Bladesong

by Jean Gill

  ‘The pattern welding is expert but not new to me,’ he informed her. ‘What makes Damascene steel unique is some secret ingredient. The swordsmiths wouldn’t tell me what it is - my own won’t even tell me! - but I think it comes from India. There is as much aboard ship as was in stock but when we run out, we’ll have to organise a trade route ourselves.’

  ‘You have contacts Oltra mar. Maybe the swordsmith himself can organise something via Damascus. Or maybe de Rançon can. Queen Mélisende must have trade with the east.’ Estela encouraged all his projects and engaged his lively mind in planning the future and in finding solutions for all the problems that didn’t matter, as far as she was concerned. Running out of the secret ingredient for Damascene steel was as irrelevant as the possibility that all the rose-bushes would die on the journey, or that Occitan pigeons would have no homing instinct.

  ‘You mustn’t over-water,’ he told her. ‘It kills as many plants as under-watering. And salt water kills them straight away. You should see the joining of plants, the way Khalid cuts the root and joins them, to get the best of both types. It is the closest thing to magic I have ever seen.’

  ‘Let’s go and see Khalid. He can tell us how the roses are doing.’ She would go with him to talk to the rose-grower and the swordsmith, to take a turn round the deck, where Dragonetz could learn about the tack the captain planned to take in a forthcoming storm, or the origins of the crew-members. As long as he was learning, planning or in hot debate, Dragonetz was almost himself. It was the other times, when he lay wooden or shaking in her arms, that Estela was frightened for him, though not yet frightened for herself. He would recite obscure Persian poems to her, Khayyam and Sanai.

  You blazed through my heart and opened

  Me like a rose in full bloom

  And I lay at your feet, dead,

  Until permitted to live once more.

  Freedom meant nothing until

  I offered you everything.

  Now I am truly free.

  Despite the time of year, the storms treated them lightly and, probably because it was winter, they crossed no pirates. They reached Marselha on a cold, winter day with the Mistral to welcome them home, chopping the waves into a nightmare for the pilot boats unloading their ship. Estela breathed a sigh of relief on reaching dry land and had to remind herself that her work was yet to come. Once again, money made all things possible, but even so it took several days before Gilles could find a property to lease, which met Dragonetz’ requirements: ‘large, as befits the rank of a nobleman; secluded so that screaming will go un-noticed; with at least one room that can be locked and keep a prisoner secure; and with a walled garden.’ Gilles saw fit to keep some of these details to himself when enquiring locally for empty properties.

  While Gilles sought somewhere for them to live, Dragonetz ensured that his crafstmen, and their families, were established in suitable premises, in a quarter where Arabic was common. This was not nearly as difficult in Marselha as Gilles’ task. On his first day asking around about lodging, he had let it be known that they would need servants for their time ‘near Marselha’ and the result was a steady stream of potential candidates for Estela to interview. She chose those who struck her as discreet as well as experienced and once the household was established in the villa Gilles had found for them, she sent two of her new men on urgent messages.

  One went to Johans de Villeneuve, with a message for Raoulf, letting him know that Dragonetz and she were safe, at the address given, and that they were all to stay where they were until further word from Estela. The other message went to Raavad, to let him know Dragonetz had returned and would indeed require the monies due to him. Inside this missive was another, for Malik, but this one was different from the others. ‘Come quickly,’ it said. ‘Dragonetz needs you. I need you. Estela’ She had no real hope that he would be able to reach them soon enough but if anyone could reach Malik, it would be Raavad. And Malik’s skills could make all the difference. Now that the time had come, Estela was scared.

  ‘To our new home and to the future!’ Dragonetz raised his goblet, his eyes bloodshot and wild, unbalancing a little as he stood to make the toast on their last evening at the inn.

  ‘To the future,’ echoed Gilles and Estela, standing, raising their glasses with his.

  ‘What the hell is up with that damned dog now?!’ No-one was stupid enough to answer Raoulf’s rhetorical outburst, except perhaps the dog, who increased the volume of his barking. It was as if the dog knew his mistress was home, close enough to reach in a day’s travel.

