by Jean Gill
‘My Lord Dragonetz los Pros.’ If there was a hint of irony in the nickname ‘los Pros’, ‘the Brave’, it was too subtle to be sure of the mockery. A low bow in greeting and then the newcomer turned to the guards. ‘Leave us.’ The men hesitated, hands on their sword hilts. ‘I am in no danger from your guest! Go!’ And, as an afterthought, ‘Bring us tea.’
Although he too wore black robes and a scarf hood, the man who spoke was bare-faced, sun-trenched wrinkles deep in his ageing face. Dark skin and hooked nose suggested his race but not his religion. Damascus was not only the oldest city in the world but the oldest seat of the Christian Church, founded by St Paul himself. In this land where allegiances shifted like the sands it was no surprise to find a Syriac Christian giving orders to Muslim guards.
‘Yohana Bar Philipos.’ Dragonetz returned the greeting with a grimace as the instinctive movement of his hands met only rope. ‘You have me at a disadvantage.’
His eyes steady on Dragonetz, Bar Philipos unsheathed his scimitar and said, ‘Turn your back’. A shaft of sunlight caught patterns on the blade. There was no hesitation in Dragonetz as he turned his back, not because he trusted Bar Philipos but because this was the one man who had the right to kill him. If Dragonetz condemned the Archbishop of Narbonne and Toulouse for their crimes, how much more did he blame himself for the torture and death of this man’s daughter, in the crusade that shamed all those involved.
Three years ago, Bar Philipos stumbled into the Crusaders’ camp, demanding to see Aliénor’s Commander in person so he could tell Dragonetz to his face how a beautiful girl had died, never betraying her lover’s name, nor how to find him. It was not the details of torture that unmanned Dragonetz but the knowledge he hid deep in nightmares for the years that followed; he couldn’t even put a face to the girl let alone a name. She was merely a pleasing body come to him in the dark, along with her giggling friends, who’d sneaked a ladder down over the city walls to pleasure the young soldiers outside, bored with their siege. How could he know that their wild trysts could be used as a way to trap him, a way that failed because of the courage of one young girl who refused to speak. Who, according to her father, loved Dragonetz and had died for him.
So his jaw hardened and he turned his back. A breath of air and one whistling swish upwards was all it took, so sharp was the blade. There was a rush of pain as circulation returned to his wrists and Dragonetz rubbed them hard. ‘Thank you.’
‘If you give your word not to attack your long-suffering guards, and not to try to escape, I can ask that you be left unbound.’ Bar Philipos dragged two cushions from the pile and placed them as seats, gesturing to the other man to take one. The sliced rope on the floor was unravelling from its thick plaits into strands. Dragonetz picked up a section, puzzled at its fabrication.
‘Silk,’ Bar Philipos confirmed, his hand never straying too far from the steel that had cut the knot. Dragonetz’ own sword was solid, well-tempered and proven in battle often enough, but it was no match for Damascus steel. Occitan smiths had forged their versions, relying on descriptions from returned Crusaders.
Dragonetz had seen swords that were pattern welded, clumsy mixes of iron and steel, twisted in the making. He had seen pretty etchings on blades, filigree swirls of copper or silver on the surface of the steel. But no-one outside Damascus had come close to making steel like this, patterned through to the very core, like watermarked silk turned to weapon. It was hard without being brittle, durable without softness and could be sharpened to an edge that cut through flesh as if it were goat cheese. And oh, but it was beautiful. Not since he held a sheet of paper for the first time had Dragonetz felt such a longing, such a need to know how something was made but he knew better than to ask directly.
‘The craft in your sword sings of Damascus,’ he told Bar Philipos, the Arabic shaping his compliments in the manner a language has of forming thoughts in that culture.
‘It is our heritage. Damascus has passed on its skills for centuries and will continue to do so, God willing.’ Bar Philipos had switched into a language that was not quite Arabic but its sister, the same spoken by the guards.
‘Your sons are blessed.’ Dragonetz winced even as he spoke the tactless formula.
