by Jean Gill
He guessed at who might be behind Bar Philipos in holding him here but was offered no clues by the Syrian. If Dragonetz was being kept out of play, for fear of him choosing the ‘wrong’ side, maybe it was Mujir ad-Din himself, the weak leader of the city, who held the knight captive. The Christian Syrian might well take orders from his Muslim ruler, and the guards were of that faith.
Bar Philipos was bitter at the changes brought about by the Crusaders. Maybe he wanted to strengthen Mujir ad-Din and his city, even against the Franks, his brothers in religion. Nothing united men like a common enemy and maybe the threat of Nur ad-Din was pushing Bar Philipos to bolster the Seljuq rulers of Damascus, either Mujir ad-Din or whoever might replace him, perhaps the leader of the earlier mutiny.
Although he got no further in finding out who was behind his capture, debates with the Syrian ranged wide, reminding Dragonetz of his time with al-Hisba. Bar Philipos was a Christian who had grown up in Damascus, with Moorish leaders and fellow-citizens, and his way of thinking was as different from Dragonetz’ as cat from dog. The knight came to look forward to the times when the guards accompanied the Syrian into his chamber, and the days when the guards came alone, were longer. Dragonetz even grew to like the black, honeyed tea and found himself missing that too.
When Bar Philipos brought Dragonetz the instrument he’d last seen packed into his saddle-bags, his own oud, he willingly gave his word that he would not try to escape. Now he was able to accompany his new songs, strumming the Arabian lute as he matched melody to words and his prison was transformed completely to sanctuary, even though an enforced one. No monastic retreat could have offered such a haven. The more Dragonetz let go of the outer world, and reflected on his inner one, the more he felt at peace with himself.
Only the book troubled him, pricking his conscience over the mission he had accepted. He still had no idea whether his captor knew of the book’s worth and he couldn’t ask Bar Philipos without revealing it. The more open they seemed to be with each other, the bigger the shadows from the two topics not mentioned; the book and women.
It was clear from the way the oud had been re-wrapped in its protective cloth, that someone had rummaged through Dragonetz’ belongings, and it was impossible that the Torah had remained hidden. That it was valuable would be apparent, but only a connoisseur would know just how valuable. If some underling had filched the book, Dragonetz might yet recover it quietly, in time. If, however, it was a sophisticated man like Bar Philipos, or, presumably, his master, things would be more complicated. No, the book could not be mentioned first by Dragonetz.
Nor would either of them wish to talk about women. If a discussion arose on Persian poetry, Dragonetz instinctively censored his quotations, away from sensuality and love. He could not tell whether the other man was also deliberately avoiding these topics. Bar Philipos was difficult to read.
If thoughts of the book, and a certain delicacy in directing conversation, were all that troubled Dragonetz’ waking hours, his dreams were less gentle with him.
‘You pass too much time with Dragonetz, Bar Philipos. The information you give him will sharpen an already dangerous weapon. One might worry that you are growing fond of him. He has a reputation for charm as you have for certain ... weaknesses.’
Bar Philipos laughed. ‘Were he ten years younger, maybe! But I confess I find pleasure in the twists of his mind and his recent knowledge of affairs across the sea sharpens my own weapon. Dragonetz holds one half of the world in his head and I the other. When we look at the whole together, I see possibilities for the future that I would not have considered otherwise.’
‘And will these possibilities please my mistress - or your master?’
‘Possibly.’ Bar Philipos smiled but didn’t elaborate. ‘By then, our sharpened weapon of a knight will be dulled by the poppy, which makes him safe for my amusement. A condemned man in isolation can be trusted with my speculations about those in high places.’
‘As can I, Bar Philipos.’
‘Indeed.’ The Syrian bowed in acknowledgement, hiding his eyes.
‘The poppy is working?’
