Plaint for Provence

by Jean Gill

  ‘Why, be nice to our friend, if he’s awake. And let him sleep well if he’s asleep. Tomorrow morning early, you shall be up and out, on the road to Lord Dragonetz with the message we were given.’

  ‘I thought you were going to Lord Dragonetz?’

  ‘I changed my mind.’ The exact moment when Geral changed his mind coincided with Simon describing the Lord’s fighting ability and Geral realised his capacity to carve chunks out of the messenger if he didn’t like the message. Much safer this way for a man who wanted to spend his last years sitting by the fire. However, what he said to Bertran was, ‘The Lord is sure to say yes to the invitation whereas the Lady could be trickier.’ Geral checked that the boy had memorised the message correctly and that he knew which road to take and how to recognise the villa. Bertran took a torch from the bracket, casting flickering shadows up the rickety steps. Then the two of them followed the landlord’s directions to their room, where Simon was already snorting like a glutted boar, in a drunken sleep.

  Geral lay awake for some time, sorting the information of the day into vital, useful and forgettable. In the first category was the direction to the bath-house at Ais en Provence, where he would find a certain Estela de Matin, a notable troubairitz, who had sung in Jerusalem for its Queen. Geral’s Lady wanted to add Estela to the gems decorating her court. Geral’s Lady had been crystal clear that Estela had to be shown the respect merited by her talent and to be given the invitation when she was alone, not when she was in her dwelling, a villa not far from Marselha, owned by a certain Lord Dragonetz, himself no mean troubadour. It was essential courtesy to pretend that no-one knew Estela and Dragonetz to be lovers.

  To further complicate Geral’s life, he, or rather Bertran, carried another invitation, for this same Lord Dragonetz and it was not his singing that was desperately sought. It was those same skills that made him invaluable to the Duchesse d’Aquitaine which had attracted the attention of Geral’s Lady. The forthcoming visit of the Comte de Barcelone was likely to explode the fragile truce between the overlord of Provence and the rebel lords of Les Baux, and this Dragonetz could decide the outcome. Or so thought Geral’s Lady, whose proper title was Lady Stéphania des Baux, ruler of the rocky stronghold since her husband had died in Barcelone two years ago, in dubious circumstances. More commonly known in her homeland as Etiennette, she was heir to Provence in the eyes of all those who had already fought for her against Barcelone and who would do so again if she asked it of them. Lady Etiennette wanted Dragonetz in Les Baux before Barcelone appeared as her ‘guest’ and she wanted Estela there for entertainment. It did not do to disappoint the Lady Etiennette. Geral thought of the high dungeons, over the sheer cliffs, and he shivered. Aliénor could rot in hell - or England. They weren’t in Provence and he was.

  When Simon woke the next day, a little heavy-headed, he was not too surprised to find his companions gone. What did surprise him, then rendered him furious at his own gullibility, was finding that the door was bolted on the outside. No amount of kicking would budge it. Assessing the room rather differently from the night before, Simon’s spirits sank further. The door was solid and the window tiny. He yelled at the closed door, adding some kicks for good measure, merely to vent his frustration, but the sound of the landlord’s voice was an unexpected reward.

  Simon’s hopes were raised for the seconds it took the landlord to explain how well he was being paid to keep Simon confined and that no, the offer wasn’t negotiable. A deal was a deal. However, anything Simon would like brought to the room was possible, at an appropriate price. Simon noted sourly that his purse was untouched, so whatever the game, it was not about robbery. And he was unharmed. What a fool he’d been.

  However, the more he thought about it, the more he realised how lucky he was, if the worst of it was that he couldn’t deliver a message he hadn’t wanted to take in the first place. He would have to face Aliénor’s wrath and defeat by King Louis’ forces as a consequence but only if the landlord released him before the coming battle. He brightened considerably at the thought and ordered bread, honeyed water and a girl. It was early in the morning for satisfying all his appetites but he had time on his hands, so why not.

  By the time Simon was tucking into his casse-croute, Bertran had reached a certain villa on the outskirts of Marselha, and Geral had a watchful eye on the new establishment for taking thermal waters, in Ais en Provence.

