Bladesong

by Jean Gill

  Then Dragonetz arrived on foot, his hauberk flashing silver under his cloak and his head covered in the mail hood. No courtesy visit then. He was accompanied by the Arab imp, who was sent out of the way, to hop impatiently on one leg, so close to Gilles that he could almost have reached out and touched the boy.

  ‘Yerushalmi?’ queried Dragonetz, his voice deep and echoing slightly.

  ‘I am Yerushalmi,’ the turbaned man confirmed. ‘Lord Dragonetz?’

  ‘I have something for you from Raavad.’ From under his cloak, Dragonetz extracted a parcel. ‘A wise man asked me to give this book into your keeping. Blessed be he who preserves it and cursed be he who steals it, and cursed be he who sells it, and cursed be he who pawns it. It may not be sold and it may not be defiled.’

  ‘May the blessing be upon you,’ Yerushalmi replied. He unfastened a strap from round his neck and took a leather bag from underneath his cloak. ‘This was given to me for you in exchange for all you have done for us.’ He handed the leather bag to Dragonetz and the knight accepted it, as Yerushalmi had accepted the parcel, without showing the ill-manners of looking within.

  Gilles missed the next exchange because he noticed another man arrive on the scene, moving stealthily, as if he’d been following Dragonetz. The newcomer was robed and wore a swathe of fabric round his head but it was not a turban like the Jew’s. Whether he and the Jew were in league, Gilles had no idea, but he recognised the meaning of an outstretched dagger in a man’s hand, and whatever he thought of Dragonetz, he would not see him taken down from behind.

  He hissed at the boy, who looked at him, startled. ‘Your master needs help,’ he told the boy urgently, ‘Get de Rançon, tell him to come quickly.’

  With one glance at the man approaching the courtyard, dagger out, the boy nodded and ran.

  ‘Dragonetz!’ yelled Gilles, coming out of the shadows, drawing his own dagger. With his one hand, he could only manage one weapon, but he could still throw a dagger straight and true, even in this waning light.

  Dragonetz turned first to the robed man who’d followed him. ‘So glad you could join us, Bar Philipos.’ Then he sighed. ‘Gilles. This is an unexpected pleasure. I would be very grateful if you would return to guard your mistress. In fact, I’m relying on it.’

  Gilles didn’t bother responding as Dragonetz’ attention switched to Yerushalmi’s companion, who’d moved out of the shadows and rolled down the hood to reveal a young woman’s face, black hair and flashing brown eyes.

  ‘Yalda!’ exclaimed Bar Philipos.

  Dragonetz drawled, ‘One surprise after another. I assume you’re here to finish off what the little black bull didn’t?’

  ‘You flatter yourself.’ Yalda stood beside the Jew, who was holding tightly to the parcel Dragonetz had given him. ‘I’m here because of him.’ She jerked her head at Bar Philipos, who seemed unable to move. ‘You can’t believe it, can you?’ she jeered at him. ‘Well it’s true. Another daughter goes to the Jews. Only you won’t beat this one till you kill her.’

  She looked at Dragonetz then. ‘I told you she died because of love. She was going to run away with Yerushalmi and marry him until he found out. Then he did what he always did with us, if we weren’t ‘good daughters’. Only you got carried away, didn’t you, father.

  But it all turned out for the best because you covered it up so well, and you could use the death against this stupid knight.’ She laughed, raw and bitter. ‘What does it feel like to have been played, Dragonetz?! Don’t you want to kill him yet? Don’t you understand why I do?!’

  Yerushalmi put his arm round her, shushing her, speaking in his measured way. ‘These matters are behind us now. We will take the Keter Aram Sola to Maimonides and I will study it with him in Egypt, somewhere Jews don’t have to beg permission to scratch a living, somewhere ‘vespers’ will be but a memory,’ he gave an ironic glance towards Dragonetz, ‘and we will live in our words and observe our religion.’

  It was the Jew’s words, or unruffled tone, that sparked Bar Philipos out of his shock. ‘I should have killed you too! You can take my second harlot daughter and damn her to hell with all Jewry, but you’re not having the book!’

  He attempted to rush Yerushalmi but Dragonetz was too quick and a sword blocked the way, swinging dangerously. Bar Philipos seemed to regain control. ‘I can wait,’ he said. ‘De Rançon will be here any minute with your whore and you’ll have the choice, my Lord.’ He gave a sarcastic bow. ‘Give us the book or your Estela will die, efficiently I suspect, knowing de Rançon.’ He must have seen murder in Dragonetz’ eyes because he threw his dagger away. ‘Would you kill an unarmed man?’ he mocked.

