by Jean Gill
Authority had its own sound in any language, and he recognised an order, guessing its meaning when the sack over his head was ripped off. He rolled to a sitting position, legs and arms still roped. Estela was also tied and sitting, but looked unharmed – thank God! Her chin had a defiance he recognised but she glanced at him and held her peace. They understood one another. First, find out what they were up against.
The earthen floor was rustic but the high stone walls surrounding them were not. They were in the courtyard of a castle built in the Frankish style, the solid oak doors of the gatehouse closed and barred. This was no robbers’ lair. Had they been brought to Caerfyrddin?
The man in command pointed at Dragonetz, barked another order and there was uproar, men laughing and holding their sides at the joke. The commander smiled too, his grin promising entertainment that Dragonetz did not expect to enjoy. He tested the bonds, felt for stones on the grass beneath him, any friction that he could use.
Before he could so much as rub a strand loose, a large sack was thrown over him, he was tumbled between two men and the sack tied. He regained a sitting position inside the sack. Probably used for flour, he observed, coughing from a flurry of white dust. At least they had not gagged him.
‘Bore da,’ he shouted, ‘Good-day’, recalling his brief Welsh lesson from Wyn. Where was Wyn, anyway? And Halfpenny?
The laughter was even more raucous, from which Dragonetz gathered that saying ‘Good day’ in their language was not enough to break the ice.
He desperately tried to remember words that might help. ‘Thank you’ did not seem appropriate but he could try, ‘Adolwyn? Please?’
The only response to him shouting, ‘Adolwyn,’ was what seemed to be a question from one of the men. Then an answer from the commander.
Perhaps he had made an impression? If so, it was not the one he wanted. The sacking crashed into his ribs, wrapped around a cudgel. He curled up into a ball, protecting his head as best he could, reminded of something, but not able to bring it to mind.
Again, what sounded like the same question – from a different man this time – then the commander’s set answer, and then the stick, hitting his back this time. Estela was shouting herself hoarse, telling them to stop, offering them money. They mocked her, copying her voice, enjoying themselves.
Dragonetz lifted his head enough to call again. He’d remembered the names of their lords. ‘Lord Maredudd, Lord Rhys,’ he yelled, and repeated the names like a prayer. The question, answer and stick came again, catching the side of his head. He curled up again.
And then, despite the pain, he remembered. Wyn had told him a tale of a magical bag and the man who was put in a bag for punishment, to be beaten with a stick. These men were playing the game of badger in the bag.
‘What is in the bag?’ asks a man.
‘A badger!’ replies the Lord.
Then the man takes a cudgel to the offending badger.
And the only way out is for the man to say...
‘Lord, I merit not this treatment,’ yelled Dragonetz in Latin and then in Frankish. ‘Lord Maredudd! Lord Rhys!’ He screamed in Latin, ‘I merit not this treatment!’
There was silence. A different voice spoke in their tongue but no cudgel followed.
The commander spoke, argued, capitulated.
Somebody opened the bag, pulled it down around Dragonetz, who blinked in the daylight.
‘I am Lord Rhys,’ said the newcomer, speaking Frankish as good as Dragonetz’ own, ‘and this – he indicated the man Dragonetz thought of as ‘the commander’, ‘is my brother, Lord Maredudd.’
The family likeness showed in their eyes, round and guileless blue, but where Maredudd was brown-haired, Rhys was honey-blonde, his beard shorter to hide its wispy fineness.
Maredudd spoke sharply to Rhys, in Welsh again, but Rhys shook his head, spoke Frankish so Dragonetz could understand.
‘This is not a badger. This is a man who does not merit such treatment.’ The disappointment among the men as one of their lords ended the game was palpable, but they put down their cudgels.
‘A foreigner who knows the story of Rhiannon’s cunning is rare indeed.’ Rhys looked down at Dragonetz, who could feel the ropes chafing, see blood trickling from his wounds, but the danger was not over and he said nothing.
Estela was outraged. ‘My Lord Rhys, and my Lord Maredudd, if you have any nobility at all, untie me and let me tend to my own Lord’s wounds. We are troubadours from Provence and have travelled far to hear the music for which your court is famed. This is the welcome you offer!’
