by Jean Gill
As Estela hesitated, before de Rançon reached her, a small figure tugged on her arm, demanding her attention, and the hall hushed again, anticipating more entertainment. With sick recognition, confirmed by looking behind him to find only an absence, Dragonetz wondered how on God’s earth he was going to rescue Muganni from whatever folly had got into his head this time.
Dragonetz rose to intervene and was close enough to hear Estela’s halting Arabic in response to the boy’s question, but not close enough to prevent Estela announcing to the hallfull, in her clear voice, ‘You have been so kind, such a good audience, that I request your patience for one more song.’ She bent and checked something with the boy, then nodded. ‘Muganni and I will perform an old favourite for you but with a difference. As this is a land of many languages, I will sing in my mother tongue and Muganni will sing in his.’ The Queen nodded her approval.
It will never work, thought Dragonetz, forcing room for himself to sit on a bench between two aggrieved courtiers, who nevertheless made the best of it and in their turn pressured those further along. De Rançon, who had been so close to his own duet with Estela, also pushed his way to a seat, his usual amiable expression replaced by murderous rage. Dragonetz’ own such feelings eased considerably. Good, he thought, turning his full attention to the duo. His spirits dipped again. Two sopranos. Their voices will clash horribly.
Then the magic started again, the hush and Estela’s opening notes, singing their song.
‘Us cavaliers si jazia
Ab la res que plus volia’
‘A-bed beside his lady-love,
Her own true knight stopped kissing.
‘My sweet, my own, what shall we do?
Day is nigh and night is over
We must be parted, my self missing
All the day away from you.
How could he not remember the first time Estela had sung his aubade, standing beside the ditch she’d slept in, singing for her very life? And then they’d sung together the words he’d written, partners in public and lovers in private, until the last night together when he’d left at dawn and the words of the song had come true.
Lost in memories, Dragonetz nevertheless heard what these two matchless singers were doing to his composition. Estela left time between each line for Muganni’s melancholy Arabic to thread its way into a round, shaping an Oltra mar echo, like the Muezzin at dawn. The two voices, the woman’s rich with experience, the boy’s of angelic purity, followed each other and shared the song. Not only did it work, it made Dragonetz’ hair stand on end with its sheer brilliance. And the boy must have translated the song himself, working from his slow Occitan to find the lyric in his native Arabic.
‘My sweet, my own, what shall we do?
Day is nigh and night is over
We must be parted, my self missing
All the day away from you.’
The last words of the song flowed over him, in Occitan and then in Arabic, as the lovers parted. Muganni brought the song to a close, his eyes shut, lost in the world of his music. Estela whispered something in his ear, he nodded, his face aglow, and she held up her hand to stop the applause that was breaking out.
‘The troubadour who wrote this beautiful song is right here with us,’ she announced. ‘My Lord Dragonetz, will you sing the last verse with us?’ Encouraged by the audience, and by a small boy’s face, Dragonetz stood by the table, reading Estela’s face, following her intake of breath to start on cue, and this time the harmonies of male baritone and female soprano formed the Occitan duet, with the boy’s Arabic echo like a commentary by the gods. This time it was Dragonetz who shut his eyes, knowing where Estela’s every breath would fall, feeling her with him as no-one else had ever been or ever could be.
Muganni rushed the last notes in his excitement but Dragonetz doubted whether anyone would criticise him, as the audience erupted once more. Estela took the boy’s hand and held it high to present him to the audience for their acknowledgement. She bowed her head to him in her own homage to his talent and he dipped awkwardly to her, to the Queen, in all directions, then he made his escape. He bounded towards Dragonetz, who still stood where he had sung, beside the table, and he charged into his arms, expecting a hug. For once, he was not disappointed. Dragonetz wrapped his arms around the boy. ‘You did well,’ he told him. ‘You did very well.’
‘This is the best, the most important day of my life,’ Muganni told him. ‘I must go back to being your servant now.’ He imitated the expressionless face of the other servants in the hall and he took up the standard pose, but his downward-cast eyes still danced and his body fizzed with energy.
