated by a local personage on one side and a symbolic design, such as a cross, on the reverse, sometimes with the name of the moneyer and mint. The further coins travel, the more they are regarded with suspicion, so you would be wise to exchange goods or coin as you travel, to ensure that you always have money from a location that can be recognized by those you trade with.
Forgery is a common scourge and if you do not know the coinage, you will not realise that a coin is lightweight, until it breaks or is rejected by men who know their coins better.
In England, silver pennies are customary and a part coin is not to be shunned. Halfpennies and quarters are cut deliberately to make smaller denominations, and are good currency, or ‘sterling’ as English money is named. Englishmen are proud of their coinage and the wise traveller will hide any surprise over the lack of gold dirhams or their like.
John Halfpenny approved Estela’s latest entry and she thought about his name, now she knew more about English coins. A small man, a moneyer: of course.
TEN DAYS’ RIDING TOOK them to their destination: Barfleur. Dragonetz enthused about the fleecy clouds scudding across blue skies, not for their poetry but for their practicality. A fair wind and fine weather would let them leave as soon as captain and ship were ready. Estela followed Dragonetz’ enthusiasm to the harbour: watched the boats bobbing; the glitter of wakes and waves, breaking against wooden hulls; ropes tugging taut, longing to free themselves. Old timbers creaked and the seagulls screamed their greed.
Estela brushed strands of hair from her eyes, smelled brine, waited with John Halfpenny. Dragonetz returned from his errand, energized by action, and accompanied by a man who could only be the captain. Weather-beaten as old oak, any age between twenty and fifty, the captain was in animated conversation with Dragonetz, when they reached Estela.
‘My Lady,’ the man bowed. Estela had grown used to the northern Frankish but this accent was new to her.
‘Captain Robert is an Englishman.’ Dragonetz introduced him. ‘And that is our vessel.’
Just when Estela thought she’d steeled herself for the voyage, her stomach took off with the seagulls. Their vessel was not a ship; it was a boat. As far as Estela was concerned, they might as well cross the seas in a bathtub, for all the protection these few bits of wood offered.
Unable to speak, Estela nodded regally to the captain and allowed herself to be helped aboard the floating prison. She chewed doggedly on the cloves she’d brought, and thought only of the last entry in her journal. It was to be the last she’d write for two very long days.
Travelling by Sea
Those unfortunate enough to be affected by motion sickness should take preventative measures. You must fast before your voyage, consuming only bitter fruits such as quince, orange and pomegranate. Sweetmeats or seeds which encourage belching are also desirable.
Chewing on cloves or nutmeg helps reduce the smell of the sea and its effect.
During the voyage, the wise traveller will sit upright, only moving his head with the motion of the ship, and holding tightly to the supports.
Should vomiting occur, the person so affected should refrain from eating, other than the afore-mentioned bitter fruits, until the nausea has left him.
DRAGONETZ SAT ON A bench at the stern of the small cog, watching the white froth of the wake that trailed behind them in the murky water like a hairy star in a dark sky. Such a hairy star had presaged the doom of Harold of England. No doubt Estela’s Gyptian would read such an omen and predict a new King of England.
Dragonetz needed no skills in divination to predict a new King of England. His mission would become not just suicidal but pointless otherwise. Risking death was part of a warrior’s life but he preferred to do so for a cause that at least made sense to him. He had risked his life for a chimera too often in the crusade and he had grown used to sharing Ramon Berenguer’s vision. Now he was fighting blind. And he was not just risking his own life.
He glanced at Estela, who had spent hours clutching the side, chewing as if her life depended upon it, and was now asleep in a blanket on the decks, overcome by exhaustion. This was no life for a lady, crouching to relieve herself in the pot she’d found, with only a blanket held in front of her for privacy. And yet she never complained. She just wrote her traveller’s guide, for Musca. And she gained men’s respect.
On first sight, the shipmen’s gaze had lingered on her face and assessed her body, but their attitude changed to respect once Estela gave them directions about fruit and spices from the side of her mouth, while still chewing. Before the sea’s motion had taken all her attention, she even marched to the trapdoor, insisted on looking into the hold, screwed her face up in horror and instructed them on how better to stack and secure the cargo of wine.
She pointed out that if all the barrels were stacked sideways, the next layer placed in the hollows of the one before, not only would they take less room and be more stable, but the wine would travel better for being laid sideways. Estela had indeed gleaned all she could from h
er dinner companion at Angers. There was much laughter at the idea of wine travelling well but the captain made his sailors do as Estela bid.