‘My sons are blessed,’ Bar Philipos agreed, then he answered the wince, ‘and I have other daughters. Although you will forgive me if I do not introduce them to you. The world has moved on in three years, Lord Dragonetz, as have I. A child who shames her family no longer has a family. A child raised in virtue, who behaves as a whore, deserves to die as a whore.’ His voice rose and broke, resuming in flat tones. ‘This is an example to others in the family and in the community. It is not something worth speaking of. She did not exist.’
Dragonetz blinked. If he had a sister who’d slipped over Ruffec’s walls at night to play the oldest game with some man, and had died for it, would his own father have spoken like this? A foolish thought. No sister of his would have been so careless of her honour. ‘You are speaking Syriac?’ Dragonetz hazarded. Bar Philipos nodded. ‘Please, continue. I need to learn.’ Until he spoke the words he had no idea that he needed to learn and he was still not sure what he needed to learn. Know your friend, perhaps, and, of course, know your enemy. He was unsure which of the two sat on the cushion opposite him but he already knew that this man would not speak of love with anything other than contempt.
‘I was asked to confirm your identity,’ Bar Philipos continued. Dragonetz frowned in concentration and the Syrian spoke more slowly. ‘Please, ask me if there are words unknown to you in my speech. It is said by the Muslims that their prophet Muhammad asked to learn Syriac and it took seventeen days. I think you will be quicker. As to my purpose here, I have permission to answer some of your questions but not others.’ He broke off to admit a guard, who carried a silver tray, on which were a bowl and two brown-glazed cups, themselves decorated in silver trace. Was everything in this city crafted in metal magic?
Bar Philipos placed the tray on the floor between them, politely indicating the cup of hot black liquid nearer to Dragonetz. A blade in the back was one thing, poison quite another. Dragonetz leaned forward and turned the tray, copying the Syrian’s gesture and offering the same cup. Bar Philipos smiled and shook his head, reaching out to the cup. ‘No, my friend, there is no difference between the cups.’
‘Good,’ said Dragonetz, beating Bar Philipos to the cup he’d chosen. ‘Then I’ll change my mind again and take the first one.’ The Syrian showed neither disappointment nor triumph as he reached across for his own cup and raised it in a toast, saying something that sounded like ‘fisehatak’, ‘to your health’.
‘Santat,’ replied Dragonetz in Occitan and took a sip, scenting an overlay of flowers and feeling a bitter aftertaste on his tongue. ‘What is it?’
‘Herbs and honey.’ Bar Philipos shrugged. ‘Some say it calms the spirits and eases repose. I have no interest in herbal lore.’ Dragonetz thought wistfully of al-Hisba, his Moorish friend, who had been as talented in medicine as in engineering. He would have sniffed out the composition of the drink, known every property of each herb in it. Al-Hisba and Estela would then have argued the merits of each situation in which the drink could be used, from childbirth to amputation. Dragonetz disciplined his rambling thoughts. Such friends were a time and an ocean away. He had other questions to pose this strange intermediary.
‘You said you ‘have permission’. Who gives permission? By whose name am I held here?’
‘That I can’t say but he is of noble birth.’
‘Why me?’
‘Your worth as a warrior is known, my Lord Dragonetz, and the situation here is precarious. Should you accept one of the offers which will surely come to you, like the last grain of salt on the scale you will tip the balance towards whomsoever you choose. It is considered safer that you enjoy your stay here while events unfold.’
‘What and who are in the balance of which you speak?’
‘Now that is something we
can speak of at length when I come again but, in short, since the Crusaders failed Damascus -’ Dragonetz winced but could not contradict the statement - ‘we have held our city against our enemies through the strength of our walls, of our skills and of our trade. No-one wants to see Damascus razed and everyone wants to possess it. To the north, the Saracen force grows ever stronger under the Aleppo ruler, Nur ad-Din. To the south, the King and Queen of Jerusalem are increasingly at odds, dividing the Christian kingdom of Jerusalem between them.’ Bar Philipos flushed, stumbled over his words. ‘But we will speak more of this next time.’ He rose abruptly to leave. ‘Before I leave you unbound, do I have your word?’
