by Jean Gill
Not only was there a new Pope, but the catalyst to the last crusade, Bernard of Clairvaux, was dead. Surely this was a year of changes and Ramon could only act according to what was best for his own kingdom. What happened abroad was beyond his power to predict or influence. Which brought him, with a sigh, to the letter from Provence.
Petty acts of defiance by the family Les Baux made it clear that their oaths of allegiance had meant nothing. The truce had failed and the only question now was how long Ramon could tolerate the continual provocation by his arrogant vassals.
Knowing that he had lost the two best commanders he would ever lead, had let them go knowing how soon he would need them, did not help either. He was a man of his word. And by God, those who’d broken their word would pay for it! It would be their fault if Provence was torn in two!
‘It might as well be a declaration of war from Les Baux.’ His commander was young enough to show enthusiasm. ‘We will miss Commander Malik.’ What he meant was that he would have a chance to shine in the field.
Berenguer sighed. ‘I do miss him. Among his many strengths, he could show restraint.’
De Montcada’s jaw tightened at the emphasis on one of his missing qualities and Ramon relented. There was no point holding Malik over the young man’s head as an example he could never live up to.
Ramon continued, ‘But he is no longer young and I hear that his wife’s death has hit him hard. He will not be returning to the guard, whatever we face.’
‘I am sorry Sire.’ The man had enough sense to maintain a respectful silence. Death always required a respectful silence. Gauging the length of that silence appropriate, the commander returned to business. ‘Word is coming back from your allies and vassals?’
Berenguer sighed again. Young men were wearying but war even more so. ‘Nothing from Toulouse,’ he said. ‘But that’s no surprise. Montpelier and Narbonne are with us, of course. And Carcassonne.’
‘That is good news!’
‘Yes, it seems Trencavel of Carcassonne has finally come off the fence and is acting without regard for Toulouse, possibly even against him.’
‘And he’ll bring his vassals.’
Berenguer was following his own thoughts, of a commander he could never see again, the best, to whom he’d made a promise. I cannot go to war against les Baux, Dragonetz had said, kneeling, offering loyalty to Barcelone. I will not make you, Berenguer had replied. But nor would he let Dragonetz ride with les Baux, against him. The knight must be kept far away. Aliénor’s summons had been for the best.
Damn you, Dragonetz! You, Malik and I, we were invincible.
‘We’ll be invincible!’ the untried commander told his Lord.
‘Yes, we will. But not yet. These petty insults might assuage Les Baux’ pride and there will be no need of war. But we will be prepared. And yes, the Carcassonne vassals will add forces I had not expected. I think Dragonetz’ lady came from that region?’ He was glad Estela’s family would be on his side.
Foolish to care, when Provence might be torn apart again. And for what? Wrong-headed pride on the part of a stubborn widow and her reckless sons. They had signed a truce; they had broken it. Dragonetz could not blame Ramon Berenguer for the war if it came. And yet he wished he could prevent it, for the sake of Provence, and for a man who was dear to him.
‘Make a list of those who ride with us,’ he instructed his commander. ‘But we will wait as long as we can, be it one year or ten. If we can avoid war, we will.’
Alone, Ramon replied to the letters. Gratitude to El Rey Lobo. Terms to Genoa. And then a letter to Dragonetz, releasing him as promised. The knight would not be implicated if Ramon waged war on les Baux. He’d always said he would not take sides.
Ramon remembered heated debates over the Usatges, camaraderie on dusty plains and in halls. Most of all he remembered a hawk and friendship. Alone, he raised his cup to the men he would see no more. ‘To Malik, whose ancestors shelter my descendants. And to Dragonetz, who will be his own ruler one day.’
Then he let the present fill his mind. Petronilla watched over their little boy like a farmer over a malformed calf and, so far, they had not conceived another heir. He had to reassure her daily that God was not punishing them and truly he could not think of any couple who deserved punishment less. But he did wonder, sometimes.
Still, in every day there was matter for rejoicing. He would gather his merchants and discuss new contracts, taxes and tariffs for Tortosa.
