Bladesong

by Jean Gill

  Warm from wine and surprisingly good food, Estela sought the deck when she left table, not ready to go to her cabin yet. She waved imperiously to Gilles, who dogged her as always, to leave her alone. When he saw de Rançon join her at the railing, Gilles nodded and slipped away. It was a relief to relax into Occitan, not to worry about saying the wrong thing.

  ‘You can see more and more stars the longer you look,’ she said, wondering at the deep black of the night sky.

  ‘Behind the stars you can see are the ones you can’t, the fixed stars. And among them the primum mobile.’ De Rançon was so close she could feel the heat of his arm against her side and he sounded serious, no trace of his usual laughter, no compliments. Just a man standing beside her, looking at the stars, wondering.

  ‘What’s the primum mobile?’

  ‘The one that makes everything happen. The one that makes the celestial spheres move, take their places, perform a dance across our heavens. The prime mover.’

  ‘But if we can’t see it, how do we know it’s there?’ objected Estela. She shivered and he placed an arm round her shoulders, covering her with his cloak, enclosing their two bodies together under its warmth. She shivered again, breathing in the scent of the Marselha soap he had used to shave with. As he spoke, his lips close to her ear, she could smell the trace of wine on his breath, sweet with herbs - rosemary she thought.

  ‘We can see its effect,’ he murmured. ‘We know where it is from what the others do.’

  Estela turned abruptly, needing to check his expression. Closer to his face even than she’d thought, her mouth found his and tasted it. Rosemary, confirmed, as he hesitated then responded, his arms holding her hard and close, harder and closer. Estela’s whole body remembered what should happen next and begged for more. It had been a long long time and she was at sea, ready to drown.

  She stumbled as the kiss broke and de Rançon stepped back, putting night air between them. ‘I’m sorry, my Lady. Too much wine was responsible. Forgive me. I’ll escort you to your cabin.’

  His formality and distance made it impossible for Estela to say anything, do anything other than take the arm that was politely offered. In silence they walked along the deck to the ladder below but de Rançon stopped short, apparently needing to say something difficult before they parted.

  ‘My Lady. Estela.’ She waited, still as a ship’s figurehead. For once he looked away from her, ducking his head with the effort of finding the words. Then he seemed to take courage, with his usual steady gaze, a crescent moon floating in each eye. ‘I might regret telling you this but as we are both dedicated to reuniting you and Dragonetz...’

  His eyes told her this was the truth and she felt the first flush of shame dowsing her lust. She had encouraged him to dishonour them both! ‘When I said that all was well, I didn’t want to trouble you with my worries, and I thought it best you see Dragonetz for yourself... but now, I think it better that you know... Dragonetz,’ he hesitated again, ‘is not the man he was. I fear some illness of the mind. It is even possible that he will deny sending for you.’

  He gave a sad smile. ‘It is even possible that he will say I am no friend of his.’ He flung out both hands in a gesture showing his own impotence. ‘But maybe I’m being pessimistic. Maybe whatever curse was hanging over him has lifted.’ He smiled resolutely. ‘One thing is certain. That he loves you. That you mean everything to him. He needs you. And we will get you to him safely.’ He bowed. ‘Good night, my Lady. Sleep well.’

  Too shamed to speak, Estela dropped a curtsey and rushed down to her cabin, latching the door. As if that would protect her when the evil was inside the cabin. Inside her. She did not sleep well.

  De Rançon hung over the rail, gripping it with hands that shook slightly, letting the spray sober him. He was irritated by his own lack of self-control but he needed a few minutes before going to his bunk in the cabin he shared with the Captain. It was not surprising that he should have reacted to the passion of a beautiful woman throwing herself into his arms but he had not expected so much desire, such personalised desire to flood him in response. Maybe he had let his guard slip during his delicate courtship of Estela. Maybe she had found some chink in his armour, with her engaging curiosity, her brave spirit, her angel’s voice. A pretty face and woman’s curves meant nothing to him but something, something had touched him more deeply. And it would not do.

  He’d had to picture his father’s face to escape from that dangerous kiss. His father’s face on Mount Cadmus, chiseled, proud; his father’s face as he’d last seen it, sunken in firelight, etched with bitter lines, a portrait of failure and disgrace.

