by Jean Gill
Dragonetz drew breath sharply and there was a shocked pause, then Rhys laughed and everybody else joined in.
‘What?’ asked Estela, frustrated at being left out.
‘All I heard was mention of Maurice de Londres, lord of Kidwelly,’ Dragonetz told her. ‘The man who beheaded the lords’ mother.’
‘That doesn’t sound very funny!’
‘Near the bone, whatever the story’ agreed Dragonetz, ‘but it shows the kind of men these are. Not ones to walk on tiptoes.’
‘Tenso,’ he told her, ‘we’ll sing a tenso.’
Estela could only nod understanding. He knew as well as she did the risks of singing a song that relied on insults aimed at, and bandied with, the highest-ranking members of the audience. There was no doubt that the audience enjoyed insults but just how close to the bone were they willing for foreign guests to cut? When Dragonetz improvised in a tenso there was no telling who he would insult, or how much, but that he would be clever and cutting was guaranteed. She sighed.
The tale drew to its inevitable climax, with loud applause and Halfpenny’s riposte was an anti-climax; some quips and some jongling with boots he’d commandeered from members of the audience. He’d acquitted himself well, though, given the pressure, and he’d made friends.
Lord Rhys threw a purse to each man and thanked them, a level of courtesy Estela had not expected. The contradictions in the court continued to surprise her. Barbarians sometimes, and men of honour at others.
Flushed and beaming, the two raconteurs returned to their places. Dragonetz didn’t have to give his verdict; John Halfpenny conceded cheerfully and paid up.
‘Good health,’ he said as he downed another cup of wine. He pulled a face. ‘I prefer good ale to this Frankish stuff.’
Men were returning to their places and refilling their cups, after having relieved themselves outside. Some of the women were adjusting their skirts as they came back into the Hall, no doubt also having given the men relief, thought Estela cynically.
‘Shall we?’ Dragonetz asked her and for a confused heartbeat she though he was inviting her outside, until he reached for his lute.
She nodded, picked up her oud and held his hand tightly as he threaded a way through the lounging Welshmen to a place at the front where they could stand and perform. She would have liked a stool but no such luxury was available so she took her place behind Dragonetz, to accompany him as he sang.
He caught the audience’s attention by speaking in Welsh, the words he’d memorised beforehand, thanking the lords of Deheubarth for their hospitality. He managed to include two generations of their lineage in naming them, to general approval around the Hall. Switching to Frankish, he told them that the Welsh were renowned throughout Christendom for the way they treated guests.
Perhaps they would be, once she’d completed the Wise Traveller’s Guide, thought Estela, although she had not decided whether the renown would be positive or negative. Wyn had told them that no Welsh were beggars, and no man turned away travellers from his door, whether from hovel or castle, but Estela’s own experience suggested some selectivity in defining ‘traveller’.
Dragonetz’ flattery had achieved its aim and, in the relaxed atmosphere created by food, drink and laughter, he introduced his song. ‘As Wyn and Halfpenny competed in jest, so does my song allow one insult to cap another, in fun – and in verse. I know your people is even more renowned for song than for hospitality, so I invite any man who wishes to contribute to the song to do so when the chords await your voice.’
Invitation, my foot, thought Estela, as she tuned her oud, lightly strummed and repeated the chord that would allow a guest verse. Everyone in that Hall knew a challenge when they heard one and Dragonetz had not misjudged the reaction of the lords of Deheubarth. Both Maredudd and Rhys had stiffened, like hounds scenting game on the wind, eyes glittering before the chase. Whether they would remain civilised throughout the tenso was less predictable.
A look from Dragonetz, a beat for rhythm and the quarry was off, singing of a young brown-haired man, who spent so much time drinking and wenching that his moustache was white from ale-froth and his knees shook from riding pretty ponies.
Nicely adapted, observed Estela, as her fingers plucked a humorous emphasis or left a pause. As was the tenso tradition, Dragonetz had not named Maredudd but all those in the Hall had made the connection and were sniggering. All that was needed to complete the satirical picture was a nickname. Please God, let my lunatic man go gently prayed Estela, as Dragonetz finished the verse with the term, ‘Ass-ears’, impeccably rhymed and scanned.