‘I will not attack the guards. I swear.’
‘That is but half an oath, Dragonetz, but you cannot escape, so don’t try. It will go ill for you and worse for anyone you try to subvert to your purpose. There are no serving-wenches here to charm with a song. Nor any other wenches.’
The light retort had to be stifled, each word allowed to cut, and accepted as his due. As if reading his mind, the Syrian said, ‘Be assured, my Lord Dragonetz, you will be treated exactly as you merit.’ Bar Philipos bowed and left Dragonetz wondering whether it was only his permanently guilty conscience that made the words sound like a threat. He felt a sudden nausea and put it down to the emotions of the encounter. He would feel better if he lay down.
Closing the door behind him, Bar Philipos leaned against the wall, feeling giddy. One of the guards moved quickly to support him and warned, ‘Not here - come.’ When they were far enough away from the others, in a chamber protected by walls thick enough to hold all secrets, the guard dropped the Syrian onto some cushions and slipped off his black headgear.
‘This stifles me. It’s bad enough now but I don’t know how your people wear it in the summer.’ He shook free a mop of curly brown hair and revealed skin that was tanned and weathered brown but with paler origins. ‘How long do we have?’
‘The agitation has started but I have used the poppy before and will be lucid until sleep takes me.’
‘Did he drink it all?’
‘Yes. It was as we planned. It might not have worked if only one cup had been doctored.’
‘You can control your own intake in the future?’
‘Of course. Next time he will be more trusting and I will not need to partake of the poppy.’
‘How long before he needs it?’
‘That depends on his body and his mind, how strongly they bind to the poppy. With a small dose each day, I think we will quickly make him ours without him noticing. His quick mind will betray him because he is too interested in what I can tell him to realise what his body could tell him. The longer he stays with us, the tighter we bind him, and the more sluggish that quick mind will grow. When we let him escape, he is ours wherever he goes. We neuter him.’
‘We are being paid well to keep him out of action but safe.’
‘And we are being paid even better to kill him. This way, we satisfy both our clients. We let one know he is well and the other know that he will die whenever we choose, without a trace of our involvement. He will need to know where to find what he craves and he will do the rest himself. We will do nothing and he will die.’
‘And if it becomes more expedient that he lives?’
‘It is possible to arrange. But far more difficult.’
‘What happens now?’
‘Now, I sleep. And dream. Leave me.’
Chapter 2
Estela knew how much she’d changed and she felt ugly, as if she was a huge impostor, but the guests at table were looking at her as they always had, confident that their songster would complete a pleasant evening in the Great Hall of Dia. She gave an involuntary gasp, then hid it in an emotional rendering of the next verse. If her audience was surprised at the intensity of their troubadour’s feeling for a shy maiden being wooed and won, so much the better. After only six months entertaining the Diois lords at the court of Comte Isoard, surprise was already Estela’s hallmark.
As her voice soared for ‘No m platz plus’, she mentally admonished the source of the gasp, ‘Little trouble-maker!’ When the next fierce kick came inside her, followed by a punch and ripple as the baby changed position, she was ready for him - or her - and didn’t miss a note.
As she sang of Rudel’s ‘amor de lonh,’ his far-away love, she thought of her own and there were tears in her own eyes as well as her listeners’ as she finished the tale of doomed love. How wonderful that Rudel had managed to see the lady he’d dreamed of, for whom his song was written, even if it had been to die in her arms. How romantic.
The baby kicked her again, hard. If this was the result of being in a lover’s arms, she would never ever again let a man near her unless he was wearing full body armour. She would get herself a chastity belt and let the dog keep the key attached to a spiked collar.
She glanced at the huge white fur-mat half-lying under the trestle table where she’d recently finished eating. Nici’s eyes were shut in the comfortable dreams of a dog who’d scavenged his fill of under-table scraps and was now blissfully unaware that he’d cleared five people away from his end of the table, using a combination of ripe dog smells and sheer physical occupation of space. No-one ever liked to move Nici.