  However long he spent at the court of Mélisende, however fêted he was as her courtier, his father’s face haunted de Rançon, along with the parting words from elder to younger. ‘Go as far as you like, leave me, but you carry our cursed name with you. Should a man whisper behind your back, you’ll know he speaks of de Rançon, a name without honour. Should a woman turn you down, you’ll know she fears contagion.’

  That’s how it’s been for me since Dragonetz los Pros’ - he spat out the nickname like poison - turned the Duchesse against me with his plots and pretty face. Place no trust in queens!’ Again he spat. ‘Better dead than a de Rançon.’

  Two years alone with his father, his father’s demons, his father’s cold servants and absence of all friends, had taught de Rançon self-control. And much more. His mother had left the family home soon after her husband’s return from Oltra mar but whether it was fear of contagion from disgrace that drove her, or whether it was the ugly tempers that stormed through the chateau, who could say. Only de Rançon, the son, was left to suffer.

  The day came when he decided his father would be no worse off without him and he went to Jerusalem, to continue in the family tradition and serve a queen. This one however was no mere wife of a king, but queen in her own right, and widowed, making her doubly powerful. De Rançon thrived on the court politics, realised that the disaster at Mount Cadmus was just one event in a series of bad decisions, in a catastrophic campaign. No-one wants to remember failure and no-one at the court of Jerusalem considered any aspect of the second crusade as successful, except perhaps the Queen staying out of it. De Rançon was able to live as if the crusade had never happened, which suited him fine.

  And then came word from his Damascus contact, Bar Philipos. De Rançon was wooing the citizens of Damascus through this man, with promises from Mélisende, of armies and treasure-coffers, should Damascus accept the rule of Jerusalem. It was clear that Damascus could not remain independent, not with Nur ad-Din’s sorties from Aleppo growing ever stronger, not with the Franks equally avaricious from the south.

  De Rançon had won enough respect from Bar Philipos to be informed that the balance would be tipped sooner than they had thought, unless they could contain one irritating knight, the Commander currently imprisoned in Bar Philipos’ own house in Damascus. The man they called Dragonetz los Pros. And he had a book with him, worth a kingdom, sacred to the Jews, and valuable to anyone who collected art, perhaps to a queen, who already possessed a priceless psalter and would surely appreciate another art treasure.

  That’s when de Rançon knew his duty to his ruined father, knew the purpose of his own existence, and he swore an oath against his own life. After a long, private audience with the Queen, in which he revealed none of his interest in Dragonetz but understood all of the Queen’s, de Rançon joined Bar Philipos in Damascus.

  Mélisende had made her instructions clear; get the book and keep the knight out of play, while she considered her next move. No-one else was to have either. Not Nur ad-Din, but especially not her rebellious son Baudouin. Bar Philipos was obviously in touch with Nur ad-Din, playing the delicate game of preserving Damascus, and between them he and de Rançon had neutered Dragonetz, keeping two clients happy. One who’d paid to have Dragonetz killed; one who’d paid to keep him safe but out of the way.

  They were into the mid-game now. Nur ad-Din
would expect the death sentence he’d paid for to be carried out, discreetly of course, via the opium that poisoned Dragonetz more every day. Mélisende no longer wanted Dragonetz kept safe and out of play but wanted him in Jerusalem and hers. Or of course, dead. So Dragonetz and the book were on their way to Jerusalem. Should he say no to Mélisende, he would write his own death sentence. Bar Philipos could report to Nur ad-Din that his task was fulfilled and de Rançon could report likewise to Mélisende, who would by then have the book. Nur ad-Din had missed his chance with the book, which was all as it should be.

  There was only one little matter for de Rançon to consider, as primum mobile in this exquisite movement. How could he cause Dragonetz the most pain before ensuring his death? This needed his full attention during the weeks before his party reached Jerusalem. How was Estela best used? Should he fuck her? His body gave an involuntary response at the thought. Or should he continue to play perfect?