  ‘Go,’ Dragonetz told the Jew and the girl. ‘Go quickly.’

  Then Gilles realised what he’d done and swore aloud as he saw Estela walking towards the dyeworks, with de Rançon. No doubt Muganni had found them en route. He was skipping alongside de Rançon and Estela’s hand rested lightly on her companion’s mailed arm, her face anxious - for Dragonetz, no doubt. De Rançon moved with graceful assurance, despite the weight in armour he carried. Sword out, murmuring words of reassurance to Estela, he reached the scene, just as Yalda picked up the dagger Bar Philipos had discarded and stuck it between her father’s shoulder-blades.

  Staggering towards de Rançon, the Syrian held out his arms and tried to speak. If, like Estela, he hadn’t known better, Gilles would have been impressed at the speed with which de Rançon assessed where the danger to his friend was coming from.

  The Syrian only got as far as ‘De Rançon...’ in talking to his partner, before he was run through by an efficient sword-stroke, which turned his words into the bloody gurgle of a dying man. De Rançon had finished what Yalda began.

  ‘He wasn’t armed,’ Dragonetz said drily, his body tensed pre-fight, waiting de Rançon’s next move. Estela was behind de Rançon, who only had to move back a few steps to reach her and run her through, with nothing Dragonetz could do to stop him. She stood there, trusting, happy that de Rançon had saved his friend’s life.

  Swopping dagger for sword, Gilles edged backwards, one tiny movement at a time, slowly trying to move out of de Rançon’s peripheral view, while the man’s attention was focused on Dragonetz. He was sure Dragonetz could see what he was trying to do but the knight didn’t betray him by so much as a flicker of his eyes. Instead, he turned his attention to Yalda, who was staring at her father’s dead body, impassive.

  ‘You have what you came for,’ Dragonetz told her, ‘but what I don’t understand...’ Anyone who knew him would have been put on guard by the casual, insulting drawl.

  He opened his cloak, giving her a clear view of the gap between hauberk and hood, the bare target of his insolent face. ‘What I really don’t understand, is why you have to fuck every man your sister has.’

  Yalda screamed, pulled the dagger from her father’s back and would have thrown it at Dragonetz had not Muganni hung onto her arm, preventing her and shouting. ‘He’s trying to kill himself. He’s using you to kill himself. It’s the drugs. He can’t help what he says.’ Yerushalmi moved to hold the girl, taking the dagger, calming her in soft, foreign words.

  Gilles used the distraction to reach Estela and drag her backwards till he could put himself and his sword between her and de Rançon. The latter acknowledged the move with a twisted smile. Gilles knew he was no match for de Rançon but Dragonetz was at least an equal, and de Rançon was caught between them. Estela was no longer the easy hostage she had been.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Estela kept saying. ‘Get off my foot!’ but Gilles had no intention of letting her free to go to de Rançon and it was too complicated to explain to her now. Unable to hold her and the sword, he’d settled for standing on the fashionable long pointed end of her boot, pinning her down neatly.

  ‘You must stay here,’ he told her, urgently.

  ‘My dear Estela,’ de Rançon told her, putting down his bloody sword, ‘it will be all right. I’m here.’ So it was to be pla
y-acting, thought Gilles grimly, with Estela as the audience and everyone else watching, to see what trick the bastard would pull next.

  Dragonetz nodded to Gilles, and that little gesture of gratitude and reassurance was enough from such a man. They would get out of this! ‘Go, Yerushalmi,’ Dragonetz told him again.

  The Jew looked towards Bar Philipos’ crumpled body. ‘The curse has delivered justice. Maimonides teaches that we should eschew vengeance, but even so, Yalda and I will know greater peace in our new life for having truly finished with this one. Come, Yalda,’ he said and the couple retreated into the dyeworks building, locking a door behind them. De Rançon followed them with his eyes.

  ‘Effendi,’ yelled Muganni. Dragonetz had crumpled to a heap on cobbles, apparently asleep. ‘It is the drug,’ the boy told them, placing the leather bag under his master’s head. ‘It takes him against his will to the poppy-world for a short time and then he wakes, groggy as if from too much wine. He needs a litter to take him back to his lodging.’