  Raoulf could understand all the barking earlier in the day when the messenger showed up. Nici was the sort of dog who would protect his family from a passing fly, his deep bark warning off any miscreant within the entire valley. Usually the dog would do his duty and then, satisfied he’d frightened the living daylights out of any threat in hearing, he’d drop to a satisfied sleeping-hearthrug position by the babies’ crib. Today, however, there had been the excitement over the messenger’s arrival, with the news that Estela and Dragonetz were both safe and near Marselha. ‘Thank God!’ Prima said when Raoulf told her the news, and she hugged both babies so tightly she made them cry. Nici had faced the approach to the house, barking at the stranger riding up long before Raoulf could see what all the noise was about, and then he’d quietened when Raoulf greeted the messenger. All as it should be.

  But then, this afternoon, Nici had started again, his hackles up and barking incessantly, which set the babies off screaming and drove Raoulf outside to chop wood. He could still hear Nici from the yard but at least he could vent his annoyance with the axe on the chopping-block. Although they were getting too heavy for her to carry both for long, Prima had hoisted the babies up, one on each hip, and come out to join him. She sat on a low stone wall, making the most of the burst of winter sunshine, the babies well wrapped and sheltered from the chill wind. Of course, Nici came out with them, circling anxiously, nipping the air behind Prima’s ankles then barking into the wind, until she gave up and went inside again.

  Raoulf could hear the barking and crying until he thought he’d explode. He gave up on the chopping, grabbed a rope and went into the room where all the noise was. Nici didn’t fight when the rope was placed round his neck and he allowed himself to be dragged outside and tied to a tree but his ears were back. He was not happy. As soon as Raoulf stomped indoors, the dog started off again, his great bark echoing for miles.

  ‘He’s never been like this before,’ Prima said, mildly, as she shooshed the babies and gave them turns at the breast to calm them before sleep.

  ‘Bloody dog,’ muttered Raoulf between gritted teeth, his head still pounding with regular woofbeats.

  ‘How long do you think before we take Musca to his mother?’

  ‘No idea.’ Raoulf was irritated with both Estela and Dragonetz. He’d been left as nursemaid while they adventured round the Holy Land and now he was to wait in the middle of nowhere until their highnesses decided he could be sent for. Left with a stupid beast that barked its head off, a couple of wailing babies and a woman who thought the world centred on their feeding habits! No, that was unfair, he chided himself, having taken full advantage of Prima’s generous body in a more adult fashion. She was a kind girl, and discreet.

  Raoulf had wondered what reception they would get from Johans de Villeneuve, when they arrived with a message from his wife Estela asking him to shelter them and ‘his’ baby Txamusca. However, everything had been extremely civilised. De Villeneuve had amazed them with his practical generosity and with his absence.

  Raoulf, Prima, the babies and, by default, Nici, were given a wing of the bastide which formed de Villeneuve’s home. Servants were sent to them to ascertain their needs and provide for them, food being sent to them in one of their chambers. The de Villeneuve estate made room for the little family and went on with its own, very separate life as if Raoulf, Prima and the babies didn’t exist. In fact, Nici was better integrated with the de Villeneuves than
Raoulf or Prima as the huge dog went on occasional scrounging and play expeditions with the bastide curs and hunting dogs.

  If Prima had not already had her suspicions, de Villeneuve’s behaviour would have made her wonder if he were indeed Txamusca’s father, and when Raoulf told her the truth, she accepted it without question, for which Raoulf was very grateful. He found it tricky enough negotiating the wolf-trap of secrets placed in his care by that precious duo. Dragonetz and Estela suffered some more choice epithets. He’d rather be fighting a host of Saracens than ‘protecting’ Dragonetz’ son against non-existent enemies in a chilly castle in December! He envied the soldiers who’d accompanied him from Dia, and who were now back home in Aquitaine, behaving as men. Recognising that Prima was going to take the brunt of his mood if he didn’t go out, Gilles told her he needed to exercise his horse and he headed for the stables, with their calming smell of straw and wax, horse dung and sweat.

  Raoulf was already galloping across the garrigue in his imagination and he didn’t notice that the barking had stopped. He was adjusting the girth on his saddle when he heard Prima scream. ‘Take the horse!’ he told a stable boy, then grabbed his sword from where he’d dumped it against the wall, and ran back across the courtyard.