From the moment he’d run away from home and found Estela doing likewise, he’d assumed they were a good team and, somehow, she’d never convinced him otherwise. Nor was she going to convince him that he should be guarding sheep like a good patou, and wearing the spiked collar. A complete failure, he’d liked people too much to stay out in the fields. So the chastity belt plan was doomed too. And yet there was no shortage of wolves in the Vercors mountains, requiring both Nici and Estela to stay on guard.
Estela glanced round the hall as she curtseyed the end of her performance, accepting the tribute she had come to expect. Tonight she had sung others’ compositions, but as her confidence and reputation grew, she included her own work in her repertoire more often. She could rely on any of Dragonetz’ songs to warm up the audience - and usually the baby! - or to rescue a choice that fell flat. People wanted novelty yet responded to what was familiar so Estela had learned to include only one or two new songs, and repeat those in her regular programme a few times, before adding more.
After the first performance of her ‘Song of Arnaut and al-Hisba’, she had cried herself breathless in her room; her greatest work, her most personal work, received with disapproving mutters. And she had lain awake, remembering all Dragonetz taught her, all al-Hisba had taught her, remembering Arnaut’s love for his friend - and for her.
Then she’d sung it again, the token Arnaut had worn as her knight, a talisman around her neck. This time the murmur had a different note in it. Then, another night, she’d sung it again, and seen people mouthing the words with her, singing along. The evening someone called out, ‘Sing us the one about Arnaut and the Moor’, she knew she’d won, and not just for herself.
That evening, Estela had looked to where her men were sitting, her self-appointed guardians; Gilles, who’d saved her life and paid for it with his right hand, finding and following her with the same loyalty as Nici; and Raoulf, Arnaut’s father, his shaggy black head lowered to hide his face as Estela sang a song of love and courage, brotherhood across the divide of race and creed. It was Gilles who told her, ‘That was well done, Roxie,’ using the real name of her childhood that she’d abandoned for her troubadour persona. Raoulf couldn’t speak beyond a gruff grunt and nod, but that was more than enough.
If she never composed another song, this one had brought her all the reward she could ever want, easing her own heart in carrying the debt she could never repay. They were all changed, she, Gilles, Raoulf and Dragonetz - wherever he might be. Even al-Hisba, or Malik as she ought to call him now she knew his name, had tangled his life with theirs before he returned to some fabulous inheritance in al-Andalus - or wherever he might be now.
A summer in Narbonne had come and gone with the swallo
ws, leaving Estela in the mountain fortress of Dia, troubadour to its young heiress, Bèatriz, alone but for her serving-men and a large white dog, and about to give birth to Dragonetz’ child. She’d followed his advice at their forced parting, attached herself to Bèatriz’ party and returned with them from Narbonne to Dia, in anticipation of Bèatriz’ marriage.
The serious fourteen-year-old whose musical talents Estela had encouraged, had grown into a young woman who spoke only of duty but still sang of love. She had been betrothed at seven, so was perfectly prepared for her highly suitable marriage to a local Comte, Guilhelm de Poitiers. She could explain at length to Estela the importance of joining her future lands to those of the Comte, which fell under the sovereignty of the Holy Roman Emperor, not of France like her own. But for all her political astuteness, Bèatriz was also a fifteen-year-old who’d tasted the sophistication of Narbonne.
She’d witnessed the court of Ermengarda, not just the intricacies of trade and alliances, but the quality of everyday life, and of the music there. The Court of Love. So they’d called it when they’d staged an elaborate entertainment, part-show and part-debate, dazzling with wit and beauty, attended by the young troubadours whose names were already passed from one stronghold to the next. Whose names had touched lightly on Bèatriz, herself a young troubadour to be reckoned with, apart from one. A spark between like minds, a flame catching between a girl’s serious brown eyes and a man’s, full of laughter. Raimon d’Aurenja. If Bèatriz spoke the name, it was quickly, before it could burn her. Estela had seen the looks, interpreted what wasn’t said, and understood all that went into her young mistress’ songs.
