Bladesong

by Jean Gill

  A hunting accident had ended Foulques’ reign two years before the Crusaders came Oltra mar but Mélisende was in no hurry to proclaim her son king in anything but name. His coming of age at fifteen came and went with no change to the balance of power. King Baudouin did his mother’s bidding, although he had more than proved his manhood, leading his army alongside Dragonetz in the crusade. Maybe Aliénor had taken another lesson from Mélisende’s example; a queen’s power could be extended and strengthened through a son and heir. Aliénor’s frustration at birthing only daughters was boundless, while Mélisende rejoiced in two sons, Baudouin and his younger brother Amaury. However, at twenty-one, King Baudouin was surely chafing at the bit.

  When discussing politics with Bar Philipos, Dragonetz had asked the Syrian’s judgement on the King and Queen, if friction grew to a matter of choosing between the two. His reply had been that Mélisende was proven, an ally of Damascus, and Baudouin untried. For that, his mother must be blamed - she could not keep her son like a hunting cat on a leash. That he rebelled against this spoke for his manhood and his honour. Sooner or later Baudouin would come to power and, if he were to keep it, he would need to learn from Mélisende how to make an ally of Damascus while there was still time. If Mélisende would not resolve the growing conflict between her and her son, then her subjects must, and the sooner the better for all Christian Franks.

  Having been Bar Philipos’ ‘guest’ for some months, Dragonetz would be expected to know and share the latest news from Damascus. As a Christian knight, he owed fealty to the court of Jerusalem, to both Queen Mélisende and King Baudouin. He had already heard and rejected de Puy’s invitation; whether the Templar Grand Master would also make his bid for Dragonetz, remained to be seen. Maybe all Dragonetz’ previous rejections of the Templar offers had left a clear message and he would not be asked again. That would be one less buyer in the marketplace to which Bar Philipos had brought him. Brought him and the book. Except that the book was not for sale. Whether he was, remained to be seen.

  A full gathering of the court faced Dragonetz, when he was summoned to audience with the Queen. He had not been invited to court on his previous visit to the city and he noted the eastern décor of the palace, carpets and gilt statues, servants in livery, and all manner of people. He’d been right about the variety of dress, from baggy-trousered Arabs to sober clerics, from fully covering veils to flirtatiously slashed kirtles. This was indeed very different from Louis’ court in Paris.

  The throne room itself was lined with people Dragonetz assumed to be the great and the fashionable of the city, who barely glanced at him as they competed with each other for attention. Regally tall - in that, she and Aliénor were well-matched - Mélisende was dressed richly but simply in a red robe, ruched all down the front. She wore the golden coronet of Jerusalem encircling a white wimple. Her olive face spoke of her Syrian mother but the blue Frankish eyes made a striking contrast. Her hair swung in a long reddish-brown rope below the wimple and hinted that widowhood weighed lightly on this woman, now in her forties, but still showing the beauty for which she was famed. She watched Dragonetz approach, then accepted his obeisance with easy grace and started the presentations with an introduction to the woman who stood beside her, equally tall but painfully thin.

  ‘My Lord Dragonetz; the Comtesse de Tripoli. My sister tells me your voice would make pets of the desert snakes, enslaving anyone who hears you sing. She regrets that she was indisposed and unable to thank you as you deserved for your exquisite performance on the journey from Damascus.’

  Startled, Dragonetz recognised the mysterious woman from the camel train, the woman who had sobbed in the night as his song ended. The ‘far love’, the peerless woman for whom the song had been written, and who was standing here before him, bruises not yet faded on her face, eyes still fixed on some abyss.

  Hodierne, Comtesse de Tripoli, would have looked very like her sister if her existence were happier but her hair had been allowed to grey and knot, her face was sallow with starvation and misery, and her drab robe hung loose on the thin frame. What had turned the beauty of the ballad to this shadow? He bowed deeply to Hodierne, choosing his words with care. ‘To inspire such a song is more notable than merely to sing it. Wherever there is song, the Comtesse de Tripoli is a byword for all that is fair in a woman.’