  Chapter 2

  In order that a woman might become very soft and smooth and without hairs from her head down, first of all let her go to the baths, and if she is not accustomed to do so, let there be made for her a steambath in this manner. Take burning hot tiles and stones and with these placed in the steambath, let the woman sit in it… And when she has well sweated, let her enter hot water and wash herself very well, and thus let her exit from the bath and wipe herself off well with a linen cloth.

  The Trotula, On Women’s Cosmetics

  Estela had well sweated. While the minerals in the water were replenishing her essence, she let her thoughts drift with the steam. Drifting, like she’d done for months, cocooned in winter. Drifting together, she and Dragonetz, with nothing more important to do than play with baby Musca, and no-one more important than each other. Time to heal and to be together after the dangers and damage of the Holy Land. Drifting, in a tacit ‘Not yet’ to the world that could manage without them, would have to manage without them.

  Most noble families had too many responsibilities to waste time on a child, spoiling the work of a good nurse - and Prima was a good nurse - but they’d been able to watch Musca take his first steps. They’d heard his babble create one clear word, ‘Icky’, close enough to the dog’s name to be recognized as such, even by Nici himself. Most of the time, Estela forgot that they would never be a real family.

  In their private haven, it didn’t matter that Estela was not married to Dragonetz or that their son was officially the offspring of Johans de Villeneuve, Estela’s husband, who in reality had never bedded her. The lie made Musca legitimate, which mattered very much in the world outside and when Estela was honest with herself, she knew it mattered deeply to her too. As did his true paternity.

  Dragonetz himself was free to marry whomsoever he chose, within the constraints of approval by his liege lord and his parents, and in the best interests of his future comté of Ruffec.

  Estela saw no solution to a problem that was never mentioned between them but that she never forgot. This was not the time to burden her lover with such questions but she must think of what was best for him, when the time came, as it surely would. Decisions could not be postponed forever and the world would make that clear to the heir to Ruffec. Not yet though. She and Dragonetz were not ready yet.

  She knew that his recovery was but surface-deep. He was not ready for a fraction of what would be asked of him in the world. Just last month, he’d suffered so much tooth pain that Estela had offered to rub the poppy concoction on his gum. His brief transformation with shaking greed as he fought to say no, had taught them both a lesson. The poppy’s hold was controlled by abstinence but not defeated. Would he ever be free from this demon, Estela wondered. She’d stayed away from home while their man Raoulf tied string to the tooth and drew it with the slam of a stout oaken door. Drunk, his white face swollen on one side, Dragonetz slept alone till he recovered. No-one repeated the suggestion that he take the poppy.

  Time, Estela thought. Time and love would see them through such moments. Even as the thought wisped towards the domed ceiling, it wavered, falling short of the repeat pattern of blue that curled to infinity. For all her love, and her conviction that Dragonetz needed more time to heal, she herself was restless. Something in the air had changed. Since Mary’s Day, the end to winter, when the peasants and serfs had red faces from ‘gathering flowers’ in couples, eager for the old dances, the restlessness had been palpable. Estela watched the sideways glances between man and maid, and was wilder than ever with her knight, in word and deed, but she ached for so
mething more. Another baby? No, she thought not.

  Even their music-making left her dissatisfied. While Dragonetz patiently scored the unearthly music remembered from his opium dreams, Estela scribbled fragments of lyrics and melodies that never became whole. She sang her lover’s work and calloused her lute fingers to match his but she had lost her own creative spark. Who was she? What was she? Lover. Mother. Mistress. Troubaritz who couldn’t write songs any more. Musician with no audience, she who’d sung and played her own compositions for queens and courtiers. The wall around their perfect rose garden did indeed keep the world outside and something was missing for Estela. Something that responded to the books Malik sent her, priceless works of modern medicine, in Arabic and Latin.