Rhys looked to his men. One of them brought Dragonetz’ sword to his Lord.
‘This is not a troubadour’s sword,’ Rhys pointed out.
‘It is this troubadour’s sword,’ Dragonetz retorted. ‘And if you bring my lute I will show you how I can handle both instruments. I heard that the lords of Deheubarth were also gifted in both poetry and battle.’ He knew how smug she would be afterwards, if they had an afterwards, but he had to use any argument he could, so he added, ‘Would I have brought my wife with me if I meant harm? She too is a noted troubadour who wished to learn from you and I now regret bringing her to such an uncouth people.’ That much was true.
Rhys did not stop a man punching Dragonetz for his rash words and he heard Estela sob.
‘My brother is right,’ Rhys said. ‘You must be tested.’ Dragonetz weighed up his chances in a duel against either of the brothers. In his present condition the outcome was unpredictable, but he would take his chances. Before he could say so, Estela spoke again, controlling her voice.
‘In the name of your mother and the women you hold dear, please untie me. I need a salve from the medicine box in my bags, to tend to my Lord’s wounds. I am a healer, and maybe you could profit from my knowledge if you treat me well!’
The sudden silence warned of danger. Dragonetz had no idea what Estela had said to draw such anger, as Maredudd shouted something and even Rhys was heated in reply. When he addressed Estela, his clipped tones shook with suppressed rage.
‘My mother was beheaded on a battlefield, by a Frankish coward, when I was five years old. What she would do with you would be whatever is best for our people. You know nothing of the courage and endurance of Welsh women, so hold your Frankish tongue.’
Estela held her tongue – thank God! – and Rhys turned his attention back to Dragonetz.
‘Kill him and be done with it!’ Maredudd’s eyes blazed and he wanted Dragonetz to know what was said.
‘A dead man is of no use,’ replied Rhys, and then said something in Welsh. Maredudd nodded.
‘The test is simple,’ Rhys continued. ‘I want a simple answer to a simple question and if your answer is wrong, you die. Do you support Henri Courtmantel or Stephen as King of England?’
‘Henri.’ Dragonetz spoke without pause. For all he knew, a pause could bring death and he knew nothing that would help him give the answer Rhys wanted. There was no change in the tense atmosphere but he was still alive, for the moment. Maredudd’s glare had not wavered and Rhys’ stare was equally fixed, unnerving.
‘Then I have much news for you,’ Rhys told him. ‘but not good in your eyes. Henri is dead in a great battle for Wallingford Castle.’ There was a ripple of surprise around the courtyard. Rhys had clearly brought back news fresh to the men gathered there.
The end to Aliénor’s hopes of sitting on the English throne. The end to their mission and his own hope of redemption. Aliénor would have greater things on her mind. They could go home, return to Musca, thought Dragonetz, his eyes on the ground. If Rhys did let him live, which seemed unlikely now. If not, he might be executed here or handed over to Stephen’s men.
‘Spare my Lady,’ Dragonetz asked. He heard Estela gasp as she had not done at the news of Henri’s death.
Rhys ignored the plea and continued his scrutiny of Dragonetz. ‘There’s more,’ he said. ‘Henri’s wife has produced a son.’
‘A bitter joy!’ Estela
could not hold back her reaction. ‘My poor Lady, to know the son she longed for just when his future is ripped to tatters.’
Dragonetz spoke, only for Estela. If these were his last moments, he would not dissemble. ‘She will not let go. She has fought before – you should have seen her in the Holy Land – and she will fight to the death for her son’s rights. When you leave here...’ he paused. When I’m dead. ‘Go to her, offer her service. Aquitaine will never desert her, and she is strong enough to hold Anjou while the baby grows. Musca,’ his voice faltered, ‘I’d like Musca to be knighted by his Liege of Aquitaine.’
‘Then you’d better see to it,’ Estela told him.
Maredudd was impatient at the exchange but Rhys calmed him with a gesture, frowned, seemed to come to a decision.