  Then she did focus on him, tears in her eyes. Her voice barely reached him, as if she was afraid even to speak. ‘I think the Comtesse de Tripoli has indeed become a byword.’

  Squeezing Hodierne’s arm, both in support and in signal that she need not exert herself, Mélisende spoke for her. ‘My sister has not been well and is come to court for a cure of some months’ duration.’

  ‘Some months!’ exclaimed Hodierne. Then her voice dropped back to its whisper. ‘No, no, I daren’t stay so long. My Lord of Tripoli would not approve. I must do as he wishes or ...’

  Mélisende flashed fire and spoke to her sister in quick Armenian, presumably the language of their childhood. ‘My lord of Tripoli will accept whatever his queen orders! You will return to your ... lord... when you are well enough and not before!’ She spat Tripoli’s title as if it poisoned her tongue to pronounce it and suddenly Dragonetz understood the bruises, the fear, the anxiety to please. The Queen put a hand on the arm of the black-haired courtier beside her, as easy with him as she had been in touching her sister. ‘Manassés,’ she said, her tone once more husky and honeyed, ‘please see the Comtesse de Tripoli accompanied to her chamber.’ Mélisende smiled warmly at Hodierne, then apologetically at Dragonetz. ‘She wanted so much to meet you after hearing you sing but it is too soon after illness and journey for her to be abroad.’

  Meekly, Hodierne followed her sister’s wishes, and her sister’s Constable, gathering enough force to breathe, ‘I hope you will sing for me again,’ as she passed Dragonetz.

  ‘It will be my pleasure,’ he responded, bowing. Then he was distracted from the mystery of Hodierne by a bear-hug that lacked all courtly procedure. ‘Dragonetz!’

  ‘Baudouin,’ replied Dragonetz, extricating himself from the enthusiastic greeting and studying a man who’d filled out from the young comrade-in-arms of three years ago. At eighteen, King Baudouin had led the army of Jerusalem in support of King Louis and the Emperor Conrad. He had proved himself in battle, a popular leader and comrade. The way he greeted Dragonetz now was a reminder of the time they were brothers-in-arms.

  Did he imagine a frown darkening Mélisende’s expression at Baudouin’s exuberance? If so, there was no trace of it as she spoke. ‘I see you and my son, Baudouin, already know each other. I am sure you have much to discuss. Let me just present my son Amaury, before I leave you to talk of men’s matters.’

  No-one was fooled by the implication that Mélisende had no interest in ‘men’s matters’ but the withdrawal was graceful. Dragonetz bowed to Amaury before the young man followed his mother. He was a reserved youth, quietly observing others and staying in the background. Probably the background was a safe place to stay, for a younger son. Mélisende gave her parting orders. ‘We have a private audience this afternoon, my Lord Dragonetz. Yohana Bar Philipos will join us. I will send for you.’

  ‘Your Grace.’ Dragonetz bowed and was dragged off by Baudouin, past the throngs, along the corridors and into a pleasant ante-chamber where they could sit undisturbed. Although he had the energy of youth, Baudouin was as politically astute as he was physically hardened, and he cut to the quick of all the news Dragonetz brought from Damascus.

  ‘She won, over Damascus. We should never have laid siege.’ Dragonetz had no need to ask who ‘she’ was. Although she had allowed Baudouin and his troops to join the siege of Damascus, Mélisende had refused to join the Crusaders, keeping her truce with the city. Dragonetz now strongly suspected that many of Baudouin’s troops had worked against the siege, but there was no point accusing Baudouin of double-dealing. It was evident that he had lost popularity from leading his section of militia against the city. Any doubl
e-dealing had been either his mother’s doing, or individuals backing their own interests against the land-grabbing newcomers. Either way, Mélisende had profited.

  ‘So Nur ad-Din sits waiting for Damascus to fall into his hand, like one of the city’s juicy plums. But you don’t think he will use force.’ Dragonetz confirmed his view. ‘We can’t afford to lose access to Damascus. Its trade is too precious and its position too central,’ Baudouin mused aloud, ‘but we can’t take it by force.’

