by Jean Gill
Physica, Animals
Throughout the ride home, Estela pondered ways of sharing her plans with Dragonetz. She imagined his excitement on her behalf and, although she would not pressure him to accompany her, if he should wish to do so, surely it could be arranged. They could not be together as a family in public but they would no doubt find private moments. And should he prefer to stay at their villa, take more time to recover in peace, she would be back with him in only a few weeks with stories to tell. Musca and his nurse Prima could travel with Estela or stay with Dragonetz, whatever the latter preferred.
Estela’s mind was skittering around plans and packing as she dismounted and it took several moments before she realised that there was an unusual amount of bustling activity around the villa. Her palfrey was taken away by one of the new stablehands as the boys she knew best were all occupied in saddling up several horses, including Dragonetz’ beautiful destrier, Sadeek. Nici was running in agitated circles, telling his disapproval in baritone and occasionally stopping to chase his tail. He bounded up to Estela and gave her a significant stare and was rewarded with an absent-minded caress. He then continued trying to discipline his rebellious tail.
Estela’s finely plucked eyebrows met in exactly the expression she’d been warned against by her beauty advisers at the baths. ‘The wrinkles will stay,’ warned Dana. ‘The worst kind of wrinkles,’ she’d emphasised, ‘frown lines.’ Dana would have shrieked at Estela’s facial damage as she tried to make sense of servants rushing out of the villa with packed saddlebags and wineskins.
When Dragonetz himself appeared, hurling instructions at the scurrying boys, his demeanour would have excited only approval from those same custodians of beauty. He glowed with energy and no trace of a frown line marred the newly shaven skin around his mobile mouth, which twitched into his lop-sided smile as he noticed Estela’s return. He was carrying Musca in his arms and swinging the baby into chuckles as he walked.
‘My Lady.’ He was beside her in three strides, his mouth to her hand, shredding her thoughts to tatters. If she tried to speak at all she knew it would emerge as babble less coherent than Musca’s. She’d been away less than a day. What had happened in her absence? She would never be able to read the black depths of his eyes but now they gleamed like rare pearls and she waited to hear the cause.
‘Estela,’ he began, leading her away from all fussing servants to a quiet corner of their garden, but not far enough to find a seat. ‘I am called away. I would have liked more time for leave-taking but I must be in Arle this night to assess the Baux’s primary stronghold of Trinquetaille. Then we leave for Les Baux. A messenger called today from Lady Stéphania des Baux -’
Flushing, Estela interrupted and said, ‘I was going to tell you as soon as I came home -’
Dragonetz hardly seemed to hear her and clasped her hands to gently hush her so he could explain. ‘Lady Stéphania wants me at Les Baux for the visit of the Comte de Barcelone, Ramon Berenguer.’
‘Who is married to Petronilla of Aragon,’ murmured Estela like a well-schooled child.
‘The Lady wants me to take her part should the visit turn sour. I don’t have to tell you that since Stéphania and her husband tried to claim Provence by force, Barcelone has tightened his grip over the region and this truce is built on Raymond des Baux’s dead body. Stéphania isn’t going to forget that she let her husband go to Barcelone in good faith and all she gained was widowhood and humiliation.’
Estela was no child. ‘The truce won’t last. And Stéphania is really asking you to be a weapon in her war, whoever starts it.’
‘To lead her forces, for the sake of her fatherless boys and for Provence. For her inheritance rights.’ Dragonetz nodded and gazed at her steadily.
Her mind raced, her own news forgotten. ‘But Barcelone claims right to Provence and has held it against all the local risings. The visit is supposed to be the start of the new amity, underwriting the truce.’
‘Or a show of force by Barcelone, which could be an opportunity for Stéphania to strike first.’
‘Not when he’s a guest! And bringing his wife with him.’
‘He will have more than his wife with him,’ teased Dragonetz. ‘Malik is among Barcelone’s cohort and word from him has shown me more of the game. You won’t guess.’