  A drop of sweat trickled salt into her mouth, reminded her that she was not here to fix a wandering womb or eradicate pubic lice with steam inhalation of lavender. Nor was she here to counteract a cold temperament, although exorcising a few demons wouldn’t go amiss and she intended to talk of all these matters with Dana. No, she was here to become beautiful, which meant enduring a little pain in a good cause. If she didn’t concentrate, she would be in a lot of pain instead.

  She sighed. Being careful not to rub the skin, or it would burn and be as attractive as a plucked chicken, she pulled at a few hairs to see if they’d loosened. The decoction of mastic, frankincense, cinnamon, nutmeg and clove had done its very expensive work and she continued with the depilation. The sequel today would be gentle massage with oil rather than the usual hammam cleansing that was a specialty of the baths.

  Last time she’d visited, Estela had been scrubbed with a rag sponge until her skin frothed with grey scum. That same skin would glow pink when rinsed and then shine gold when oiled. No bath or treatment would ever give Estela the white skin she craved, instead of the golden one inherited from her mother, but Dana came from a land where golden and dark were normal. Not for the first time, Estela reflected on the way fate had brought this skilled Moorish woman into her life.

  What if Dragonetz had not brought a rose-grower from Damascus to Marselha? Then his wife would still be in Damascus and her Turkish cousins would not have asked the rose-grower for his patronage when opening the Ais baths for public use. The rose-grower would not have asked his wealthy patron to support the venture. Dragonetz. Who had embraced the project with all the enthusiasm of a man who liked the thought of his lover’s body hairless and polished. Somehow all Estela’s thoughts came back to Dragonetz. Where he was, things happened. Even behind a wall.

  ‘You can tell Dana I’m ready,’ Estela told the black-haired girl, who was clothed in only her shift as she awaited orders, as far from the hot baths as she could manage while still being in hearing of the clients. Tuesday was designated women only and Estela had been told that it was always quieter than the men’s days. Ladies were protective of their reputations, which many felt might suffer if they attended the baths. Others were worried about the effect of the water itself. Estela enjoyed the artistic freedom her talent as a troubadour gave her and was so used to being a married woman that she had almost forgotten the constraints on maidens.

  Feigning polite blindness and invisibility, three other women were taking the waters in silence, spaced out like compass points, Estela thought, with a sudden memory of the ship to the Holy Land and adventures past. She stifled another sigh, which soughed into the muffling steam. Occasionally there would be a splash and gloop of water as a woman moved to a higher level of stone and hotter steam, or back down into the water. In between times, all was closed eyes, calm and heat.

  Estela looped her hair up in her hands. She had told Dana that she was willing to try a concoction of Gaul blacking with the ashes of oak apples to add gloss and deepen the black but definitely not the essence of boiled lizard strongly recommended in her latest reading. The price of beauty could be too high. Estela’s eyes closed again.

  ‘My Lady?’ Dana interrupted her thoughts and motioned Estela respectfully to the central stone platform, used for the scrubbing and pummelling that followed the purge of sweat. Purgatory, Estela had often thought, as she submitted to being rubbed with what felt like a hedgehog complete with biting fleas, then torture and hellfires. Led by the handmaid, a group of three friends giggled their way to the stone block vacated by Estela. They dropped their white linen towels and stepped down to sit in the water, chattering like starlings, voices echoing on stone and disappearing into vapour.

  How could so much dirt be skimmed from one body? Estela wondered as she did every time she came and then she lay obediently prone on her towel as strong brown hands kneaded her body. Every time she was told ‘Relax,’ her body tensed instinctively in anticipation of the next assault. Dana was the gentler of the two masseurs, Estela reminded her apprehensive muscles, and at least the use of the depilatory spared her the usual scouring. Lavender, she approved, relaxing in the scented oil as Dana probed and smoothed.

  ‘Have you made progress with the medicinal bath?’ Estela asked through a corner of her squashed mouth.

  ‘Yes my Lady, thanks to your generosity. We have stored some of the herbs we need and the next shipment from Damascus should furnish the rest of our requirements. The private bath is complete and will be kept for medicinal purpose.’ A particularly heavy fist rolled into her waist kept Estela quiet for a moment. ‘I like your idea. Each time a lady takes the waters, we will suggest one of our treatments for hair or skin. Then when we are applying the clay or rub, we can talk about women’s health matters.’