The audience sniggered and noted that Maredudd’s ears were rather large and seemed more so thanks to the last rough shearing his straight brown hair had suffered. Dragonetz was not done though and launched straight into the second verse which was a traditional homily against greed, taking the ‘Ass-ears’ to be that Greek king, who was first punished for his golden touch, then for insulting a god.
Estela strummed the waiting chord, allowing time, in case one of the Welshmen should choose to sing a reply. Developing the allusion to Midas had removed the sting of the opening jibe and left the hearers free to question whether the insults were in their own mind. One more chord and then she’d let Dragonetz continue...
Maredudd stood. ‘Long ears find out traitors,’ he sang in Frankish, his voice thin but tuneful. Estela plucked softly, just to add atmosphere. The rest of his verse was in Welsh but there were repeated sounds, a music in the words themselves, as if there were some structure to the lines. If only she understood this language in which she was living! Although she didn’t, others did, and the reaction was a murmur of appreciation, and something more.
Rhys stood too and bowed to his brother, in mock-appreciation that yet held real respect. He translated the reply to Frankish, apologising that he could not translate the poetic form of the Welsh.
‘Long ears find out traitors
and our mother earth reveals
those who whisper against us,
be it the whoreson hairdresser
who left me thus shorn
or the uninvited stag beetle
whose carapace is all that’s hard,
hiding manhood soft and white as a grub.’
Rhys bowed ironically to the stag beetle, and Dragonetz laughed, the happiest Estela had seen him since he’d been extricated from the sack. She had no need to play waiting chords; he was ready. Maredudd had shown he knew the Greek myth of Midas, so Dragonetz continued the story of ‘Ass-ears’, improvising twists to the old tale, for his current audience.
‘What punishment could be hard enough
for such a hairdresser?’ he sang cheerfully, while Estela plucked a dissonant note to add suspense.
‘Surely the worst hairdresser in all Christendom.’
He paused for the laughter at the expense of Maredudd and an unfortunate Welshman Estela guessed to be responsible for the chopped locks.
‘Whose tongue wagged like an ale-wife’s,
who told Ass-ears’ secret to a hole in the ground
and heard the words echoing round and around
from every child’s mouth, and every girl south
of the mud-hole they lived in.’
A murmur ran around the Hall as ‘mud-hole they lived in’ was translated for those who spoke no Frankish, and they recognised their home landscape. Dragonetz repeated the lines for their further enjoyment while Estela wondered at the pleasure men derived from insults, and continued playing.
‘ ... every girl south
of the mudhole they lived in
would laugh at the king.
When laughter’s a crime then
Criminal is the sanction...’
Dragonetz paused for effect and then delivered the coup de grâce.
‘devised by a brother whose ears
were judged short; whose nature judged short.
In short, he was Ass-ears’ lesser brother and
judged s
hort in all, including the short sentence
for treacherous haircutters
that they be cut off.’
There was an uneasy silence, some men uncertain as to how to take the insult to Rhys, others waiting for translation. Estela looked down, strumming the waiting chord, wondering if she could make an escape route by hitting somebody with her oud and running.
Then Rhys laughed, loud and long, repeated ‘The lesser brother! Well called, my dangerous guest. Maredudd, he has us to rights!’
Estela risked a peep and saw that Maredudd too was relaxed and open, and she suddenly appreciated her lover’s true genius. Had he called the brothers the other way around, the atmosphere would have been very different. Rhys the Lesser Brother was a title that lord would wear with the same pride and humour as a gigantic man nicknamed ‘little.’
It was not over. Rhys signalled to Estela and sang his reply, in Frankish then in Welsh, in a tenor voice so rich it sent shivers along Estela’s arms. She imagined their voices blending, her soprano, Dragonetz’ deep baritone and this gift from God. What music they could make! Preferably with more dignified words.