But Estela did. She knew him too well to miss the exuberance that could mean only one thing, especially after months of inactivity. ‘Barcelone has also invited you to join him,’ she breathed. ‘No, Dragonetz, not again. You’ve played this double game before and it nearly cost your life.’
His smile turned her heart as it had always done. ‘So I’ve had practice. And you see why I must leave you.’ She said nothing so as not to have the lie on her conscience along with much else. His voice had dropped its lightness. ‘This game of war has already cost the people of Provence dearly but that will be nothing to what will happen if the truce breaks. There will be blood between neighbours, between father and son, and no end in sight to the feuding.’
He kissed Musca on the top of his feathery hair. ‘I will only know how to play if I see the board. And,’ his tone teased her again, ‘I shall be back with you in a moon, having danced, sung and put on weight.’ He embraced her, the baby between them. ‘I must go or it will be too hard to leave at all. And you will be safe here. I’m leaving Raoulf and of course you have Gilles too, as well as the new men.’ His attention had already wandered, his eyes checking men and horses but he had not forgotten courtesy. ‘Any news from the baths?’
‘Just women’s matters,’ she replied.
Afterwards she would wonder what she could have said, knowing the dangers he was going into, but nothing was the best she could offer and hope that her parting kiss spoke for her. She took Musca from his father and stood, watching the final arrangements to leave.
In a flurry of dust, the party left, without one backward glance. Estela brushed the tears from her cheeks and sent for Raoulf to tell him that they were going to Les Baux the next day, directly, not via Arle. She would take him and Gilles, plus a small party of men-at-arms; the nurse Prima and the baby; and Nici, the dog. What Raoulf said was later repeated by Gilles in even stronger language but the two men had known their lady long enough to accept the inevitable and prepare for the journey. While the men readied weapons and chainmail, Estela shook the dried lavender out of her best gowns. The troubairitz, Estela de Matin, had accepted the respectful invitation of Lady Stéphania des Baux, known in her homeland as Etiennette.
After two days in the capital of Provence, Dragonetz was confident that he could defend Arle if need be - or of course take it. The ancient city and sea-port was riven by the mouth of the great river Ròse, which itself was split north of the city into the lesser and greater Ròse. On the left bank was the heart of the city, with new quarters to the north, the ancient stone arena in the middle and the Vieux Bourg to the south, where most of the business was conducted.
On the river itself was the Méjan and north of the commercial city was the Château de Porteldosa, a disused stronghold belonging to the Baux family, which served mostly as a vantage point to observe the comings and goings of the ferry, to which they owned toll rights. The Baux ferry was the only way of crossing the river, although remnants of towers to the north on both banks testified to an earlier bridge, rumoured to be a bridge of boats, a pontoon, dipping and recovering in the dangerous floods of the great river in spate.
Not even the Porcelet family had risked trying to replace the old bridge even though there were two rates for the ferry crossing; extortionate and Porcelet price - higher again. The rivalry between the Pons family, now known as des Baux, and the Porcelets, was as old as their presence in Arle and no-one knew how far back that went. They might form an alliance during crusades but in-between was a different story. The many Porcelet businesses in the Vieux Bourg made it their pleasure, not just their work, to recoup in trade from the Baux family what they lost on ferry crossings.
Unwel
come in the city, the Baux made their own presence felt on the right bank of the river, high up in their isolated Château de Trinquetaille. The good citizens of the Vieux Bourg could see the château at night, lit up in an extravagance of torches and fires, boasting of banquets and noble guests, guarded by its wild woods and the ferry access to the Isle aux Sables, the Isle in the Sands.
The Baux held this seigneurie by gift of the Archbishop of Arle sixty years earlier and it had become the seat of their power. They had established the city’s Consulate, its prisons and its lawcourts in Trinquetaille, thereby enriching their coffers through the ferry service as well as the penances and dues that resulted from the lawsuits.
All this, Dragonetz learned from the new lord of Les Baux, Hugues, still mourning the sudden death of his father. Hugues shared his rule with his mother, Etiennette, but Dragonetz quickly revised his opinion that this must be irksome. A young man who would have been serious even without the burdens of bereavement, leadership and an uneasy truce with his overlord, Hugues measured his words in a way that made him seem dull of thought. Dragonetz soon found that behind the slow words lay a deep understanding of Hugues’ terrain and his people.