  ‘Definitely not. Even the attempt would be all the excuse Nur ad-Din would need to ‘protect’ the city and if Jerusalem pushed the citizens of Damascus to choose between armies, they would jump into the Muslim’s arms. The siege made no friends in the city and Jerusalem is dipped in the same crusading dye, even if Queen Mélisende has kept her personal reputation separate.’

  ‘So our best hope is to support the city’s independence?’

  ‘I think so but the attempt is doomed with Unur gone. The current Atabeg is too weak to hold the city together. Bar Philipos and his fellow-merchants are wielding the real power. While you have time, you need to make your trading links so intertwined that Damascus cannot do without Jerusalem.’

  Baudouin’s frown deepened. ‘Not so easy as the other way round.’

  ‘You must find ways.’ There was no point putting honey on the pill.

  ‘I need to think, talk to some of our key merchants. This is a new way of thinking to me. The Grand Masters of both orders speak to me of armies, training, strongholds and castles. Their answer is always more knights and new fortifications.’ Dragonetz said nothing, reading the other man’s attraction to military solutions. He would have been the same at that age.

  ‘There is a need for training and armies,’ Baudouin continued. He hesitated, then the words came out in a rush. ‘By the rood, Dragonetz, I need to be honest with you or I can’t say this at all! If you carry tales then so be it. I cannot live like this any more.’ He got up and paced the room in his agitation.

  ‘There is no reasoning with her! She has me running errands wherever she wants to send soldiers, she lets me listen to ‘men’s matters’ but she holds the real power in a grip of iron. I’ve been pushing for six years now just to have my rights. She has stopped saying, ‘when you’re of age’, now I’m of age!

  Instead, she asks what fault I find with the job she does as queen, says that she values any insight I care to give her. And that’s not it at all! I am just tangled even more in her threads. The worst of it is that she even uses my respect for her to keep me from what should be mine. I love her - damn her! - but she has gone too far for too long.

  Then there is Manassés.’ The name hissed from Baudouin’s lips and Dragonetz had no need to ask how the man felt about his mother’s ... Constable. ‘She will not listen to anything I say about the man, or about what people think. She assumes I’m jealous! But he has tipped the balance and I am approached daily by one lord after another, begging me to put a stop to the situation, to take up the throne, my birthright. Dragonetz, I cannot continue like this and the day is coming when I must act, with force if need be. Sometimes I think that’s what she’s after, that she’s testing me, that she actually wants me to show force.’

  Dragonetz’ unspoken fear must have shown in his eyes for Baudouin hastened to add, ‘Not violence against my mother’s person, but force against her men, starting with Manassés. I have armies at my disposal, I have the whole city of Antioch under my control, and more than half of Jerusalem would rise on behalf of my just claim. When I make my move, there can be no doubt of the outcome.

  Dragonetz, will you join me? There is no-one I would rather have as my Commander. I know you have freed yourself from Aliénor’s service and I know your worth. The armies of Jerusalem and Antioch would be yours to train and command. I am Regent for Antioch since the Prince was killed and as yet the widow is free. When she marries again, I will have to hand over Antioch to her husband, as it should be. Marry Antioch and you will rule a state as powerful as my own. I can’t think of any man I would rather have as Prince of Antioch than you and I can make this happen!’

  Dragonetz imagined himself at the head of King Baudouin’s armies, Prince of Antioch, successor to the golden giant, both in the kingdom and in the widow’s bed. Raymond of Antioch might have been older than his wife Constance, but there had been no doubting her passion for him. Dragonetz had seen the young wife, trying to hide her outrage at her husband’s behaviour with his niece, Aliénor. She had behaved with more dignity than Aliénor’s husband Louis, but who knew what had been said behind closed doors. After all, it was through marrying Constance, when she was still a child, that Raymond de Poitiers had become Prince of Antioch.

  Constance was Mélisende’s niece and if she had a tenth of her aunt’s spirit, she would make a fiery wife, fit partner to rule a principality. Dragonetz racked his memory for more detail of his bride-to-be. A pretty thing, his own age. Four children, so she had proved herself. But that meant complications for any children they might have together. Still, a grand marriage that would bring a smile to his father’s face. His parents had been nagging him for years to choose a bride and an Oltra mar princess, with Antioch in her dowry, was a choice to take your breath away.