Chapter 21
This time Dragonetz rode in at Rhys’ side, at the head of men who’d glutted on victory and liked the taste. Tossing the reins to whoever stood near enough, Dragonetz dismounted in one fluid movement and pulled Estela into his arms, battle hunger turning to desire.
Rhys too was looking for one person, and found him just as quickly. ‘Ceredigion is ours!’ he told Maredudd, clasping him in a hug that nearly lifted them both off the ground.
The shadow of a darker expression crossed Maredudd’s face, quickly replaced with an exaltation that mirrored his brother’s. ‘You’ve done it, then! They tried to pen us in Cantref Mawr but Deheubarth is ours again, all of it!’
‘We’ve done it,’ Rhys corrected quickly. ‘And we’ll celebrate tonight! I don’t think anybody will be a threat for some time, so we can leave enough here to hold the castle and we can go home!’ After the slightest pause, he added, ‘What do you think?’
Maredudd smiled. ‘How could I disagree?’ He yelled for all the courtyard to hear. ‘We celebrate my brother’s victories, our victories, and then we go home! Open the casks, prepare some food – let’s not waste our stores on the lazy lumps who’ll stay here when we’ve gone!’
The uproar suggested that the night would be long and the morning longer, bedevilled with sore heads and bad tempers. But if that was the worst of it while they secured Llansteffan and prepared to leave, any leader would be well pleased.
‘Celebrate and go home,’ Dragonetz heard Estela whisper, her words muffled against the bare skin under his open jerkin.
THE MORNING AFTER, there were sore heads and bad tempers aplenty but the only unpleasant surprise for Dragonetz was the sight of Estela slipping out of castle with Maredudd. ‘Sneaking off’ was the term that came first to mind, shocking him with its implications.
He forced himself to think, not to rush after them, or Maredudd’s head would be on the battlements. He counted heartbeats until they were out of sight and he couldn’t see their animated conversation about God-knew-what.
Then it was worse. If he couldn’t see them, he didn’t know what they were doing and it could be worse than talking. What had she meant when she told him she’d win Maredudd over? Had she used the tactics she’d learned in the kitchen from these camp followers with whom she lived.
Crazy he told himself. You’re still battle-crazy.
He was still unsettled by the emotions unleashed by a hard campaign. Not as bloody as the taking of Tenby, for the Gwynedd men saw defeat coming and had no motivation to hold Ceredigion against the passionate opponents. No man wanted to die for greed’s sake but to regain the land his father had lost, when the prize dangled within reach, a man would always risk more. And Rhys inspired loyalty.
The rush of fighting anger that came as the battle cry Cofiwch Gwenllian! swept through the Deheubarth men, bonding them to the death: Dragonetz felt it too. He also felt a thousand other battles guiding his every move. A thousand times he’d allowed instinct to take over. It was not easy, afterwards, to put the inner wolf back in its cage, to behave with honour and courtesy, to remember that a sword did not solve all problems. Not even a sword like Talharcant.
Only other warriors could know how it felt, this duality, and few of them bothered to struggle. Dragonetz could count on his fingers the men who’d been true brothers at arms. Rhys was the wildest of them, courageous and ruthless. Estela would not joke about blinding and gelding if she knew how little Rhys would hesitate to give such an order, regardless of the man thus sen
tenced.
Malik had been the partner who completed him; scimitar with sword, experience with ingenuity, loyalty beyond question. Dearest friend of my mind.
Ramon Berenguer was the one leader who had claimed Dragonetz’ service through respect, not just by a vassal’s oath, and Barcelone’s judgement and restraint were exemplary – El Sant indeed. Thinking about the best leader he’d ever known calmed Dragonetz, distracted him from the route to the beach his mind was taking, following Maredudd and Estela in his unruly imagination.
He stayed at his post watching the gate, waiting and reminiscing. There had been other comrades, once. Raoulf, who’d known him from boyhood, and who’d once been Dragonetz’ right arm. Raoulf’s son Arnaut, a friend for life, but for such a short life. Arnaut would have followed Rhys to hell and back, as he’d followed Dragonetz. Only he’d not come back.