  De Rançon and Gilles weighed each other up, coldly. With Dragonetz unconscious, de Rançon could kill them all. ‘Dragonetz!’ cried Estela and rushed, one-shoed, to her lover’s side, too fast for de Rançon to catch her, if he’d tried. Gilles moved to block de Rançon’s access to the couple but at most he could only buy time against such a swordsman.

  Oblivious to all danger, Estela ordered, ‘De Rançon, go to the hospital. Get a litter out here, as soon as you can!’

  Gilles readied himself to give his life for his mistress, praying that the city guard would turn up, drunk Templars, thieves, anybody! But instead, inexplicably, de Rançon put his sword up and left. Gilles had no idea where de Rançon would go or what he would do, so he sent Muganni ‘to get Dragonetz’ chamber ready’ and (sotto voce in the boy’s ear) to get the Hospitalers to send a litter.

  If the boy was confused by the duplication of litters, he gave no sign, merely his customary ‘Yes, Effendi’ and he was off, leaving Estela cradling Dragonetz’ head in her lap, and Gilles clutching a leather bag, his heart full of silent apologies and prayers.

  Like the stone walls and closed door of Dragonetz’ chamber, Estela and Gilles heard all that was said but stayed silent. A little weak still and lying on the bed, Dragonetz was nevertheless lucid as he outlined the way he had been drugged, the effect in hallucinations and sleep, the sickness when he had no poppy or reduced the dose. Muganni showed Estela and Gilles the poppy pods and the ground hash that he was using. He told them the quantities that Dragonetz needed to avoid being sick.

  ‘But poppy is dangerous,’ he warned. ‘Sometimes it is stronger than others, even with the same proportions of pods to water. You will see by the colour of the infusion and you must be careful - an overdose will kill. I use the hash to make a little happiness.’

  Never had someone spoken of happiness with as serious an expression. ‘At some stages of the cycle the poppy makes depression and anxiety, and because we are trying to keep the dose low, there are sometimes pains too. The hash gives a little relief.’

  Muganni made Estela recite the method and proportions of preparing the concoction until he was satisfied that she had them memorised and Dragonetz smiled weakly at the boy. ‘You have done well, my boy.’

  Then Estela realised why she had to learn the preparation of the drugs. ‘You are leaving,’ she said to Muganni.

  ‘I have some jobs to do for the master and then he bids me go to my people in the mountains. I am Hashashin and I will be free.’ There was pride and excitement in his voice but something else too.

  ‘You were always free with me,’ Dragonetz told him, opening his arms. The boy went to the bed and hugged his master, the way Dragonetz had taught him, as men hug, as father and son hug. Estela thought it a pity that de Rançon couldn’t see them now or he would realise how mistaken he had been about the relationship between Dragonetz and Muganni.

  They released each other, patted each other heartily on the back, and Dragonetz smiled his approval. If his eyes were a little moist, then no doubt, like their redness, it was an effect of the drugs.

  ‘You are leaving too,’ Muganni told Gilles and Estela.

  ‘For the mountains?’

  Muganni looked at his master with regret. ‘It is not possible. The Hashashin face many threats and my Lord would draw down on us a force that would finish us. We can only survive by hiding and there is nowhere Oltra mar that a man like my Lord can hide. Everyone will seek him. He must go home, somewhere he can be isolated for the time it takes.’ And then Muganni told them what had to be done to purge Dragonetz of the drugs and what the risks were.

  White-faced, Estela asked, ‘How will we get him home?’

  ‘I am still here, you know,’ Dragonetz complained. Everyone ignored him.

  ‘My Lord planned all this. In the event that he survived the meeting at the dyeworks, there is a camel train, leaving tomorrow at dawn, with two litters, one for my Lord and one for my Lady.’

  ‘I’d rather ride a camel than be in one of those coffins!’ interrupted Estela.

  ‘As my Lady wishes,’ bowed Muganni. At St Jean d’Acre there will be a ship waiting for you.’

  Estela’s eyes were round. ‘The cost!’ she said ‘How could you have paid so many men to travel in the stormy season. Camel trains! A ship!’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ Laughter struggled to emerge in the tired eyes. ‘I’m unbelievably rich. Look.’ He passed her the leather bag, which had been beside him on the bed. ‘Go, Muganni.’

