by Jean Gill
There had been progress but the ways that Muganni had been taught to behave with older men were deeply ingrained. Dragonetz always tried to hide his instinctive recoil, patiently letting the boy know what was normal between boy and man, and what was not.
‘You need to hear others sing, to analyse their breathing, their phrasing and the way they hold back or unleash the notes to convey emotion.’ His training of the boy had been erratic, because of time constraints and his own mood swings, which he controlled less well in private than in public. Despite that, Muganni’s control over his voice was growing and he was so eager to learn that he seemed to absorb knowledge from the very air. He had picked up enough Occitan to copy and understand the songs his master played to himself and his Frankish was broken but could communicate well enough.
When Dragonetz felt tired, but not able to sleep, it soothed his spirit to have the boy sing for him, but he preferred the liquid sound of Arabic to the oddity of Muganni’s Occitan. There was no question about leaving Muganni behind when an evening of song was planned at court. A voice like his should be treasured and, as his tutor, Dragonetz was responsible for how the boy developed, and for how the world saw him.
‘Finest robes and trousers,’ he instructed Muganni, who always wore the loose pants and over-robe typical of his people. Dragonetz himself decided it was time to say goodbye to his own robes, and to his beard. The boy had fetched warm water in the ewer and there was soap on the basin. How many months had it been since he’d performed what used to be an automatic daily routine? He couldn’t even remember when he’d stopped shaving. Was it when the guards stopped doing it for him and he’d had the freedom to do it himself? His hair grew quickly and stubble had always formed on his swarthy skin by the end of the day.
Now his beard was thick and pointed, eastern-fashion. He smiled to himself. At least he had not followed the eastern philosopher’s fashion and left his beard untrimmed, to grow as it willed, with enough tangles to home mice without anyone noticing. As his dagger blade cut through lather and hair, exposing the pale skin, Dragonetz stripped off the layers of his Damascan self.
He no longer knew what lay underneath but he had to try every method he could think of to change the expression of doubt he’d caught on Estela’s face, and to wipe the smugness off de Rançon’s. If a shave and a tabard could make a difference, then so be it. His fingers traced their accustomed route round his jaw and rinsed off the last of the lather. Not one drop of blood, he noted with satisfaction, choosing not to imagine what his chin would be like if he’d not been at the peak of his poppy dose.
Dragonetz laced his undershirt and donned a crimson tabard with gold embroidery and black fur trim, black hose and soft, calfskin boots, also black. He felt a fraud. Shutting his eyes, he conjured up a garden, water ever-trickling whether he was in the garden or not, and, drawing deep from the memory, he found the fatalism to meet whatever an evening’s entertainment at the court of Queen Mélisende might bring.
Whereas the French court impressed, the court of Jerusalem dazzled, and its queen was always the brilliant at the centre. She was sparkling this evening, both in her dress, and in her conversation, to judge by the reactions of the circle closest to her. Closest of all was, of course, Manassés, his jewelled doublet rivalling the queen’s necklace, and in matching diamonds. Discretion played little part in their relationship.
An oriental luxury distinguished the furnishings of the banquet hall from any in France or the Occitan lands. Sconces were ornate metal rather than plain iron; the rich wall-hangings had Arabic quotations amid the stylised, interwoven patterns; the silverware boasted equally intricate designs and the knives were best Damascene steel, filigree gleaming in the candle-light; even the tables denied their relationship to foreign cousins by the impossible slimness of legs that tapered to claw feet, instead of the sturdy trunks that usually supported trestle tables in Frankish halls. And the inevitable cushions, to allow those who wished to lounge or sit cross-legged, relaxing after their meal. If any one habit marked the difference between east and west, it was that of sitting on the floor, or rather on priceless cushions and carpets, an extravagance to Occitan eyes.