And Geoffroi de Rançon. When Dragonetz and Geoffroi had fought back to back at Les Baux they had created something fine, a moment of pure chivalry, a true note in a song. Geoffroi, who’d kissed Estela. Dragonetz let the hatred rage red through his blood.
Geoffroi. Maredudd. These men who wanted his woman. Who touched her. Who did with her what he had done last night.
Then he unclenched his fists. Enough he told himself. I am better than this. Aliénor’s court of love had decreed that there was no love without jealousy and maybe that was true but nothing said he had to let such a sin govern his behaviour. And he no longer doubted that it was a sin.
He did not like being ignorant of what Estela was doing with Maredudd so, he must either ask her what it was, or suffer until she told him or he found out. As penance for his doubts, he decided on the latter course.
He’d almost turned to go when he caught the movement at the gate for which his heart had been waiting, wherever his thoughts wandered. Estela had returned, with Maredudd beside her, the two of them looking even more furtive than when they’d left about an hour earlier. Dragonetz was not imagining it.
He took his time going down the steps from the battlements but his hand rested on Talharcant and his gaze never left Estela.
He was watching as a woman suddenly screamed, launched herself at Estela from behind, gouging at her eyes, pulling her hair free of its net, into black waves. Mair! Trying to finish what she’d started! But no, this one was light-haired.
Dragonetz ran the remaining steps but before he could intervene, another woman, who was Mair, grabbed Estela’s attacker and winded her with a well-placed knee, while Maredudd stood between Estela and the pair of Welshwomen.
As far as Dragonetz could understand the Welsh, Mair said something that started with a string of insults and finished, ‘He was teaching her sword-fighting, you stupid bitch! Haven’t you seen she has eyes only for Long Shadow, or I’d have killed her myself over Lord Rhys! Look you – Lord Maredudd is wearing two swords because she was using one of them to learn!’
Long Shadow observed that, sure enough, there were two swords belted round Maredudd’s hips. Thank God! Dragonetz thought, understanding how stupid he’d been. The attacker, Maredudd’s woman, was clearly acting from the same mistaken jealousy he’d been trying to fight.
‘Estela, no!’ he yelled, as she reached into her underskirt, red-faced and breathing heavily. He caught her wrist just in time to prevent her drawing a weapon close enough to the Lord of Deheubarth to alarm those around him.
However obvious the provocation to Estela, Dragonetz did not want to face another session of Deheubarth justice. He had spent hours during the campaign discussing Barcelone’s Usatges with Rhys but he wouldn’t want to test how fertile the ground had been by placing Estela (and himself) on trial again. The Deheubarth idea of mercy was still maiming, with or without incarceration.
‘Paid,’ he told her, the Welsh instinctive after riding so long with Rhys’ band. ‘Don’t. Let my Lord Maredudd deal with it.’
She stilled under his restraint, although still flushed, her eyes flashing the daggers she dared not draw.
Dragonetz held his breath, knowing better than to plead leniency, knowing how Maredudd would react. If the Welsh lords chose to demonstrate their authority, they would do so, regardless of whether they thought any crime had been committed. Unlike Rhys, Maredudd had not been listening to extracts from the Usatges for the preceding weeks. He’d been confined to bed and then chafed by the knowledge that Rhys was fighting for Ceredigion – without him. And with Dragonetz. No, he was unlikely to be in the best of humours.
The courtyard was silent for a long moment as men watched to see how Maredudd would deal with his woman’s attack on their guest. The second such attack. Mair had let go of the fair-haired woman, who stood, defiant, waiting for a reaction.
Then Maredudd threw back his head and roared with laughter, grabbed her, kissed her and slapped her behind in rough approval. His words made coarse reference to enjoying a woman with spirit and she slipped her gown off one shoulder in a flirtatious exchange, then the tenor changed. Maredudd took both her shoulders in his warrior’s hands, held her away from him, spoke calmly but firmly. The woman turned and ran, sobbing. Mair went after her, shaking her head.