‘Only the initiated would notice the signs but they begin, the rhythms of dullness and agitation. Now that he has his music, his enthusiasm for debate is more marked, his contentment in his prison seems normal to him. He has suffered recently I think, more recently than his campaigns here, and he has wounds in his mind that have not healed. This makes him doubly receptive to the relief given by the poppy. And doubly receptive to the dreams. He will indeed find the healing he seeks, though he knows not that he seeks it. Physical pains will not be felt. And the songs he composes will make the very walls weep or dance, as he chooses, for want of other listeners.’
‘You make me want to try the poppy myself!’
‘It is all true, at first, and it is why our doctors prize this medication. But no-one can control it except by stopping it, and no-one can stay free of the craving.’
‘Does he crave it yet?’
‘This is why I spend the time with him, so he will take tea and so I can observe him. He is going deeper all the time. It is possible now to watch him while he dreams, without him knowing anyone is there. Such is the violence of his visions, he has begun to cry out and even my men can pick out the name he calls again and again. Estela. She is someone important to him. We can use this weakness.’
‘We should note all that he lets slip, any such names, what they mean to him. You are right. It could be useful.’ The other man brooded a moment. ‘Does the poppy impair his manhood?’
‘At first it will increase desire, and the capacity to remain inside a woman’s body before climax. His dreams will add to his waking fantasies and he will be able to perform more than he ever imagined possible. Then all this will be so but without any climax, and finally, as the poppy takes hold, his lance will be limp and he will forget that desire ever existed.’
‘Then we should act sooner, to find out all we can, make the most of his weakness.’
Dragonetz made obeisance to his Seigneur, only half-aware of the words fluttering in air that crackled with the excitement of the coming hunt. Like his brethren, Caradoc and Perceval, he had vowed to make the Grail his unswerving aim but if he should chance upon lively game in pursuit of his mission, he had the Seigneur’s permission to hunt in the royal forest and by the rood he would make the most of it. After all, sighting deer was more likely than sighting the elusive artefact, which seemed to prefer Perceval for reasons Dragonetz chose not to dwell on. Since his visions, Perceval had seemed more and more a man apart, not one to feel the call of sunlight through trees, the rush as silence turned to a frenzy of movement and the baying of hounds.
When the old mage stopped Dragonetz en route to the stables, there was an urge to shake off the hand on his arm but he was not so far gone as to ignore the Seigneur’s mysterious advisor. True to form, Dragonetz received counsels that made no sense whatsoever. ‘Chance will bring the Grail near you, young Dragonetz but only if you rise above your body’s needs. What do you seek?’
‘The Grail,’ Dragonetz replied, irritated at a riddle which was none.
‘Remember that,’ the sage nodded, ‘for you will be given what you seek. And guard well your hounds. As long as you hear them tell, the forest’s hold will not be strong enough to affect your choice, but you will always have a choice, merely one that grows harder, the deeper the tendrils twine in your mind. Remember that too.’
Along the broad tracks between forest and field, then the narrowing trails of boar and deer, fox and badger, spurring and galloping, spurred on himself by a glimpse of antlers and white flanks; never had Dragonetz seen such a magnificent head. The rack of antlers at full size, the carriage and movement of the beast showed a male in his prime, and never before had Dragonetz seen a white hart. Luck was with him.
Vague warnings fretted him but old men’s caution was for palaces, and the thrill of the chase cleared his head of all else. Never had he felt so alive, so a
t one with the hounds, the hart and the forest itself, whispering secrets in the wind. Whooping, yelping, chasing he rode deeper until the trees raised their limbs into a canopy high overhead, blocking the sunlight, whispering, Lost, lost, lost...’
His throat was dry as dust and his leather water bottle long since empty. He whistled the dogs but only the rustling of leaves answered him. After whistling and calling till his voice cracked, he knew that the hounds were gone with the hart. ‘Woof,’ mocked the trees amid the silence of dogs. He beat his leather-clad fist against the saddle, causing the grey to skitter. How could he have been so stupid? The dogs were too young. He should have matched one of them with an older, more experienced dog for such an outing. All that training by the best fewterer in the kingdom wasted! Dragonetz would not be welcomed in falconry and stable with such news.