Amongst the pale-skinned Frankish courtiers in their flamboyant colours, were darker races in more sober robes and turbans, a cultural mix that could only be found Oltra mar. Dragonetz now knew some of the Franks by name and affiliation and he identified them as his gaze swept the hall; Guy de Beyrouth, Philippe de Naplouse, Balian d’Ibelin, Hélinand de Tiberiade ... all of them united in wanting rid of the Constable, powerful allies if Dragonetz were to accept Baudouin’s offer, and powerful enemies were he to accept Mélisende’s. His imagination still played with the futures that might have been his but Estela had brought the cold mistral of reality with her. His fear that she should see him with the sickness upon him brought home to him how deeply he was in the poppy’s power.
Muganni had tried to tell him, when he had lain sweating and desperate for the potion, that he was taking stronger, more frequent doses but it was easy to brush off the words of a small boy. It was easy during the days following a dose, after the initial stupor, to pretend he was as much in control of himself as he’d always been. Seeing Estela had told him otherwise. Never had he wanted so much to be at her side, to be everything a man could be to a woman. Never had he felt so inadequate. He had to finish this mission, hand over the book, and retreat fast somewhere he could clean his system of the drugs and become himself again. Maybe the mountain stronghold of the Hashashins would take him, where Muganni’s people lived. They had knowledge of such things and Muganni could take him there. He smiled at the boy, who took his hand and smiled back, glowing with anticipation at the prospect of a festival of song. Dragonetz gave an inward sigh, shook his head slightly and disengaged his hand from the boy’s, patting him on the head to soften the rejection.
At that moment, Dragonetz caught sight of Estela. He recognised her one-handed man, Gilles, before it dawned on him that the black-haired beauty, gorgeous in crimson finery that matched his own, was his very own lover. Did he still have the right to call her that, he wondered, observing her arm resting lightly on that of the gallant beside her. De Rançon. Apparently as much in Gilles’ good grace as in Estela’s. They formed part of the circle around Mélisende, as was natural, given that de Rançon was her man and Estela was to star in the performance after dinner.
‘Deep in thought, my Lord?’ The low, grave tones of Hodierne called for Dragonetz’ attention.
As gentle with Hodierne as he was with Muganni, he answered, ‘I was remembering another hall, another entertainment.’
‘Will you, too, sing for us tonight?’
‘I think not,’ was all he said, but he yearned for the music he and Estela had made together.
‘If her voice is as beautiful as she is, I think this evening will be memorable.’ Hodierne’s eyes followed his, watching the graceful way in which Estela accepted courtesies from the court nobility. ‘She has the bearing of a princess.’ Dragonetz imagined Hodierne at Estela’s age in this very hall, vivacious as her elder sister, teasing her many suitors and thinking life would always treat her as a princess.
‘It is easier for a girl to play the princess, than for a woman.’ He gave Hodierne the compliment of his full attention. ‘If my memory serves me well, Estela’s voice will indeed please you.’
‘The bitter-sweetness of memories,’ Hodierne sighed. ‘What we were, what we could have been, what cannot be...’
‘Stay here in Jerusalem,’ Dragonetz urged her impulsively, emboldened by the risks he took daily. What was one more? ‘Each day you are here, you regain your health. You become once more the woman so loved that your song will never die.’
Hodierne flushed. Retreating to her mouse’s voice, she whispered, ‘If only my husband loved me... but he has told me, so often, for so many years, why I must be punished. It must be true. I must deserve it. And I must go home, soon, whatever my sister says.’
Al
l the bile Dragonetz had swallowed, flooded him: the months imprisoned; the casual murder of Aakif and Shunnar; Yalda and her sister’s honeyed lies; de Rançon laughing and gazing into Estela’s eyes; Muganni’s corrupt childhood; and the poppy killing him, Bar Philipos’ slow murder working through Dragonetz’ own body, poisoning his every thought, probably responsible for the very rush of emotion he was feeling now.
What had Muganni said to him? What he should do if he decided to have his murderer killed? He held the power of life or death over his worst enemy. Bar Philipos? Or this man, de Rançon, always hanging around Estela? Another rush of hatred filled him. Which should it be? With the bizarre logic of the poppy, one of his knight’s vows jumped into his mind; to protect the weak and defenceless.