  Would misplaced accusation on Dragonetz’ part cause deeper damage, widen the crack between him and Estela that de Rançon was so carefully creating? Make Dragonetz himself drive Estela ever closer to his enemy while he could only watch helplessly? Or would it hurt him more to watch the physical evidence of his slut betraying him? For of course she was a slut. All women were. His mother had abandoned his father, taken the world’s side against him. De Rançon should beware the spell Estela had almost cast. He was not a man for the cosy hearth. Not since Dragonetz had wrecked what was once his home.

  Pondering his revenge would pass the time nicely between here and Jerusalem. Then the endgame would begin.

  Chapter 15

  Dragonetz was unhappy about leaving Sadeek in the Damascus stable but the hands had confirmed Bar Philipos’ curt information. From Damascus to Jerusalem, six days by camel across desert and rock, with water in short supply. Not a journey on which to risk a glossy-coated high-bred destrier. Sadeek bridled flirtatiously under the brown hand smoothing his nose but clearly accepted his carer, so Dragonetz left him with a murmured adieu and a promise to return.

  The Bar Philipos household was in a frenzy of preparation, clerks preparing inventories, shouting instructions to the porters who piled goods in courtyards and entrances, then made them disappear. Dragonetz glimpsed fleeces and silverware, brocades and knives, in the ever-changing landscape of his living-quarters. No longer his prison, the house revealed its architectural secrets to the curious knight. Although the orthodox cross of Christianity featured on some chamber walls, the arches and tile patterns proclaimed the more mathematical symbolism of the east. The sound of water, bubbling in private courtyards, was never far away and favoured contemplation more than the icon-cluttered chapel that served for family prayer.

  Wearing the comfortable robes and leather sandals he’d adopted for anonymity in the city, Dragonetz took refuge in one such corner, on a stone bench amid blind vines. The pebbles had been colour-matched for exact hues to create grey-brown arabesques around the roots of an old wisteria, seemingly grown from pebbles, not earth. Everywhere, the eye was drawn to patterns and symmetry, purpose and mathematical beauty, while the ever-present water tinkled its message of eternal life, an absence of self.

  Dragonetz resisted the urge to kneel, to formulate a convention of prayer, and instead let his mind open to God’s will all around him, as he had in the vigil before his knighthood, and in the times since, when he had felt the need of guidance. He reached out for the pattern and for his purpose in it, hearing pebbles and arabesques as melodies, phrases repeating. Whatever happened, the songs of his life could not be unsung; whatever happened, as long as he lived, there would be more songs.

  He had no idea how much time passed but Dragonetz was suddenly aware of people shouting, outside his garden. ‘Take that load to the camel-herders and tell them get the palanquins strapped up.’ ‘Keep those separate - they’re provisions for the journey.’ ‘Have you tallied the wine-skins?’ The practical details focused Dragonetz’ thoughts on his own plans for the journey and although he still felt that inner peace he’d been part of, briefly, his mind returned to this world and its demands. He too needed porters. He needed some special crates, a present from the Khatun, taken to the camel train and he needed some different, equally special goods, placed in safety for his return.

  Now was the time to harvest the goodwill he’d sown amongst the craftsmen of Damascus, when he’d spent hours questioning them about their skills, showing his own willingness to get his hands dirty. He’d made them laugh with his attempts at pot-throwing, his clay bowls collapsing into mis-shapes. He’d surprised them with his delicacy in peeling a sliver from two plant stems and tying the open wounds together, in the miraculous marriage of plants that the rose-grower called ‘grafting’. He’d earned respect both for his muscular body and his use of a forge when he stripped off and sweated over the filigree on a sword-blade. He’d achieved one curving initial, the letter D with as much pride as if he’d traced a tattoo over the whole blade, as the master swordsmith then demonstrated in front of him. Now was the time to remind that master-swordsmith of their agreement.

  Dragonetz was leaving Damascus, forever if his plans worked out, and he wanted to be sure his work here had not been wasted. When he’d won their trust, he had shown the rose-grower and the swordsmith his token from the Khatun, that daughter of the city. Such a token guaranteed that Dragonetz’ offers would be taken seriously, and he’d given them time to contact the Khatun and confirm his credibility. Now he needed to make the future arrangements clear. There would be plenty of time on a six-day camel journey to consider what he would do afterwards, in Jerusalem.