‘Henri’s death in battle was one rumour flying in the winds of war but it was not the truth,’ Rhys told them. ‘A crossroads was indeed reached in Wallingford, but it was Henri that won a truce. Stephen has named him heir, to end the wars.’ The collective gasp at such news grew to a rumble. ‘Quite a spectacle I believe. An army on either side of the Thames, with rival kings shouting terms to each other.’
‘Why should I believe you, when you lie so easily?’ Dragonetz demanded.
Rhys shrugged. ‘Whether you believe or not, this is the truth.’
‘And more news again,’ Rhys continued, not taking his eyes off Dragonetz. ‘Stephen’s son Eustace is dead, in mysterious circumstances, just after Henri was named heir. He was not too happy with the truce by all accounts. It seems food can be more dangerous than fasting. How fortunate for Henri – to gain a son and lose a rival on the very same day.’
So much to take in and consider! But all better than the first ‘news’. ‘Stephen’s other son?’ asked Dragonetz. ‘He must feel he has rights? And has lost them?’
‘He is happy that there will be peace and that provision will be made for him. He is no warrior. Perhaps he’d also like to eat his dinner without fear.’
Dragonetz ignored the implied accusation against Henri and waited. He commended his soul to heaven, in case.
Rhys looked to his brother in unspoken query and it was Maredudd who gave the command. ‘Free them.’ They might differ in their views but the brothers worked together. Something else to consider, now that he had, apparently, survived his test.
Dragonetz rubbed the circulation back into his wrists, stood on shaky knees. He was taller than the Welshmen.
‘Would you really have killed me if I’d declared for Stephen?’ he asked.
‘No,’ replied Rhys, evenly, with splendid indifference to the irony of his response. ‘I’d have killed you if you lied.’
Trickery is a virtue. Dragonetz wondered what had shown on his face of his reactions to Rhys’ news, wondered whether he’d shown too much or not enough. Perhaps Estela’s outburst, or the words between them, had made the difference. Such small things a man’s life turned upon. Whatever the case, he was alive.
‘A dead man is of no use,’ he quoted Rhys’ words to his brother. ‘What did you say to my Lord Maredudd, in Welsh?’
‘It is one of our sayings since our mother was betrayed by one she trusted. A dead man is of no use; but a liar is only safe when dead. If you lied, I’d have killed you.’
Estela had been freed and was already checking Dragonetz’ wounds, tutting. ‘Get me my medicine box from my saddlebags!’ she demanded. ‘And I want Wyn and John Halfpenny here, now – the men who were with us – so I can speak Welsh through Wyn and make sure our party are treated as they should be!’ She glared at Maredudd.
‘It’s all right, wife,’ Dragonetz told her, and saw her eyes fill with tears: delayed shock triggered by an endearment never used before. ‘There has been a misunderstanding and all is well now.’
She turned on him, dashing the tears away with one hand. ‘This is the last adventure you drag me on. You might not be a badger or a liar but you merit punishment!’
He smiled as best he could manage through a split lip. ‘Willingly, good wife. Willingly.’
The men watching the spectacle might not have understood the words, but they got the gist of the situation well enough to guffaw and elbow each other. The mood changed again. From the prospect of my being battlement décor, to a puppet-show of Noah and his wife, thought Dragonetz, but he was glad to keep his head on his shoulders for another day. And he was sore. He was also wondering about the coincidence of Wyn telling him a tale of a badger in a bag. There had been many tales so perhaps it was a coincidence. But what if the Welshman had wanted him to show his character and his worth? Trickery is a virtue in Wales, he reminded himself, and Wyn was useful. But he could not be trusted.
SHARING A RUSH MATTRESS in the Great Hall seemed like heaven to Estela, especially after a stomach-full of mutton stew, rustic but tasty, and flavoured by hunger. The stone walls echoed with snores and farts but Estela cared nothing for the crudity of her company if Dragonetz was beside her. His breath in sleep was even, helped by the tisane of hops and valerian she had given him. She laid her hand gently on his back, just to feel the warmth, be sure he was there, and she moved as far as she could manage to put some space between herself and her neighbour on the other side. She liked John Halfpenny well enough but unless the cold grew worse, she preferred to avoid the physical contact.