  Breathing a little heavily, Estela said, ‘Next will be to give the cure and use the new steam bath. You need to progress slowly though, with care to the ladies’ reputation.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Dana said. ‘Ladies should keep their mystery, and bodily matters must enhance the joy of the bedchamber.’

  ‘According to the Trotula, the joy of the bedchamber is responsible for many unpleasant bodily matters and we must do our best to restore the ladies’ health,’ was Estela’s dry response.

  ‘My Lady has found a source of new learning on the subject?’

  ‘Several! The new works from Salerno have made me think we could heal many women’s diseases by proper regulation of their monthly flowers.’

  ‘Such was the teaching of Ibn-al-Jazzar,’ agreed Dana.

  ‘And Galen before him. But the new work from Trota gives the precise recipes for us to concoct and how to apply them.’

  ‘And you think he is to be trusted ?’

  ‘She,’ corrected Estela, considering her response. Did she trust Trota’s work? ‘Yes,’ she concluded. It is based on so much we already know and it smacks of practice as well as theory. When you read it, you can tell that Trota is a working physician. And working in Salerno.’ The centre of medical learning. What must it be like to be a doctor in Salerno! ‘Did you get the perforated chair?’

  ‘Yes, and I think with a curtain between, we could treat two women at the same time, one by steam bath and one through the chair.’

  Estela reflected. ‘Sailcloth for the curtain. And you’d have to have compatible treatments for the steam from one not to contaminate the other.’

  ‘This can be done.’

  Dana’s knowledge of Arab cosmetics and the Turkish hammam had made her an apt subject for progression into medicinal treatments, and there ensued a pleasant discussion on which sweet-smelling oils would best attract a high-roving womb back to its proper place through the perforated chair and which foul scents to administer by nose at the same time. Estela left the baths glowing in mind as well as body.

  The quarter was open and safe in daylight and she’d sent for her manservant, who was no doubt on his way from a game of dice in some tavern, so Estela was merely surprised at being approached by a stranger, not afraid. From habit, she reached for the knife in her undershift, just in case.

  The man was lean and rangy, dusty with travel but not ill-kempt. The extended toes on his leather boots gave a nod towards fashion but otherwise his clothing w
as serviceable and anonymous, tabard and hose of country colours, all faded browns. His smile was black on one side with missing teeth, making Estela wonder briefly how Dragonetz’ lop-sided smile would fare in the future. Shrewd brown eyes dipped as the man made a presentable bow and addressed her.

  ‘My Lady, I bear a message for Estela de Matin.’ The use of her troubadour name prickled the hairs on Estela’s neck with anticipation. Some adventure was on its way. The Pathfinder rune brooch buckling her gown nudged her, a reminder of roads crossing and choices. How was it that just when she was excited about the healing project with Dana, something else should come her way? Why was her heart beating faster at the prospect before she even knew what it was?

  ‘Then you may speak it,’ she said, ‘for you have found her.’ Somehow she knew that she was assenting to more than her name.

  ‘I am Geral, envoy to Lady Stéphania des Baux, whose domain is the highest in Provence and no less in renown amongst troubadours. It grieves my Liege that of all the songbirds to have graced Les Baux, one has not yet alighted on this perch. That a troubairitz who has sung for queens should be so near and still unheard is a fault she seeks to remedy. Lady Stéphania begs Lady Estela de Matin to grace the court of Les Baux, to sing for the Comte de Barcelone and his dear wife, Petronilla of Aragon, during their forthcoming visit.’

  ‘I accept,’ replied Estela. Then she thought about it and wondered what Dragonetz might say. A little pang of guilt hid quickly behind the stronger thought, to sing before another queen.

  And thus did Estela invite the world into the walled garden.

  Chapter 3

  The dog (canis) sometimes has a foreboding of happy or sad events to come in the future or already present. In accordance with its understanding, it sends out its voice, revealing this. When the future events are happy, it is happy, and wags its tail; when they are sad, it is sad and howls.