Dragonetz couldn’t look away from Estela. The music still flowed between them, bursting the dams to a thousand memories. The way she looked at him, the way she smiled as the boy hugged him, suggested that shadows had cleared from her mind too. ‘Come to me tonight,’ she mouthed, across all the people between them, and he just nodded, helpless in the flood. Then she was claimed by the Queen and her entourage. Dragonetz had his own admiring following to fend off, and Muganni to explain, hampered by Muganni’s tendency to explain himself. Tonight, his master felt indulgent and, with anyone who would listen, the boy discussed his choice of one Arabic phrase over another for his translation.
Sweeping the room to find de Rançon, Dragonetz placed him at last, in conversation with Bar Philipos. Queen’s business no doubt. As the Syrian was accompanied by his daughter, Dragonetz felt no urge to approach them and find out more. The next time he looked, de Rançon was nowhere to be seen, and Dragonetz had more important matters to think about.
They made love with words and with their finger-tips, with kisses and laughter, with shared memories and new discoveries, with the hunger of abstinence and then taking their time, with imagination and experience. Touch erased the awkwardness of a year apart, at least for this first night back together. Questions were asked but answers evaded. Some things were too important to announce with, ‘I should say, in passing, that since we last saw each other...’
In a satiated pause, stroking the long curve of smooth olive skin, from shoulder to thigh, Dragonetz noticed Estela’s pathfinder clasp, discarded on the pile of their clothes that tumbled together on the floor, as their owners had done in the course of play.
‘The pathfinder clasp,’ he observed idly. ‘You still wear it. Do you remember the fortune-teller in Narbonne, who said it blocked her visions?’
‘Mmm,’ responded a sleepy voice. ‘Too many paths, my choice...’
Then Dragonetz realised there was something that Estela wasn’t wearing, that hadn’t come off with the froth of lace, silk and linen. His hand stopped its circling caress, lying lightly on her haunch. ‘My ring,’ he said. ‘You’re not wearing my ring. Where is it?’
Her body tensed under his hand. ‘I didn’t want to risk it getting lost on the journey,’ she said. ‘I left it with Raoulf.’
‘The ring was meant to protect you on any such journey! As was Raoulf. It makes no sense to leave either of them behind.’
‘Ow,’ she reproved him mildly, shifting her position and making him aware how much pressure he’d been exerting. ‘Raoulf had other duties and de Rançon was my escort. And Gilles was with me. You know what he’s like - if he had no arms at all, he’d bite anyone who tried to hurt me.’
‘Like that big dog of yours... what was his name?’
‘Nici. I left him with Raoulf.’
‘You left a lot with Raoulf.’ He tried to keep the sarcasm out of his tone and softened the comment with, ‘I’m surprised Nici went with Raoulf. He seemed to be very clear as to who his master was - or mistress, in this case.’
Estela massaged her lover’s neck and back, and lower, turning him to allow more intimate contact. ‘There has been no-one else,’ she murmured. ‘There is no-one but you.’ He believed her, his faith encouraged but not determined by his physical reactions. His spurt of anger vanished as suddenly as it had come, just another drug-induced mood swing
. He sensed some mystery around the signet ring but he had forgotten how to trust someone, forgotten that explanations could be innocent.
‘I can’t believe that there’s been no-one else for you,’ she teased him, not waiting for an answer (thank the Lord) but continuing, ‘Do you find me... changed, physically?’
‘More beautiful,’ he responded, automatically, wondering where the insecurity had come from. He was unable to tell her how reassuring it was for him to touch her very human body, to feel a patch of rough skin, to see a crooked tooth, instead of the crazed perfection of his poppy-dreams.
She didn’t press further, accepting his physical reassurance that he wanted her as much as he ever had. After playing together again, she rolled away from him. ‘You must be taking some potent herbs to keep your desire so strong. I give in - I need to rest a while!’