  Sword drawn, he entered the room where he expected to find Prima and the babies. He could make no sense of what was going on. In a growling whirlwind of white fur and snapping teeth, the chewed rope swinging around him, Nici had gone crazy and was on his back legs, attacking Prima, whose scream was choking and who kept trying to hit at an arm locked round her throat.

  ‘Nici!’ screamed Raoulf, within an inch of running the mad dog through with his sword, and then his battle instinct told him what he was really seeing, showed him the man hidden behind Prima and Nici. The man’s other hand held a knife and he was stabbing at Nici but the dog would not let go of whatever human part he had his teeth locked into, growling and shaking his prey.

  Raoulf watched the writhing mass, waiting in despair for a clear sight of his target, then in a last burst of energy Prima flung her head backwards against her assailant and Nici pushed with all his force, never letting go with his teeth.

  The threesome toppled onto the edge of the hearth, where the logs Raoulf had cut earlier kept a merry dance against the winter’s cold. This time it wasn’t Prima who screamed, but a man, his voice unnaturally high with pain. Nici let go, Prima rolled away from the heat and Raoulf hauled the unconscious body away from the fire, beating down the attempt of a near flame to follow the flesh it had already singed.

  ‘My brave girl.’ Raoulf put his arms round Prima. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Good enough,’ she croaked, slowly getting to her feet, ashes and bits of torn gown scattered over face and body. ‘It wasn’t me he wanted.’ Safe in the crib, the babies wailed their complaint against a world that had woken them up yet again, and the sound was music to his ears.

  Then Raoulf went to the great dog, who’d heaved himself over so he could lie beside the crib. He was licking himself, so he was alive, thought Raoulf stupidly. ‘My good, brave dog,’ he murmured and Nici thumped his tail once. Then Raoulf saw the slashes where the knife had caught the dog and his stomach lurched. He had seen such wounds in battle. Most were cuts that might heal if they didn’t get infected but one was very deep.

  ‘Strip that gown off,’ Raoulf ordered Prima and never had she taken off her clothes for him with such alacrity. The gown was already in strips and Raoulf tied it round the dog’s middle, tight enough to slow the blood and close the worst wound a bit. It would stop him from dying today. Nici let Raoulf tend to him, looking at him with trusting brown eyes, then went back to cleaning his paws and licking his lips. Raoulf hoped it was Miquel’s blood in the dog’s mouth.

  The identity of the assailant was confirmed when Raoulf finally turned his attention to the man laid out on the floor, unconscious still but not dead. He smelled of burnt flesh and there were trickles of blood on his head, where he’d hit the hearth, and on his neck, from bite-marks. Raoulf would not kill an unarmed man, especially when that man was Estela’s brother, but neither would he spend time on the care of a child-murderer. Let the fates decide what would happen to Miquel.

  ‘Get fresh clothes on,’ he ordered Prima. ‘Throw everything you need for yourself and the babies into a box. We’re going to join Estela and Dragonetz whether they like it or not.’

  ‘What about Nici?’ she asked. ‘He saved our lives.’

  ‘He’s going with us. I’ll get a wagon and he can travel in that with you and the babies. With any luck he’ll last till he sees his mistress again one last time. I owe him that.’

  Estela still couldn’t believe that her message had borne such fruit. Was al-Hisba - Malik - really sitting there, cross-legged on the carpets in an ante-chamber of their new home? Dragonetz had insisted on carpets and cushions, opening crates himself until he found what he wanted amongst the various goods he’d bought in Acre. He was sitting in the same fashion as Malik, apparently comfortable like that, and the scowl on his face had nothing to do with lack of a stool.

  Estela sighed and shifted position again, trying to work out what a lady was to do with her skirts when sitting on the floor. She really must get furniture that suited her sense of propriety, into all the rooms, not just items that met the needs of Dragonetz’ odd, new habits. He really was angry with her for sending to Malik, angry with her for telling Malik about the poppy, angry with her for existing, it seemed.

