by Jean Gill
She paid his debts from her flocks and allowed her Lord to enjoy his habits without either of them suffering from the consequences.’
There was the silence then sigh of satisfaction that follows a good ending to a story.
‘Would that I had such a wife.’
‘I’d rather have a sword like my Lord’s.’
‘Or both. A good wife and a sword like my Lord’s.’
Dragonetz let them indulge in good-natured banter and the word ‘wife’ merely skimmed the surface of his thoughts, reminding him of the widow’s proposal. He had promised his sword to protect widows and orphans but his own person was not available.
He’d evaded offers of marriage before and Les Baux held less attraction than Tripoli or Antioch, either of which could have been his if he’d accepted a widow’s hand. Etiennette’s marriage plans for him added a complication to the balance in Provence but nothing important. The place of a wife in his life was taken and he smiled at how good it felt, to trust and be trusted. Then his attention returned to what was most important for Provence; the training of these men.
Hugues was looking to him for the next instruction. ‘Now with spears,’ Dragonetz called to the two men taking their turn in the manège. Their squires ran out to them and equipped each with a spear. ‘Show me the first position.’ The men continued wheeling around the ring in the same direction but giving each other enough space to avoid harm. ‘Jax - arm out further. That’s it. Feel the point of balance. Remember you’re going to strike under the arm.’
Dragonetz checked the grip of each knight, right arm extended, carrying the spear. ‘Second position,’ he shouted and the knights switched to over-arm.
‘Third!’ The arms went back, ready to use the spears as projectiles. ‘Good. Take the spears to the far end and practice one at a time with the target. From a stand then moving left, then moving right. Increase the difficulty as you get better. Next two - in the manège.’
Dragonetz nodded to Hugues, knowing that the younger man was eager to take over again, now he knew the drill. Dragonetz headed off to the weaponry. He had an idea for improving the design of their lances.
Chapter 10
Agate (achates) is born from certain sand of water which extends from the east to the south… every night before a person goes to bed, he should carry a clearly visible agate through the length and then the width of the house, in the pattern of a cross. Thieves are then less able to exercise their wills and so profit less in thievery.
Physica, Stones
What Dragonetz had not taken into account was that, unlike the widows of Tripoli and Antioch, the Lady des Baux was frequently within touching distance and determined to have her way. However irritated he might be at leaving the training-grounds, Dragonetz had no choice but to wait on Etiennette when summoned.
He couldn’t help but notice the overwhelming scent of violets, laced with sweat, which emanated from the matriarch. She wore her full array of jewels, in her snood as well as sewn into her bodice, her stately figure stiff in the crusted fabric, neither her physique nor her attire suited to the sweltering heat. Her lips rouged, her eyes bright with belladonna, Etiennette had made every effort to remind Dragonetz of the woman she was and the girl she had been.
She was too shrewd to remind him of her proposal in words but it lay in the air, cloying as her perfume, any time they were alone together.
‘Have you seen these?’ she asked him, passing a gold coin to him, with a cross stamped on it. ‘The Arabic is nonsense! Meant to impress like the long title - and meaning nothing. Like a monkey imitating its owners and understanding nothing.’
Dragonetz waited, wondering where this tirade against the coin of Barcelone was leading.
‘You’re an Aquitaine man.’ Nodding seemed safe. ‘And you have your own coin there.’
A nod. ‘With the face of Charles the Bald,’ Dragonetz risked adding.
‘And the Tours currency is strong, with the monasteries controlling it.’
Now Dragonetz was really interested. ‘You are better informed than I, my Lady.’
‘My face is better than Charles the Bald’s,’ Etiennette stated.
‘I -’ began Dragonetz but she cut off the expected compliment before he got any further .