He could have told her then, that at this stage of his weekly cycle, it was highly probable the ‘potent herbs’ he took did indeed delay his jouissance. However, when he had just taken the poppy, in ever stronger dose, not even Estela herself would be able to raise his interest. Shame flooded him. No, he could not tell her. He would rather the poison kill him. He buried his face in the scent of her neck, breathing in eastern spices, sandalwood and jasmine he thought, blended with sweat.
‘New perfume,’ he murmured.
‘From St Jean d’Acre, when we’d disembarked and were waiting for the camel train to be organised. De Rançon took me to the best merchants.’
Dragonetz ignored the automatic kick in his guts at the name. He stroked her long, black hair. ‘Tell me about the camel ride... while we recover...’
She was sleeping when he left. Afraid to fall asleep himself, in case his dreams betrayed him, he slipped out the chamber, through deserted corridors and empty streets, back to his lonely bed. He was tormented by thoughts of her waking alone and wondering whether he really cared. A present on her pillow would have added insult, as would a casual meeting later in the day, as if what was between them was mere sneak-in-the-night. Unable to come up with a better solution, Dragonetz sent the only other person he trusted, to keep guard outside the lady’s chamber and then give her his apology, and his invitation. Muganni left the warm bedroll by his master’s door, and headed off at a dogtrot, with his usual youthful enthusiasm. What he made of a message that mixed camels and the music of the spheres, Dragonetz cared not, as long as Estela got the message and kept the private rendez-vous, later that same day. He shut his eyes and took what sleep he could.
Chapter 19
What to tell and what not, after so long apart? Dragonetz gave the bald facts of his imprisonment and listened to the detail of Bèatriz’ wedding plans. He briefly outlined Muganni’s history and listened to the various ways in which de Rançon had behaved heroically. Perhaps it was just as well that Muganni interrupted the tête-à-tête at the exact moment when Estela was describing how de Rançon had taught her Arabic or the sound of gritted teeth might have become obvious.
Bowing to Estela, Muganni launched into speech. ‘You wanted me to let you know straight away, Effendi.’ He had to pause to catch his breath and Dragonetz motioned him to speak freely. ‘The Jew is back from Egypt. I don’t like him. He told me to stop singing, that music is a childish distraction from what is important.’
Endgame. Soon, it would all be over. ‘Then I don’t like him either. But this is business. Go back to the dyeworks and speak with him in private. Tell him that the Christian knight brings him a gift from Raavad of Narbonne, as promised. Tell him to be at the dyeworks tomorrow at vespers and I will come to him there.’
‘Effendi.’ Muganni bowed and was gone.
‘The book,’ stated Estela. When Dragonetz had left her in Narbonne, he had told her everything about his mission. ‘You give this man the book and your debts are cancelled. You’ll have kept your oath and you’ll be free again.’ She reached across to take his hands in her own, her happiness at his restored fortunes shining in her face. ‘And we can go home.’
‘Free,’ agreed Dragonetz, hiding his unease. After all, he’d never expected the endgame to be simple. Bar Philipos would of course be tracking him. In fact, Dragonetz was relying on the fact that the Syrian would also be at the dyeworks when vespers was rung. All that was needed was a good excuse to kill the man. In Dragonetz’ opinion, an attempt to steal the book might very well lead to a fight, and self-defence would count as a very good reason indeed. Of course, he didn’t mention any of this to Estela, but kissed her hand lightly as they parted. She told him she understood he’d need to rest during the night, that they had all the time in the world to be together, and he’d pretended she was right, even while he sensed the poison clogging his blood and his thoughts. Tomorrow it would all be over, one way or the other.
As he rolled up his pack and stashed it on the bed he’d claimed in the servants’ quarters, Gilles cursed Dragonetz for existing. Estela’s relationship with de Rançon had been developing nicely into more than friendship and every step of their long journey together had increased Gilles’ respect for Mélisende’s knight.
He was the sort of leader who drove his men hard and himself harder; who could handle his own weapons well and also take a strategic view; and who treated Estela like a queen. The perfect match for the woman who, in Gilles’ eyes, was more than a queen. She was the motherless little girl he’d been a father to, when her own proved wanting, and she was the spirited woman who’d travelled across seas and desert without complaining. And all to meet up with this Dragonetz!