‘Lost,’ rustled the trees. If he ever found a way back at all. It wasn’t just the dogs who risked starvation and drought. Dismounting, Dragonetz led his horse through the woods. If he could only find water! The shadows in front of him flickered as the wind and leaves sculpted unearthly shapes that changed into stumps and stones as he neared them.
Weaving through the darkening trees, his lips chapped beyond any normal day’s thirst and his throat closing, unable to swallow, the knight heard the pounding of a cascade long before he saw the water gushing down from rocky heights at the far side of a clearing. He had taken one step out of the forest when the earth trembled and a night-black destrier pounded along the banks of the river, snorting great breaths of steam and pawing the ground between Dragonetz and the life-giving water. On his back was a knight in full armour, impossibly black, from the black plumes streaming on his helm to the black leather of his boots. Three white wavy lines were the only blazon on his black shield.
‘What do you seek at my waterfall, stranger?’
Dragonetz didn’t have to think. ‘I would drink at your waterfall, good knight,’ he replied, his voice rasping and sore. The trees shook with laughter.
‘A second time I ask you; what do you seek?’
‘To drink but a drop,’ was the answer, as quick as it was painful. The trees reached a crescendo at the joke.
‘For the last time; what do you seek?’ The point of a black lance was levelled at Dragonetz as the knight shouted his challenge.
‘Water.’ Though his voice was a croak hidden under a wild wind through the trees, Dragonetz’ words must have reached the black knight for the great steed reared and stamped, and, ‘You must best me in the joust first!’ was the reply and the knight of the waterfall drew back into position to charge. The setting sun filled Dragonetz’ vision blood-red and his veins coursed with rage, thundering through his body like the water down the fall. He leaped onto his mount and found himself fully armoured in white, even to his blank shield and jousting lance.
‘Who challenges me?’ roared the black knight. ‘Your shield tells of your shame yet you dare challenge me?’
‘I am errant and seeking my name. Let my deeds speak for me.’ Each word rasped Dragonetz’ throat but seemed to carry on the breeze, float on the wind and the water, echo in the rustling leaves. He quickly summed up his best line of attack. His grey warmblood charger was smaller and faster than the black destrier, was accustomed to the joust and had a tenacity of spirit that held steady before charging boar or marauding outlaw.
This was no practice with the quintain, or game with a scarf dropped to start the charge, and with one roar, the black knight rode full tilt at Dragonetz, who stopped thinking and dug his long spurs into the charger. The clash on both shields rang around the clearing like a funeral toll.
As he eased his sweating horse to a stand, Dragonetz couldn’t decide whether his right arm was the more numb from his hit against the black knight’s shield or whether his shield arm had suffered more from the hit he had taken. Both spears were still whole but the dent to his shield and body left him breathless. He hoped the black knight had fared worse.
Although crazed with battle and drought, he wasn’t going to be caught off-balance a second time and he was the first to turn, shout a warning and charge back along the river bank they had made their tilting ground. This time, he watched the angle of the other man’s lance and shield, leaving his own shield dropped just enough to let the black knight think he had an opening, until the last moment, when he raised his shield and lowered his lance, unseating the other just as his lance shattered on Dragonetz’ shield, sending shards in all directions.
Dragonetz leapt off his horse, waiting for his opponent to yield as he must. ‘I claim victory.’ The words trickled out of his mouth like a raven’s caw. Still the black knight lay on the sward, oddly still.
The strike had been clean, unhorsing him with a body blow and should have winded rather than wounded him. There had been no intent to kill and Dragonetz had hoped to avoid switching weapons and continuing. All the man had to do was yield and allow him a sip of water, in Christian charity!
Dragonetz ignored his own throbbing shield arm and approached the supine form. He nudged it gently with his boot and heard a moan in response. Kneeling, the white knight found the answer to the mystery, splinters of the man’s own spear piercing bloodied eyes that had been bright blue.