‘I had no idea that Trinquetaille was so important,’ confessed Dragonetz. ‘Yet your title comes from Les Baux?’
‘Les Baux is prettier,’ was the reply, ‘and my Lady Mother makes it sparkle in the eyes of the world, with her court and company.’ When she is not making war against Barcelone hung in the air. ‘It pleases me mightily that Trinquetaille did not catch your attention. Long may it escape the attention of others.’ Barcelone thought Dragonetz. And then said it aloud.
‘Should the Comte de Barcelone turn his eyes this way…’
‘He would remember that we were instructed,’ the word rang bitter, ‘to hand over Trinquetaille to Barcelone as part of the truce.’ The truce that was signed by Etiennette and all four sons, in this very castle.
‘And your intentions are?’
‘My intentions are intentions. Not actions. I signed the truce.’ The subject was closed. Dragonetz imagined the Consulate: Hugues expressing his intentions to hand over Trinquetaille to Barcelone, everyone knowing that this was not going to happen and no-one able to prove it without years going by, years that changed everything. This man’s slowness was indeed going to be interesting to observe, Dragonetz told an imaginary Estela and felt the usual pang at her absence.
A pigeon, he noted mentally; I must send her a pigeon. Then he returned to his analysis of the Méjan, where the Jewish quarter was located, and where the ships brought goods, from wool to wood, down the river from Lion and the north, where the great river was named Rhône.
In all quarters of the left bank, Dragonetz found the noble name of Porcelet on men’s lips and not just praised for modern trading acumen. One old man told him with pride that in treaties during the crusades the Moors had asked as guarantees ‘hostages or the word of a Porcelet.’ The Pons family of Les Baux might hold the châteaux and the title of Provence but the Porcelets held the city. And they knew it.
Outside the house of Porcelet in the Vieux Bourg hung a newly painted shield, gold background with farmyard pig in sand, and the device Genus Deorum, deinde gens Porcella, ‘First the Gods, then the Porcelet family.’ It became clear to Dragonetz that, together, the Pons and Porcelet families could unite the lords of Provence against Barcelone’s claim as Comte. Divided, Pons and Porcelet would split Provence between them like the great river split the city.
Prone to flooding throughout the year, the Ròse was rising in early June to its summer high water levels. Livestock, which had grazed the brotteaux, the flood plains, in winter, had been moved to safer pastures. Access to Arle was across this river by the Baux ferry; or on the river, which was a busy trade route but a clumsy and expensive option for an attacking force; from eastern Provence, which was governed by the Baux in rebellious fief to Barcelone; or by sea. It was by sea that Barcelone would make the much-heralded visit to his not-so-loyal lords of Provence, either via Marselha or Arle and then inland to Les Baux.
After hearing all the reports from his men, garnered in taverns and shops, whore-houses and docks, Dragonetz put his final questions to Hugues in private. He did not go easy.
‘Your parents roused Provence against their overlord. Barcelone has the right to exact punishment from traitors, to recall your châteaux, your lands and bestow them elsewhere. He has been generous in giving a truce, in leaving you with Les Baux, in giving you time to comply with the terms you agreed and give up Trinquetaille. He is visiting Les Baux as a guest. Why should I take your part? Why should I create a threat to Barcelone by standing at your side?’
‘My mother is rightful heir to Provence, not Barcelone! But you know all this already.’
‘I know that some believe your mother was wronged.’
‘My mother was wronged! More than once! My grandfather had no right to leave Provence to one sister and cut my mother out, after my parents had married and there was no need to dangle a dowry. My grandfather caught his Barcelone fish well enough but now we have this outsider over us. When my aunt Dolca died, Provence should have reverted to my mother, not ended up in the hands of some Barcelone nephew!’