He spoke to Hodierne so quietly that no-one else could hear him. ‘Forgive me for speaking honestly, my Lady, but my honour demands it. You don’t deserve such treatment! You must believe Mélisende, if not me. No man has the right to do such things to any woman. You were near death with such abuse. If you go home, if he lays hand to you again, your life is at risk. If you must go home, if your duty to your family is so strong, then you must take this weapon with you, to use in self-defence.’ Then Dragonetz whispered a name in her ear, a name to be passed on via the city beggars, in Jerusalem or Tripoli, with a password and a second name, the target. Two names to seal a man’s fate. ‘Send these two names to the Hashashin,’ he whispered, ‘if need be.’
Hodierne flinched and went white but she showed no anger at his criminal suggestion. ‘I might get a little dog,’ she said conversationally. ‘When my little sister was released from the men who... the men who held her hostage - did you know she was only five?’ Dragonetz nodded. ‘She was still hostage, in her mind, until a Muslim doctor gave her a little brown dog. She called him ‘l’Architecte’. Strange fancy for a little girl but she left childhood behind her in Aleppo.
I think she told that little dog everything she couldn’t tell us and then the healing started, in so far as she could be healed. Now,’ Hodierne shrugged, ‘now she is Mother Abbess in the fine convent Mélisende endows with every artefact she is allowed to. Ivette tries to stop her but Mélisende is an unstoppable force.’ She smiled weakly. ‘And Ivette’s faith in God is her strength. Perhaps I will get a little brown dog. And I will talk to my sisters. Before I go home to my son, and to my daughter.’
Dragonetz felt a weight lifting. He would no longer be tempted to a dishonourable measure himself and it eased his conscience to give the Comtesse de Tripoli an option that might save her life. Especially as he knew he would close the door the queen had opened, the door to a future in which Dragonetz himself took Hodierne to wife, and in which no harm came to her ever again. He remembered the void in her eyes, the bruised face and skeletal body he’d glimpsed on the caravan train. At least he had given her an option that would save her life, should she be brave enough.
‘We should go to the high table now,’ she said mildly, leading the way.
High table was more of an ordeal for Dragonetz than usual. In addition to balancing the various factions, convincing each one that it was the most attractive to him, he also had to deal with de Rançon and Estela sending knowing looks at him and each other. He might as well have been eating straw for all the pleasure he took in the rice dishes, yellow with saffron and golden raisins, and piled high with spiced lamb; the exotic fruits that were unknown to him before travelling Oltra mar, sugared pineapple, lotus fruit and coconut; sweet and savoury appetisers of liquorice, candied jellies, pistachios, olives and m’tabbal, an aubergine mousse. He dutifully washed it all down with a goblet of the fruity red wine from the Judean hills, while his mind turned over the puzzle of de Rançon and his mouth made polite, even witty, conversation. Then a court poet opened the entertainment, declaiming the wonders of Jerusalem throughout the dessert courses. At least the poetry spared Dragonetz from chatter.
He didn’t have to look at Estela to be aware of every move she made, every smile, every glance in his direction - and there were many such. When he did risk looking at her, the connection between them melted his resolve to keep his distance, to keep her safe from the web in which he was caught, to keep her far from the poison’s effect on him, and from whatever might happen when he stopped taking it.
He responded to the questions in her eyes with what he hoped was reassurance. I love you his unruly thoughts told her. You’ll be wonderful. You always are. So many ghosts kept him company; another hall, another queen, Estela and he singing together, Estela and he doing everything together - lovers, friends, partners. They’d thought it was forever. And here she was, so close, so sophisticated and yet still his Estela, the little beauty spot beside her mouth, the animation as she spoke to those around her, the scar on her left shoulder, hidden underneath her clothes; he knew her better than he knew himself.
Standing to attention behind Dragonetz’ chair, Muganni sensed his master’s tension and instinctively reached forward, to knead and relax the tight neck muscles. Just as naturally, Dragonetz half-turned, stopped the boy’s hands with his own and motioned ‘no’ with the tiniest of gestures.