  ‘No, wait!’ a thought struck Estela. ‘Muganni could tell de Rançon that we’re leaving, so he can come with us. We could do with the extra protection.’ She dropped her eyes, hiding the suggestion that Dragonetz’ weakness left them vulnerable.

  Gilles and Dragonetz exchanged looks. ‘No,’ said Dragonetz. ‘De Rançon is the Queen’s man and it would put him in an impossible position. Mélisende will be livid when she knows I’ve gone. She had plans for me. De Rançon will be able to say, honestly, that he knew nothing and he’ll keep his place at court. Go, Muganni.’ The boy left. Gilles was gazing fixedly at Dragonetz, with respect.

  Estela still felt unsure about leaving de Rançon out of their plans. She started to open the bag. ‘The Jew’s teacher is right, you know, about eschewing revenge. De Rançon said something similar when we were travelling. So difficult to surmount those feelings and so admirable, don’t you think? Oh. My!’ She’d opened the velvet pouch inside the bag and spilled a dozen or more fine-cut jewels over the bed. ‘I hope you counted them!’ she said, gathering them up again, admiring the glitter as different facets caught the light, and putting them back safely in the bag. ‘Twenty?’ she queried, drawing the string tight. ‘They must be worth a fortune!’

  Dragonetz nodded. ‘Read the parchments.’

  Estela pulled two rolled parchments out of the bag. The first was as expected, signed by Raavad and writing off all debts against his loan to buy the land and material for his paper mill. ‘You’re free!’ Estela beamed at her lover.

  ‘Read on.’

  The second parchment took longer to read and was signed Malik-al-Judhami of the Banu Hud. Al-Hisba! thought Estela as she read his message.

  Dearest friend of my mind,

  Forgive my deceit but if I had not got you out of Narbonne, you would not be alive, and I could not let the world lose a mind such as yours.

  If you read this, then you have completed your task for Raavad and enough time has passed for you to come home without fear of the assassin. When you do come back, you have wealth beyond your dreams. Before the paper mill burned, I shipped all the paper to Venice. We were right about the potential of paper and the payments are waiting for you with Raavad, who has full accounts. The summer’s work bore the harvest you deserve and you can now reap the rewards.

  The Christian Church will never allow you to make paper again but what we learned together will find a use, in some other form. You will find another project and you have the money
to invest in it.

  I am sometimes in Narbonne on business so perhaps our paths will cross once more. I hope so.

  Insha’Allah

  Malik-al-Judhami of the Banu Hud

  ‘You’re rich.’

  ‘That’s what I said.’ Dragonetz gave her a boyish grin. ‘So now you really love me, don’t you.’ She moved close to him, put her arms round him in a very unmanly way, laid her head on his chest and sobbed.

  At dawn, the guards on the Damascus gate let a party of three adults leave the city. Robed, in travel headgear, and carrying only three bags, the small group walked to the camp outside the walls, where the camel drivers were already fastening saddles to camel backs. Two litters were also buckled tight but they remained empty, at least for the first day. Both Dragonetz and Estela preferred to ride in the open, although each nagged the other at regular intervals, to take the enclosed option.

  ‘I’ll buy you more dresses,’ Dragonetz promised as Estela mourned all the new finery, abandoned in the palace of Jerusalem. She had been banned from returning there, both by Dragonetz and by Gilles, and she had accepted that their flight had to be secret, but she kept remembering one item after another.

  ‘My tortoise-shell comb,’ she said glumly. ‘After all those weeks in the same sweaty dress, with nothing, I could finally look like a girl again. And here I am stuck on a damned camel once more.’

  ‘Ladies don’t swear,’ Dragonetz told her.

  Estela proved volubly that she was no lady and they continued to distract each other from what lay unsaid between them, but which weighed heavily on both.

  At one point, Estela asked, ‘Sisters?’ and Dragonetz told her simply of the drug illusions, of bedding Yalda, of his discoveries about the girl he’d thought had died for him.

  As if aligning two portraits of the same man, Estela matched what she learned against her memories of the man she’d fallen in love with in Narbonne. She remembered how hard he’d tried not to love her, fearing she’d get hurt, and she understood this better. She also matched what she was told against a third picture, the one de Rançon had painted as they travelled together. Some things fitted; some things didn’t. She shrugged off the discrepancies. De Rançon had misinterpreted what he saw, not knowing Muganni’s background and not knowing that Dragonetz had been drugged against his will.