Dragonetz’ pulse raced. He eased the helmet off the black knight’s head, groaned in disbelief. ‘Arnaut,’ he cried, his dry throat grated raw as bleeding flesh.
As the grey eyes clouded over, his friend’s voice whispered, ‘Why do you always have to win?’ Dragonetz held him, unable to speak. ‘Drink or you will die,’ the black knight told him, and once more the companion of all his campaigns died in his arms and once again, it was his fault.
Shaking, not sure he cared whether he lived or died, Dragonetz walked to the cascade, took off his own helm and obeyed Arnaut’s last wishes. He drank. Then he drank more. Only when he had drunk the waterfall to dry rocks, the river to a bed of stone, only then did Dragonetz stop drinking and start to weep.
As if in response to the sound of their master weeping, his two hounds bounded into the clearing, ran to the man on his knees and licked his face, yelping with excitement. At the sound, all the sage’s words returned and he realised the depths of his failure. Three times, Dragonetz had been asked what he sought and he had replied, ‘Water’. Despite the sage’s warnings, he had forgotten his true quest.
If he’d asked for the Grail what wonders might he have seen, what treasure brought his Seigneur, what honour gained. They said the Grail gave life. Would Arnaut’s have been spared, if only...? His tears fell into the dried riverbed, sparkling like precious jewels. They gushed and flowed upwards, up the barren rocks until they formed a cascade.
And then they stopped. The cascade and the river and Dragonetz’ tears froze as in a painting, so that he could not tell which way the water flowed before, nor which way it would flow afterwards. And while his world was motionless, a girl walked towards him, a girl who wailed when she saw the dead body of the black knight but continued walking towards Dragonetz, her golden eyes meeting his without fear. Her robe was deepest pink, strangely multi-layered, and as she reached him, so did the scent of roses, headier than any perfume he’d ever smelled before.
The world moved again, the water flowed in its natural course and Dragonetz breathed ‘Estela’. The diamonds of his tears were in her eyes, a sad gift between lovers. ‘Oh, sweetheart,’ she said, ‘what have you done?’
‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘Tell me.’
‘You must guard the waterfall now,’ she told him. ‘You caused the harm and you must earn again the honour you lost when you listened to the forest and forgot your quest. You must wear black and no-one will know who you are. Even if men seek you, they will know you not in your black. You will be able only to say the words of challenge.’
‘How can I escape?’
‘When another comes to replace you. The same way Arnaut escaped. Let the Seigneur’s will be done.’ A tear silvered a track down her cheek. �
��But we have until dawn tomorrow. Then she kissed him and each pink layer swirled onto another in a spiral around her golden eyes, until all she wore was her long black hair. Longing took him, stronger than his earlier thirst, stronger than his earlier remorse and he doubted the feeling for its very strength.
‘This cannot be wrong?’ he asked his love.
She stroked his cheek, made armour melt and flesh burn, murmured, ‘It is not wrong.’ She pulled him down onto the bed of pink silk and he let himself flow into her, as right as the river. If he doubted, if he opened his eyes once and saw a stranger’s face, he forgot his doubts in his need. Never had his pleasure matched his urgency for so long, an endless ripple; an eternal rhythm, the stars conjoined.
‘Estela!’ he cried out, finally.
‘I’m here, my love. I’m here,’ came the soft reply.
And if a girl swore in Arabic as she eased herself away from the cushions where she had lain with a young knight, Dragonetz heard nothing, as he had fallen asleep once more. The girl dressed quietly and went to report to her father, having done his bidding.
‘... along with what the guards have told us of what he calls out in his dreams, that’s all the names and fragments of sense Yalda has been able to pick out. She goes to him in the mornings, when his manhood is strong and his mind weak, especially just after the poppy. His ramblings as he half-wakes gave her all that I have told you. She is a clever girl and will do as I bid,’ Bar Philipos stated coldly.
‘She has done well.’ The other man looked at the Syrian, curious, but made no comment on the relationship that allowed a father to make such use of a daughter. He had known much about Bar Philipos before approaching him.