Gilles had known little of Dragonetz before the knight had to leave Narbonne, penniless and on some secret, heathen mission. Estela’s love was evident but she wouldn’t be the first girl to fall for a sweet-talking - or even sweet-singing - rogue. Gilles had taught her how to judge the quality of a weapon, and not to judge by appearances, but he still preferred to double-check her judgement, and he didn’t like what he had found out about the man she had chosen.
De Rançon had tried loyally to hide his friend’s shortcomings but Gilles had understood much from what was left unsaid. Whatever Dragonetz had been before coming Oltra mar, he was now a dissolute womaniser - perhaps worse, judging by the way he and that boy behaved! One look at him in those robes, and with that beard, and anyone could see he was no Christian knight any more. Changing his dress back and shaving wouldn’t change what was underneath and it wouldn’t fool Gilles. It was all very well Estela making songs about it but friendship between a Christian and a Moor was just plain wrong, and likely to turn a man, and no doubt that had been the start of it with Dragonetz. Then, coming here had made things worse.
Servants always knew what was going on. They were invisible to their masters but that didn’t stop them hearing very interesting conversations. The trick was to get them to tell you what you wanted to know. And Gilles knew lots of ways to make other servants talk. He could be so harmless, so hail-fellow-well-met, and so generous with a jug of wine. Along with some crude detail on the Queen’s use of a good-looking young man (the second time, mind you! At least this time she wasn’t a married woman, but still!) Gilles found out that Dragonetz was a big man at court, with talk of some high-up marriage for him, and land here, Oltra mar. Gilles doubted that Dragonetz had mentioned any of this to Estela.
Other whispers in the servants’ quarters were about the oddness of the boy. Some said he was a djinn, who cast spells that kept his master strong. Everyone agreed that Dragonetz would hide away in his room for a day or two, with only Muganni tending him, and then the knight would emerge, full of energy, and after that the cycle would repeat. There were men who changed into beasts and had potions to keep them man-like; maybe Dragonetz was one of those. Maybe his name came with a family curse... Gilles was sceptical about Dragonetz turning into a scaled beast but then, you never knew, and hiding away was very odd behaviour.
Then there was the question of how Dragonetz had behaved with Estela. The word ‘love’ had often served a man whose only interest wa
s between a woman’s legs. There could be no doubt that Dragonetz had found his way to that sweet place and then left Estela with child while he traipsed round the Holy Land, having God-knew-what adventures. And how was he treating her after she’d shown courage beyond her sex, facing all the dangers of their journey for his sake? He’d tumbled her, that was how, and not even stayed the night.
Poor de Rançon. No wonder he was keeping away, knowing how unworthy Dragonetz was of Estela but too loyal to take his place. Too loyal, even though, if Dragonetz deigned to notice his friend at all, it was with that sardonic sneer of his. Well, Gilles was not going to keep out of things. He didn’t trust Dragonetz and when he’d followed the boy the day before, his suspicions were confirmed. There was no good reason for a Christian knight to be meeting a Jew at sundown in a dyeworks and Gilles was going to make sure he was there, to find out exactly what was going on. When he had all the information he needed, he’d cut this bond between Dragonetz and Estela, and help de Rançon take his rightful place. Then she’d have someone who treated her right, not someone who - this was the final torch to his bonfire of outrage - not someone who didn’t even think Estela worth a second night! After over a year apart!
Wearing an anonymous brown cloak, Gilles stomped an angry path to the dyeworks in the Jewish quarter, as the sun grew low. The vats in the courtyard had been covered and the workers had already downed tools for the day when he got there, but the gates were still open. It was easy to find a suitable dark doorway, outside the empty clerk’s room, where he could stand in the shadows. Then all he had to do was wait and watch.
First to appear was a man wearing robes and a turban, with a companion fully covered, in the manner of some heathen women. The man seemed to know his way round the dyeworks and checked the covers on the vats before standing openly in the courtyard, waiting. The woman kept to the side, by the buildings, her black robe blending into the shadows.