  For days now they had been arguing. Now that the time had come to clear the poppy from his system, Dragonetz had changed his mind. He didn’t see the need, he said, telling her that as long as she kept to the correct dose, he felt fine. It was only when she got the dose wrong that he felt unwell. And if she couldn’t get the dose right, he was perfectly capable of dosing himself. ‘When you’re unconscious?’ she blazed at him. ‘You’ll look after yourself then too?’

  ‘That’s only happened twice!’ he fired back.

  ‘And will happen more and more. You know what Muganni told us.’

  ‘He is only a little boy.’

  ‘A little boy with the head of an old man. He has more knowledge of such things than any Christian doctor. And he kept you alive.’

  ‘And I’m grateful. I’m alive. I’m fine, so don’t worry and don’t fuss over me!’

  Never had Estela been so glad to see Malik. ‘Tell me again,’ she said, holding on to the little miracle, like a child to a favourite story. ‘You were with Raavad...’

  ‘I was with Raavad,’ he indulged her, in his slow accented Occitan.

  ‘No,’ she told him, ‘speak Arabic. I can understand you and speak it myself. Not well, but I can speak it.’

  He began again and she realised how different a man is when he speaks his mother-tongue. Now, she was able to hear his authority, his confidence in his own skills, as he told her about the medical care Raavad had needed for his family and so he had stayed longer in Narbonne than planned, passing on his knowledge to the Jewish doctor who’d observed him. And then he’d had Estela’s message, so he’d brought the deeds from Raavad for Dragonetz...’ The knight gave a curt nod to acknowledge the service. ‘And here we are.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re keen to rejoin your family,’ Dragonetz told him, ‘and however much a pleasure to see you again, we won’t hold you here. As you’ve seen, Estela has been worrying over nothing.’ She gasped at the rudeness of sending Malik away and at the presumption of the word ‘we’ but most of all she was afraid. She didn’t know how to get this stranger to do what he must do. She was cutting down on the poppy dose and Dragonetz grew daily more aggressive and unpredictable. Her eyes pleaded with Malik but she dared not speak.

  ‘I will not trouble you for long, my Lord,’ Malik said smoothly. ‘Perhaps my Lady would like to show me to my chamber?’ My lady certainly would, thought Estela, seeing the last chance for a very private conversation, and Dragonetz had one of his fits of indifference, showing
no further interest in either of them. At that moment a servant burst in, announcing a wagonful of people and one of them wounded. Estela and Malik were needed urgently.

  When Malik realised that the dagger-victim was a dog, he point-blank refused to treat the animal, nearly coming to blows with Raoulf.

  ‘Dogs are unclean,’ repeated Malik, not even looking at the creature in the wagon. Estela had hugged Prima and the babies, dripped tears of relief all over Musca and kissed him till she made him squirm, then sent them off to be fed and found a comfortable room, with drawers for makeshift cribs. She was now in the wagon with Nici, unwrapping the bloody rags, assessing the damage. A white feathered tail wearily banged the wooden floor of the wagon, in an attempt at greeting, as his mistress checked him over. Estela emerged from the open wagon-back, blood-flecked and grim.

  ‘Milos, get hot water and clean rags.’ The servant rushed off and Estela sent her maid to get her healing box from her coffer of clothes but she knew without looking how depleted and faded her herbs were. It had been a very long time since she had helped the midwife in Dia and although she had stocked up on oils and dried medicaments in the east, the fresh herbs had withered.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked and Raoulf told her, in spare, self-incriminating words. He had grown complacent, Miquel had attacked, and Nici had saved all their lives. Malik listened, impassive. ‘And now this ‘friend’ of ours won’t help him because he’s a dog! Nici didn’t stop and say ‘I won’t help them because they’re only men’!’

  ‘Malik?’ she turned to him, unwilling to plead, knowing him to be the sort of man who’d take badly to an attempt to play on his emotions. She spoke to him in his own language, choosing each word with care. ‘I can wash the blood off the surface of the wounds but one of them is deep and will not heal over of its own accord before Nici, my dog, has bled to death. I cannot seal this wound but I know you can, if you choose.’ She took a deep breath, sensing no change in her friend’s response. He would help her with Dragonetz, his attitude said, but a dog was untouchable.