  ‘Find Muganni and send him to me,’ Dragonetz told one of the house servants. The boy-singer had asked for a new name from his master to fit with his new life and now responded only to the Arabic word for singer, Muganni. Dragonetz had no idea what he was going to do with the boy long term but for now he had no choice but to make the most of the slavish adulation, until he could fashion more independence.

  As a messenger, Muganni was the perfect combination of loyalty, intelligence and anonymity. He would flicker through the streets unseen, let the swordsmith and the rose-grower know what Dragonetz expected, and how he would contact them from Jerusalem. He would ensure that the precious boxes, with their live cargo cooing in alarm, were delivered from the Khatun’s store to the camel train, as Dragonetz’ private property.

  The boy approached his master in a loping run, throwing himself at Dragonetz’ feet in a semi-audible apology for his tardiness. ‘I have work for you, Muganni,’ Dragonetz told him. The boy looked up with a sunbeam smile. Dragonetz sighed. ‘And stand up, for God’s sake. I’m not an Emperor.’

  With no change in the smile, Muganni jumped to his feet. ‘Yes Effendi, no Effendi,’ he assured Dragonetz. And then, hesitantly, ‘What’s an Emperor?’ Dragonetz sighed again.

  Outside the city walls, a sea of camels shimmered in tasselled saddles and packloads, the morning sun glinting on embroidery and scimitars, as a hundred anonymous men wrapped their scarves tighter against the wind, ready for departure. The camels spat their annoyance, frothing through their bridles, while harnesses were double-checked and the doors opened to each palanquin, which swayed like an eagle’s nest on a rose-bush, impossibly perched on camel-back. Merchants’ wives or daughters, noblewomen travelling to Jerusalem, would have the extra comfort of their padded box during the journey, protecting them from the damage caused by the extremes of weather and men’s glances.

  Watching the equally anonymous figures, presumed female from the way they slipped through the small openings of their cushioned cages, Dragonetz shuddered. There was something claustrophobic about such a mode of transport. He copied his fellows, tightened the swathes of fabric round his nose and mouth, only his eyes unprotected, and he mounted the kneeling camel to which he was shown with a grunt and the wave of a goad. The angle was impossible. He had the feeling he would fall forward over the beast’s nose at any moment and then, with a wha
ck of the goad, the camel lurched to its feet and Dragonetz clutched the saddle as well as the reins, convinced he was heading over its back-end into a humiliating heap. Once the camel was upright, he felt unnaturally high, accustomed as he was to horses, but at least the horizon was level again.

  All round him, camels were whacked into standing up, and Dragonetz could see everyone else thrown forward and back as the beasts heaved to their feet. Some were attached to each other with ropes, others free, and, with surprising speed, the amorphous mass became a procession, picking a route through the orchards, heading into the wilderness.

  Twisting his head for a last look back at the city, Dragonetz took stock of how much he’d changed since his first view of Damascus, with the crusading army. How ignorant of the city he’d been, of its mix of peoples, of its sophistication, of its independence. To think he’d fought to ‘liberate’ this city! He’d believed the priests who promised him redemption in exchange for death in the holy cause. He hadn’t died; instead he’d returned home, weighted with new sins. No wonder Bar Philipos treated him with contempt.

  As he settled into the long stride of the camel, less demanding than that of a horse, Dragonetz had plenty of time to think. Holding the reins was a mere sinecure as the camel followed its fellows in a rhythm meant for long distance, no hint of distraction for tasty low leaves or a bird flashing skywards. Onward past the irrigation channels to dry earth and rock, then sand and rock, then sand and sand. The road from Damascus, the very journey that St Paul had taken, in reverse. Was this to be an epiphany for Dragonetz too? He felt light-headed with the prospect of adventure, his time in the garden still shaping an inner peace. The very names of places they would pass on the journey held childhood magic from the bible stories; the River Jordan, the Sea of Galilee and finally Jerusalem itself. He would see the Holy City again and, despite his responsibility for a mission and a book, despite oaths sworn, his spirits rose boyishly at the prospect.