There was now room in the hold for twelve more butts of wine and the captain promised each of the ten shipmen his share of one such barrel, once they reached harbour, for having done the extra work. This made Estela extremely popular and, after ascertaining that the return cargo was indeed wool, she took the opportunity to lecture them on the importance of waterproof storage and how oiled sailcloth would do nicely. Then, her face took on a greenish hue and she took her place on a bench where she could lean over the side whenever nature required.
The oarsmen took the boat into open sea, the sail caught the wind and their departure was without hitch. Except from the viewpoint of a traveller for whom the sea itself was the hitch. Such was the respect that Estela had gained that when one sailor commented, ‘Looks like the wine travels better than the lady,’ he was frowned down by his shipmates.
Yes, Estela handled herself well, and Dragonetz knew he must draw deep on his self-control to be the match she deserved. He had not gained the scallop badge of the pilgrim who reached Santiago but by God, he walked an even harder path! He was accustomed to risking his own life but risking Estela’s was unthinkable.
Every day he asked himself why he had not forced her or tricked her into staying in Zaragoza, where she was safe. Every day he remembered her accusation that he treated her like a child, not a partner. And, in truth, he was starting to enjoy the adventure more for sharing it with his lover. In addition to the connection between them, she had skills that complemented his. As had Malik and Ramon. To find such a partnership with a woman was not what he’d been brought up to expect, but how could the future be shaped, if it was built on the past? Their mission was to shape the future and, if they defied convention, then so be it.
Which brought his thoughts, choppy as the sea, to the mission itself. Estela had asked him how he was going to persuade the Welsh lords to support Henri. ‘Make myself indispensable,’ he’d told her, ‘then plant the seeds that grow into decisions’. How exactly he was going to do this, he had no idea whatsoever.
Meanwhile, he turned around to watch the large steering oar on the starboard side and the billowing sail. God grant us a kind wind, he prayed, and he wasn’t just thinking of the journey to Gwalia. Once they reached the shore, there would be no steering oar.
Chapter 14
The winds were too kind. The captain crossed himself as protection against the caprices of the weather gods. The shipmen rested and cracked lewd jokes, quietly if they were near the sleeping woman, while their oars lay at peace. Like all sailors, they spent time at sea planning what they would do on land, and how often. On land, they would feel the restless call of the waves.
John Halfpenny blended in, presumably lost in his own thoughts of land and homecoming. When he’d realised that they were heading directly for Gwalian soil, he’d been silent.
When Dragonetz asked what he meant to do, the moneyer replied, ‘Travel inland with you, if I may, until I cross the road east. If the news be as I hope, I will head eastwards to Winchester.’
Dragonetz nodded. ‘Your company will be useful.’ Then the little man had curled up by a coil of rope, just a head in a brown blanket, and there he stayed. Whether asleep or awake, who could tell?
‘Wyn.’ The Captain called one of the men over to where he and Dragonetz dunked hardtack in small beer and chewed the softened biscuit. He was experienced enough in sea travel not to crack his teeth on the food which lived up to its many nicknames, jaw breaker and dog’s delight among them.
He winced at the bitterness of the beer, however much weakened, and thought wistfully of the good Frankish wine below deck. Maybe he should ask for some of Estela’s fruit, but that, too, was bitter. He sighed. He must get used to the beer, and much besides, but at least the biscuit was but for two days. He supposed it was easier to carry and store than fresh food for otherwise such a short voyage could have been well provisioned.
Agile as a pet monkey, the sailor clambered along the planks to join them, instinctively shifting his weight and balance so as to cause no lurching.
‘Wyn is a Welshman,’ the captain told Dragonetz. ‘He can tell you what you want to know.’
And so Dragonetz passed his waking hours aboard by learning the names of the Welsh lords, their holdings and their enmities; a smattering of Welsh words; the popular songs and stories. It seemed the Welsh were even fonder of tales than song, and of poetry most of all. Praise-singers were highly esteemed, and no praise could be too extravagant for the lord who was its subject.
That was one notion which crossed the sea easily, thought Dragonetz. Perhaps if he composed verses about the local lords and Welsh heroes, he might find acceptance. He searched his memory for the songs that had reached him, of Arthur, and of the seer, Merlin, Myrddyn in Wyn’s tongue.