‘Close to the ground and close to each other
Ass-ears and Short-arse
have everything covered.
Greater and Lesser brothers,
like the sun and the moon,
rise and set and return,
make the tall stranger but a shadow
from the light they cast.
to be taller or shorter as they choose.
or gone, from too much light.’
In Welsh, Rhys was more fluent, the words again having that repetition of sounds Estela had heard in Maredudd’s verse, but even in Frankish the thought was clever, and the delivery divine. Which of course had been Dragonetz’ purpose all along. Estela played a closing chord as The Shadow bowed in acknowledgement that he’d been bettered in his own field.
The atmosphere could not have been better. The timing could not have been better. ‘Now,’ whispered Dragonetz and Estela left her oud with him so she could approach the brothers and ask her favour. She stumbled a little as she stepped around three women sitting on their pallet and excused herself without noticing who they were. Rhys and Maredudd’s women, probably.
She had to reach the lords. She wanted so much to sing, to show what she could do, and Rhys’ voice was still echoing in her head as she reached him and instinctively spoke to the Lesser Brother first.
‘Sire,’ she asked and curtseyed, the honorific coming naturally after she’d heard such skill in song. The noise around the Hall let her speak privately, for only Rhys to hear and she kept her voice low and modest. ‘I would ask a boon. In my native land, I am known as a troubadour and I would offer one of my songs to your court, if it please you?’
The handsome face turned serious, kindly, like an uncle talking to a child. ‘You play nicely,’ he complimented her. Or, as she supposed, that was the intention. ‘But song in public is a serious matter and not for women. You should be proud of your husband and his talent.’ He paused, seeking words to soften her disappointment. ‘You are a very pretty woman. If you were not married...’
Perhaps it was lucky for Dragonetz’ mission that Estela’s reply was cut off by a woman’s scream. Before she could turn to see what was happening, Estela was knocked to the ground and flattened by somebody whose hands slipped round her neck, squeezing, digging in jagged nails, squeezing harder.
Through a wave of dizziness, Estela was aware of the uproar in the Hall. Dragonetz she thought, trying to reach me. The hands were not strong enough to keep up the pressure and a second’s relaxation gave Estela all the time and rage it took to buck and roll. All the time it took to draw her dagger from the very practical belt in her underskirt, and prod the heaving mass of skirt beside her until a squeal said flesh had been reached.
Estela maintained the pressure, said ‘Paid!’ which she hoped was the Welsh for ‘Don’t!’ Either her tone or the word worked because the woman lay still, sprawled on her stomach, with her skirt over her face and her naked rump bare to the world. Estela allowed herself the petty revenge of delaying a few seconds, amid coarse comments and laughter, then she pulled the skirt back into place to make decent her aggressor, jabbing a reminder with the dagger as she moved.
Mair spat out straw dislodged by the assault and let loose a string of words, of which Estela understood only ‘Rhys’, but that was enough, given the rumours about how Mair had dealt with her predecessor. Estela had seen enough hair-pulling, biting and punches during day-time work to know where jealousy led. How on earth could the woman have interpreted her approach to Rhys as a threat? Truly, she was in another country!
She stroked her sore neck with her free hand, saw blood on her fingers, wondered whether the stupid bitch had damaged vocal chords and kicked her in the rear, once, hard. Then Dragonetz reached her, wielding the oud against anybody who thought to approach them.
Estela smiled grimly as she rose to her feet, never taking her eyes off her opponent as she smoothed down her own skirt, one-handed. If there was to be another tenso with Greek allusions, what must they look like? She poised like Clytemnestra over the prone Welshwoman, and Dragonetz flailing an oud around, as men moved nearer to try and disarm them. May Dame Fortune aid us! she thought. Her escape plan might be needed after all.
Then Rhys’ voice rang out, as calm as if murder attempts were the norm. Which they might well be, thought Estela, as her blood calmed and feeling returned to her sore throat. She was tempted to kick Mair again but she was a lady, after all, and Dragonetz deserved a turn. She didn’t have to look at him to feel the heat of his anger. So much for Welsh hospitality!