  As to leading the Christian armies; Dragonetz had nothing but respect and liking for Baudouin. He would happily offer his sword to such a leader. Training soldiers, planning campaigns, weighing politics against battle, was what Dragonetz did best. With a pang he remembered his paper mill, his attempt to find something else he did best, something that would make the world a more civilised place. And where had that got him?! Maybe he should accept what his fate was telling him; he was a fighter. His only choice in life was who to fight for. Surely there could be no-one worthier than Baudouin; nor more on offer to him and his line, in reputation and wealth?

  ‘I will think seriously on it,’ he told Baudouin, and, this time, he meant it.

  ‘He’s not there, Effendi,’ Muganni said.

  ‘Hell and damnation! What do you mean ‘not there’?!’ Dragonetz had hoped for peaceful thinking time before he faced his private audience with the Queen but, instead, he was presented with another complication. He’d never expected the endgame to be easy. He’d been prepared for Bar Philipos to have him followed and to try to prevent him passing on the book but he’d not considered the possibility that his Jewish contact would not be there.

  ‘I followed all your orders, Effendi. I went to the dyeworks.’

  ‘Was it the right dyeworks?’ Dragonetz interrupted.

  ‘There is only one dyeworks in Jerusalem. The Jews pay the Queen to have the only dyeworks. So I went to the Jewish quarter, to the dyeworks and yes, your Abdon Yerushalmi works there. But he’s been in Egypt since January on family matters.’ Parrot-fashion, the boy recited what he had been told. ‘He’s supposed to be back for Chanukkah, their festival, which starts three days after the Ides of December.’ Muganni resumed in a natural voice. ‘He’s needed at the dyeworks because he’s overseer, and he promised he would be back for the festival, so, Allah willing, he will be back.’

  Dragonetz started to laugh, a shrill cackling sound that escaped his control and spiralled higher, ugly. Muganni winced. ‘It’s the hash,’ he told Dragonetz. ‘Sometimes the hash laughs when there is nothing humorous.’

  ‘Oh but there is,’ wheezed Dragonetz. ‘Being kidnapped has made no difference to me at all. If I’d come straight to Jerusalem I’d still be waiting for Yerushalmi’s return, exactly as I’m doing now.’ He rasped to a calmer note, breathing heavily. ‘But I wouldn’t be living with this poison in me.’

  ‘Who can say, my Lord.’ Muganni shrugged. ‘The paths not written can never be taken. There is no virtue in thinking of them.’

  ‘I need to be here until Yerushalmi is back. You must check daily, to see whether he has returned. We might be lucky and he’ll be here tomorrow. We might be unlucky and he won’t be back till mid-December. Do you have enough poppy?
Enough hash?’

  ‘It will not be cheap but I know where to get it.’ The boy hesitated. ‘That is not the problem...’

  ‘I know. You told me.’ Dragonetz was curt. ‘There is no choice. And the wherewithal is no problem, however much it costs. I have very rich friends.’ And then he began laughing again. Muganni hid his thoughts under long lashes, bowed and left his master giggling on the bed, taking what rest he could before facing Mélisende.

  Robes had many advantages, Dragonetz thought, as he hid a parcel in a pouch, underneath the loose folds. Bar Philipos had made it clear that Mélisende was expecting to see the Keter Aram Sola, so he would not disappoint either of them. It was well known that the Queen was a connoisseur and patron of the arts, owning one of the finest psalters ever created, a present from her husband. There was no doubt that she would be willing to pay a high price for the Torah, both in commitments to Damascus (Bar Philipos’ aim) and in tangible personal benefits to Dragonetz.

  He sighed. In theory, he had not one solidus to his name, indeed was deep in debt until he delivered the Torah to Yerushalmi and earned the reward promised by the Jewish money-lender, Raavad. When he handed over the book, all debts due from his sabotaged paper mill would be cancelled, and a fat sum would acknowledge the success of a dangerous mission. He would be a free man, his oath fulfilled and honour restored, free to accept the amazing future offered him by King Baudouin. If he could get the poppy out of his system, and without losing his reputation in the process.