Dragonetz did not point out that the Barcelone nephew had taken the inheritance and his responsibility in good faith, and could hardly be blamed for how it came to him. Fairness and inheritance law would never be friends. ‘But you signed the truce,’ he repeated, stubbornly.
‘I was too young and too shocked from my father’s death to know what I was doing. You speak of the truce being generous - you haven’t read it! Complete submission by serment, giving Barcelone ‘all dues from land or water, sweet or salt, on the honour of Hugues who will stand hostage should the truce be broken.’ That’s the generosity given to a family who dares to challenge the great Ramon Berenguer of Barcelone!’
Dragonetz asked, ‘The Porecelet family… where do they stand?’ If he’d hoped to change to a less emotional subject, he could not have chosen worse. Hugues’ phlegmatic temperament was roused to red-faced fury. ‘Anywhere that shifts to suit them! They are as mean of spirit as of purse, as liable to stab a man in the back as wish him Good-day to his face; sneaking, conniving, church-loving hypocrites all of them. How they duck their dues for the ferry I don’t yet know but I shall find out and then we’ll see how they like metal that’s not small coinage and is rammed up their…’
‘They do not support your mother’s claim?’ Dragonetz clarified.
‘They do not! They switch allegiance with the wind so who knows what side they will take from one fray to the next but they spout forth about being loyal men to Barcelone and they worship not God but rather his Archbishop in Arle!’
‘Ferry dues not paid, you said?’
‘I can’t prove it but you know how it is when a man goads you and lets you know he has the better of you, without giving anything before witnesses that would stand in law. So it is with the Porcelets.
In all our dealings, someone in that infernal family will drop hints such as ‘You should raise the ferry tolls’ along with a knowing smile, or ‘We do appreciate the service you offer across the river’ and I know the payments do not tally with the number of times they must have crossed. But I can prove nothing! They have covered their tracks by making some payments.’
For the first time in months, Dragonetz felt a pleasurable surge of pure unleashed devilment. Estela would have recognized his smile with dread of what might follow but Hugues was as yet uninitiated. That would soon change.
‘I have an idea as to how we might remind the Porcelet family of their civil duties,’ was all Dragonetz said.
Hugues brightened. ‘Tell me,’ he said, in his innocence.
‘I need red dye…’ mused Dragonetz
‘Madder? From the dyeworks?’ Hugues’ whole face wrinkled in concentration.
‘No, henna powder will be perfect, and I have some in the coffer of gifts for your Lady Moth
er. Can you wield an oar and swim? Apart from spying, lying and wearing filthy clothes, our plan almost certainly requires getting wet. First, your ferryman has to tell us the day and time of the Porcelets’ next illegal crossing.’
‘The ferryman?’ Hugues’ eyebrows met in straight lines.
‘It has to be him. Bribed or bullied. So now we convince him that we are capable of greater rewards and more lethal - and immediate - punishments, than anything the Porcelet family can even imagine. Once we know all we need, I fancy the ferryman will take ill suddenly and be replaced by his nephew.’
‘He can take ill permanently! A man who can be bought back and forwards is no man of mine.’
‘Agreed. But if the man’s family was threatened…’
‘He should have come to me.’
‘Did he know that?’ prodded Dragonetz gently.
The silence spoke. Then, ‘Maybe not,’ acknowledged Hugues. ‘I have spent little time of late in contact with vassals such as he.’
‘Then judge him when you hear him. Gratitude for mercy can bind a man close, if he trusts in your protection. Or you’ll see the greed in his eyes and know him for a lost cause.’ Dragonetz could see his words sinking in.
Although Hugues was the older by a few years, he was new to leadership and his experience was limited to Provence. There was much Dragonetz could teach him and it seemed the ground was fertile as the Ròse delta. Binding a man to you, then keeping him close, was part of a leader’s armoury.
Briefly, Dragonetz wondered whether the lesson to the Porcelets would push them in the wrong direction. Then he decided that if it did, the Porcelets were never winnable in the first place. And the benefits included more mischief than he’d made in an age. ‘Now, there are a few more things you need to know about the plan…’