The whole movement had taken only seconds but that was long enough to spark significant looks between de Rançon and Estela, who flushed and looked away from Dragonetz. By the rood! he thought, exasperated at the undercurrents he didn’t understand. All I need is some crazy rumour that I’m going to adopt Muganni as heir and all the marriage plans being made for me will take a battering. He felt the familiar bubble of drug-fuelled laughter but controlled himself. Damn de Rançon to hell!
Eventually, it was Estela’s turn to perform, last, as became the star of the evening’s entertainment. From the moment she rose from table, picked up her oud and took the floor, Estela’s quality as a performer was unmistakeable. Poised, seeming taller as she drew all eyes towards her, she tuned her oud and let the whispers of ‘hush’, ‘she’s going to start’, create silence that rippled out from her to the furthest corners of the hall, to the servants who paused with their trays at the back, wanting to hear this famous troubadour.
If Dragonetz had not fully realised how much Estela had matured and how much her reputation had grown, it was brought home to him now. The girl he’d tutored was now the guest of the Queen of Jerusalem, the star of the court’s entertainment. A lesser man might have felt envy, or at least concern at being eclipsed, but Dragonetz knew his own talents and felt nothing but joy at the reception given Estela.
Then the voice that haunted his dreams breathed sweetness into the Great Hall, a voice by turns poignant with love and loss, flirtatious with springtime and nostalgic with winter, satirical over hypocrisy and celebratory over courage. Estela sang her listeners through a range of emotions that stripped them all to their common humanity, taking them far away from the court of Jerusalem and daily trivia to a world that was on a grander scale. If Dragonetz had tears in his eyes, he was not alone. He glanced behind him and saw Muganni oblivious to everything other than the singer and the song, the boy’s lips shaping the words of songs he knew, his eyes large and glistening.
As the audience breathed and sighed in collective response, Dragonetz regained enough detachment to assess his ex-student’s performance. With a professional appreciation of the singer’s need to draw breath and change register, he approved the selection of songs and the transitions, but Estela surprised even him when she sang her own work, the song of Arnaut and al-Hisba.
The tears overflowed as he relived the story of his friends’ courageous fight, and Arnaut’s murder. Even as Estela’s voice pierced his heart, he was aware of the technical skill in a narrative lyric that mastered new forms and he knew she had truly become what she set out to be; no mere jongleur, singing other people’s songs, but a troubadour, whose work would be memorised and passed on to others for years to come. Throughout her performance, Estela had looked towards de Rançon as much as towards Dragonetz but for the song of Arnaut and al-Hisba, her eyes sought only him. Th
is was a song they had lived together and she sang it for him, however many others were in the hall. It was a bold choice, to sing in the court of Jerusalem about a Muslim defending a Christian against a band of murderers.
Esquena amb esquena, els companys van lluitar,
Fraires en les armes diferents.
Dividit per la seva forma de pensar
Units contra un dany comu.
Un dels homes va aixecar la mitja lluna
Un dels homes va aixecar la creu
I va obrir les dues fulles de la justicia
En el camp de batalla de la pèrdua
Back to back, the comrades fought,
Brothers in different arms,
Divided by the way they thought,
United ’gainst a common harm.
One man raised the crescent,
One man raised the cross,
But both blades swung for justice
On the battlefield of loss.
The silence stretched after the last notes took Arnaut’s life, until Dragonetz feared that Estela had misjudged her audience and touched on matters too sensitive for the mix of races and religions in the hall. He needn’t have worried. As Estela curtsied, signifying the performance was over, the audience erupted in applause, in a swell of approving comments, in the reaction of people waking from the extremes of emotion.
She acknowledged the response, calm and still, at the centre, but as she raised her head again, she sought one person only. Unable to speak, had he tried, Dragonetz held his hands over his head, exaggerated a slow clap, held his arms out to her in praise, mouthed ‘Bravo,’ and blew her a kiss.
Then, finally, she smiled and turned her gaze to the Queen, to the courtiers, to everyone, as she picked up her oud, ready to go back to her place at high table, beside de Rançon. Her attention was already on her dinner partner, who was standing and gesturing. His meaning became clearer as he walked round the table towards her, suggesting that she perform one more song. With him. A duet. Dragonetz’ insides churned black murder.