Incensed at this new insult to Estela, Dragonetz moved to speak his mind but it was Estela’s turn to catch his arm and hold him back.
‘Paid,’ she echoed, ‘Don’t. He told her, Enid, that she’s staying here when we leave tomorrow. When he leaves tomorrow. That the world holds many women and he has not finished trying them – but he has finished with her.’
‘He showed disrespect to you,’ murmured Dragonetz. ‘There was no apology for your treatment.’
‘I’m a woman.’ Estela shrugged. She looked towards the two women, disappearing into the shelter of the kitchen. ‘You see how women are treated.’ Then her eyes gleamed with mischief. ‘I caught him across the back of his shins this morning and he’ll carry some bruises for underestimating me. And I’ve had the chance to prattle about politics, featherbrained female that I am.’
He couldn’t help smiling. ‘You’ll stop now?’ He tried not to plead. ‘Not ask for sword practice with him again.’
‘I’ll stop,’ she agreed. ‘I’ve learned enough for it to be dangerous with a man of his temper. Especially after this morning. And we’re moving north now. Everything will be different.’ A thought struck her and she regarded him, eyes narrowed. ‘You weren’t jealous, were you?’
‘Of course not,’ he replied. ‘In fact, I look forward to seeing what such a second-rate swordsman taught you. I hope I don’t have to correct too many bad habits.’
LATER, ESTELA SPOKE to Mair, thanked her.
‘I didn’t do it for you,’ was the brusque response.
‘Nevertheless,’ persisted Estela. ‘I understand.’
‘Do you?’ Mair looked at her. ‘What do you think will happen to us now the men are going home?’ She answered her own question. ‘Some will stay here and carry on as we are, with the men who stay. But we can’t all stay. The rest will go back to Caerfyrddin and to Dinefwr, where the wives and children wait. Some will have second-best children of their own, maybe supported if they’re lucky, and they’ll lead their second-best lives in their filthy huts, until they fall sick and die.’
Estela thought about Rhys, about his plans with Gwenllian. She did understand. ‘You’ll stay here,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ said Mair. ‘I’m one of the lucky ones.’
ENOUGH PROVISIONS WERE left for the trimmed garrison and the rest packed into the wagons. The Welsh travelled light and by morning Rhys and Maredudd had their party on the road following the river north. By the end of the afternoon they were in Caerfyrddin, its grim hill fortress warning them against hopes of comfort.
Estela did not want to travel in a cart with the other women. Already, she could feel the difference between her status and theirs, of which Mair had reminded her. She had not thought of herself as a lady for months now but she must, if she were to greet women of noble Welsh blood. She could not even imag
ine how such women would dress or behave.
She rode with John Halfpenny, as Dragonetz was like a will o’ the wisp, one moment with Rhys and Maredudd at the front and then checking the wagons and the men riding at the rear, alight with dangerous energy. She had not seen him like this since they came to Gwalia. Whereas she felt a growing need for caution and felt wary of the social requirements ahead, Dragonetz had come through battles unscathed and had let down his guard. He was dazzling in his armour and his confidence. She saw Maredudd glancing at him, watching the ease with which Rhys spoke to her knight. They had campaigned together. They had won Ceredigion. And Maredudd had not been there.
Her uneasy stomach warned her to be careful, reminded her of other times, other places, but however well she knew Dragonetz, he could always surprise her.
They were welcomed civilly enough, given food and watered wine, then allocated quarters and paillasses that smelled fresh. The night might even pass without being bitten by bugs. Dragonetz and Estela had the luxury of a curtained recess, with only a select handful of men sharing the chamber. Rubbing her weary legs, waiting for Dragonetz to finish talking to Rhys and Maredudd, Estela thought she might even get a good night’s sleep.
Then, Dragonetz told her what he had planned for the night. She had not seen that particular crazy light in his eyes since he accepted a Viking Prince’s challenge to combat. And she had hoped to never see it again.
Chapter 22
When Rhys had suggested the coracle race, inviting Dragonetz to be his partner, eyes dancing, Maredudd said, ‘You will lose for the first time, my brother.’