Dragonetz would have to sing them in his own Occitan and it became clear to him that he would need a translator. The noble sons of Gwalia were civilised enough to speak Latin and Frankish, but not Arabic or Occitan. Amongst themselves they spoke this strange tongue that sounded like coughing, then a river flowing, then more coughing. The peasants spoke nothing else.
It would be useful if he and Estela could add local references to their songs, as they were accustomed to doing in more civilised courts, so Dragonetz asked what songs were popular in south Gwalia. Would the Captain let him have Wyn, Dragonetz wondered, as the Welshman span his favourite stories: tales of trickery, marriage and a magic bag that could never be filled. All the Welsh names were confusing but the image of the poor victim tricked into the bag was as vivid as Wyn smacking his lips with pleasure at the violence.
‘A man should ask, What is in the bag? and the Lord will reply, A badger! Then the man may take a cudgel to the badger. And the only way to escape the bag is to say, Lord, I merit not this treatment.’
‘They beat a man in a bag?’ asked Dragonetz, trying to make sense of the moral in the tale.
‘Only until he proved himself worthy of release. A man has to show his character and to know the right words,’ Wyn told him with a sly look.
Trickery seemed to be regarded as a racial virtue, Dragonetz noted, and violence was an entertainment, whatever a man’s rank.
‘You should also know the prophecies of Myrddin, known as Merlin in the Latin tongue,’ continued Wyn, in his storytelling voice. He spoke of dragons battling, red against white; of feast and famine; of the boar of Cornwall and the she-lynx of Normandie. How easy it was to read your own fate into these prophecies, thought Dragonetz, wondering at the origins of his own Occitan title. Would he one day be Lord Dragon and Musca be Dragonetz, Little Dragon? Could Dragonetz himself be the man who would come with a drum and a lute to calm the savagery of the lion?
If the prophecies set him dreaming and interpreting, what must their effect be on the Welsh Lords when they heard that the land would be returned to its former peoples. Dragonetz was musing on the Ass born in an owl’s nest, who became king and terrified the people with his braying, when land was spied.
Too soon for Dragonetz, and too slowly for Estela, the boat gained the shores of Gwalia and was run up onto a long, flat beach. among sand dunes and grassy tufts. They startled a skylark and Estela murmured the opening lines of the song she’d taught Dragonetz.
‘Can vei la lauzeta mover
de joi sas alas contra.l rai.’
‘When I see the lark beat its wings
with such joy against the sunbeam.’
She’s recovering! thought Dragonetz, saying, ‘I see little sign of sunbeams, my Lady.’
She smiled, as weakly as the pale rays fighting thick cloud in the skies above. But it was still a smile, just as the pale rays were all they would see of what should be mid-day sun. They sat on a tussock of grass, with their saddlebags beside them, while horses were fetched from wherever the nearest habitation lay. There was no sign of a settlement but the moun
ts duly appeared.
‘Ponies,’ observed Dragonetz.
‘Sturdy Welsh stock,’ Wyn told him, reacting to what he took as a criticism. Robert had acquired another shipman in the same place he’d hired the ponies and Wyn was indeed to accompany Dragonetz as guide and interpreter.
The boat was not staying in such a barren waste, but continuing westwards to a lively trading haven, and as soon as Dragonetz’ party had been organised, the shipmen ran the vessel back to sea and it became a black dot on the horizon.
Wyn laid out their journey. They would ride a short distance to the mouth of the Tywi River, pay the toll and cross by ferry, then ride upriver to the town and castle of Caerfyrddin, known to the Franks as Maridunum. This stronghold was in the hands of the Lords of Deheubarth, Maredudd and Rhys, ‘for the moment’ Wyn added.
Estela gave Dragonetz an anxious look but all he could do was shrug. ‘For the moment’ was to become their way of life while they were in this realm.
The plan was sound and Wyn’s knowledge of the geography and politics of south Gwalia was that of a native. So he could not be blamed when the party was ambushed after crossing the river and quickly overcome by a band of more than two score bandits. Trussed, hooded and tied to a pony whose sturdiness was likely to be sorely tried, Dragonetz suffered every rut in a poor road and was conscious of only one recurring thought. Whatever the wise traveller might have to say on the matter, he should never have allowed Estela to come with him.
WHEN THE JOLTING FINALLY stopped, Dragonetz was unloaded like a bale of cloth and dumped on hard soil. Amid the jangling of bridles and steel, as men dismounted, he could also hear chickens, and women’s voices. A community then, not just a robbers’ den. The men jabbered in their tongue and he wished he knew what they were saying.