Rhys’ speech had stopped the men attempting to rush Dragonetz so the tableau was frozen: Dragonetz holding the oud as if it were a mace, and Estela wielding her knife over Mair, who dared not move.
The men parted before Rhys, who crossed the distance to Dragonetz, within reach of the oud. ‘Please accept my apologies for this discourtesy to a guest. Women have no understanding of honour.’
Estela’s boot twitched and if Rhys had been nearer, she might well have followed the instinct.
Dragonetz was cold steel. ‘My Lady has every sense of honour and she has been insulted. What reparation do you offer?’
Rhys considered both the man and the matter. ‘It seems to me that your Lady brought a weapon into my court and has drawn it, which is against all honourable behaviour as a guest. Were she a man, her life would be forfeit.’
‘And she had not, her life would have been forfeit.’ Dragonetz showed no compromise.
Estela wanted to speak for herself but she could not trust her voice. Croaking defiance would only draw laughter so she let Dragonetz champion her cause.
Before Rhys was driven to some judgement against Estela that nobody wanted, least of all Estela, Maredudd spoke. ‘She is but a woman, Rhys. I doubt she knows how to use her little blade.’
Sore throat or not, Estela reacted. Yes, hoarse, but her words carried with the ease of professional practice. ‘Not only can I use this dagger but I can throw it to kill or to miss, within three inches of a man’s head!’ Oh God, she’d meant to say six inches and give herself some leeway for the effects of alcohol and shock. Too late now.
‘John Halfpenny!’ she called. Her voice cracked and she called again but the word was already being passed from man to man, along with a translation of the sport promised. John Halfpenny was caught in the glare of attention.
Mair risked moving, rolling to one side, and Estela promptly stamped on her back to keep her down.
‘Assume your position,’ Estela ordered Halfpenny and pointed to the huge oak door. There was a sad lack of trees in the Hall but it would do. Though how in God’s name she would pick the path and distance back from the door through this mob, she had no idea. Light-headed from surviving the attack, and seething at being belittled, Estela trusted in luck, or in justice, or both.
With slumped
shoulders and a show of reluctance, Halfpenny took up the role they had practised so many times. Was it only a show? Never mind that, she had to concentrate.
‘Let this be a trial by combat,’ she declared. ‘If God is on my side, then the dagger will fly true and John Halfpenny will be unharmed. All men will know that I bear this dagger for my own protection against such as... this–’ It was only a small stamp. ‘For women are not safe anywhere, not even in this court!’
‘Estela,’ murmured Dragonetz. ‘If you kill him, you owe me an amusing English squire.’
Rhys had been sucking on his moustache and mutely consulted his brother. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But it is no trial by combat when only one side is represented. God should indeed choose. You committed a crime against us and our court, but you also suffered a grievance and, for that, we owe you reparation.’ He nodded to Dragonetz. ‘Let the woman Mair be your target instead of the Englishman.
And she be untouched, she answers to your Lord’s justice, and you are declared innocent. And she be harmed, so much as one nick, you shall be burned alive for treason, and your man gelded. Nobody carries weapons into my Hall, far less uses one!’
Mair’s gasp of ‘No!’ was louder than Estela’s indrawn breath but no doubt both women were closer in their feelings than at any previous moment, if for different reasons.
‘I’m sorry,’ Estela whispered, touching her lover’s hand as she stepped back, allowed Mair to stand, walked her target to the door. The Welshwoman was shaking and Estela almost felt sorry for her. No doubt she expected certain mutilation or death, and the thought that she would take Estela with her would be little comfort.
If the woman kept shaking like that, there was every chance her expectations would be fulfilled! How Estela wished Halfpenny there instead, steady, trusting, greedy. She could hardly offer the woman a reward for staying still when this was a trial! Whatever she said, Mair wouldn’t trust her, but if either of them were to come out of this unscathed, there was one essential piece of advice and only one person she could trust to give it.