She was already recovering from the heart-stopping fear, and, unlike Dragonetz, physically she had suffered mere discomfort, so there was no point dwelling on how bad it could have been. What mattered was that they had done it! They were here, in one of the Welsh castles. Now all they had to do was to make themselves indispensable, give their political advice and go home. With such comforting thoughts, Estela let herself drift into sleep. The wise traveller slept whenever he – or she – could.
The Land of the Welsh
To the west and north of Gwalia, the Welshmen have strongholds from which they dispute the lands occupied by Frankish lords. They claim that all Gwalia was theirs before the Franks conquered some parts and belongs to them by right. All owe allegiance to King Henri, to whom the west of England is already loyal, even though Stephen still sits on the throne, but there is much fighting over how these lands are held and by whom.
Although the Welsh lords converse well in Latin and Frankish, common Welshmen speak no civilised tongue and a native guide is recommended.
Provisions are basic because the frequent battles require nomadic habits. However, the terroir is green and fertile, and the livestock tasty from good grazing. This land is richer than its natives wish the Saes (their word for foreigners) to discover.
The wise traveller will note that Welshmen are prone to deceit and do not like badgers.
Chapter 15
While Dragonetz was recovering, Estela gleaned as much information as she could, flitting from kitchen to battlements: carrying messages; unloading and storing provisions; fetching firewood. She made herself useful, if not indispensable, and she ensured that John Halfpenny did likewise.
Wyn was a law unto himself, disappearing among his countrymen and re-appearing with a genial apology. Telling him she needed him for translation was like catching water in a sieve, so she sent him to Dragonetz instead. That would make it harder for the Welshman to absent himself and at least one of them would be able to learn more of this difficult language. She was picking up the words she heard most often but ‘Come here, wench!’ and ‘Take this to the kitchen’ were unlikely to help Dragonetz much in his political aims.
She had been mistaken in thinking there were no women in the castle. There weren’t many and they worked hard by day, and just as hard at night, finding their way onto privileged, shared mattresses in the Hall. Farts and snores were not the only noises that disrupted others’ sleep and only the Lords of Deheubarth bothered with a curtain for some privacy. Estela wondered where they found the energy. She was exhausted by the end of each day and sleep was the only pleasure she needed.
It was the women she could identify fir
st, putting names to weather-beaten faces. Aliénor’s ladies would have swooned at the very thought of putting down their embroidery to labour as these women did. As Estela drew another bucket of water from the well, she spared a wistful thought for the last time she’d enjoyed a bath, with other women filling the tub, squandering the precious liquid. Such luxury was unimaginable here.
Luckily, her hands had toughened on the journey or the blisters would have crippled her. Coarse they might be, but the women were tough and practical as Welsh ponies. Which was how the men treated them. Some of the women were lucky enough to service one man only, others were shared. The former guarded their man fiercely and fights were common but brief and apparently without rancour. Survival took priority and that required working together.
When the men returned from wherever they’d raided during the day, Estela watched which woman greeted which man, memorised the links, thought about the rank of the men, and of the women. She had been called ‘whore’ more than once in her life and now here she was, with whores for companions. She should despise them but how could she, when she worked alongside them every day? Sinful they might be, but, by God, they laboured as hard as any man.
Listen to her! She was blaspheming as easily as any soldier! Her next confession would be long, and would have pleased the vile priest she’d suffered in Zaragoza, and who would have lectured her on all women being sinful. The Welsh priest who rode with Rhys and Maredudd might be more practical, but Estela was in no hurry to speak to him. She would leave confession until she had more of their language, and no doubt even more to confess. For now, she would keep her thoughts and prayers private.
When the horn announced the men’s return, followed by hooves, jangles and a clamour of voices, the women’s work stopped. Or rather changed, as they tended to their men, then to the ponies. Bright-faced with success, the Deheubarth men nevertheless brought back injuries and gaps in their ranks. Joy at a man’s return, wailing at his absence, were the daily prospects for the women, who gathered the news of battles like wildflowers, for contemplation.