‘And so is my son’s. I want Les Baux coins. We must move with the times and, everywhere you look, trade is conducted with coins these days, even at market. I wish we could go back to honourable barter - you can’t forge sacks of flour! - but the river does not flow upstream. I’ve even had to accept these confounded new bankers’ notes, with promises to pay, guaranteed by the Knights Templar. Thank the Lord, we are still untainted by moneylending, apart from those heathen Jews, of course.’ Dragonetz saw no need to explain how helpful he’d found a loan from a Jew. ‘We have authority for a mint in Arle and I want Provence to have its own currency, with its own sovereign pictured. And I want you to make it happen.’
‘I have no experience with metals and mints. And who will train the men?’ Dragonetz demurred. So, this is war against Barcelone with money as a weapon and the winner’s vanity tickled. If he’d read Barcelone correctly, neither would worry the Comte. In which case, there was no reason why Etiennette shouldn’t win her money war. Maybe it would prevent casualties in a real one. However, it was unlikely that the council of Arle would accept a mint in their city without demur.
‘You don’t have to be there all the time, just set it up,’ Etiennette told him airily. ‘And there is a man can tell you all you need to know about making money.’
‘The authority to set up a mint comes from…?’
‘The Holy Roman Emperor, Conrad,’ confirmed Etiennette. ‘When he confirmed our rights in Arle and ‘our own territories’, he also documented permission for us to set up a mint.’
Dragonetz had served alongside Conrad during the crusade and had little respect for him or his ill-disciplined Germanic troops. His attitude to his vassals Les Baux and Barcelone during their war had been to make ambiguous statements supporting both sides and to let them get on with it. However, he hadn’t declared against Les Baux and it seemed that he had given documented permission for a mint at Arle.
Anything that distracted Etiennette from her dual aims of war and seduction was worth pursuing. And he couldn’t deny that he was curious. He was always fascinated by the manufacturing process and even though his paper mill had come to naught, what he’d learned in engineering and chemicals could be applied to new projects.
‘Who is the man I should speak to?’
‘The gaoler will tell you,’ Etiennette shrugged her satin shoulders, dismissing the very idea of remembering the name of such a man. ‘He’s in the dungeon accused of forging coins. This is his work.’ She gave Dragonetz the Barcelone penny. ‘Very good, I’m told. If you judge him as good as they say, free him and make him Mintmaster. But you’d better hurry; he’s a commoner so there was no mitigation. He’s been branded and pilloried. He’s due to be boiled alive today, I think. They tell me that’s the process used for counterfeiting billon so that was the judgement. But if you think he could be useful, you have my leave…’ She waved an airy hand, dismissing both Dragonetz and the man’s fate.
The knight bowed and left for the dungeons without pausing once, not even to appreciate the view, which was surely as beautiful as any man condemned to death could wish. From the heights on which the fortress was built, the view stretched across the marshes and limestone rocks to the sea. Whether the blue horizon was sea or sky could not be determined for the heat haze but a fanciful man might imagine the white sails bobbing and changing into clouds as they sailed to heaven.
Dragonetz was not in a fanciful mood. He was mindful that dungeons over an abyss put the fear of God into a prisoner quicker than thumbscrews. He knew full well that the quickest route off Les Baux for a criminal was over the edge. But the moneymaker had not been offered a quick route. Dragonetz quickened his pace and reached the cages. If the bars had not indicated their us
e, the smell would have done so; fear and urine, blood and bones.
As was gaolers’ wont, this one carried his bodyweight in keys and a face that no man would wish to be his last sight on earth. Broken teeth and nose testified to past altercations, probably with inmates or their kin, or both. He lumbered to his feet from the stool he’d leaned against a wall.
‘My Lord?’
‘Dragonetz.’ One look at Talharcant, even sheathed, was enough to establish credentials in the gaoler’s eyes but a penny added goodwill to the transaction. The gaoler bit the coin and nodded, happy that it was true. ‘Show me to the moneymaker. I wish to speak with him. Lady Etiennette thinks he might be useful.’
Horrified, the gaoler said, ‘My Lord, you can’t go in there! Your boots!’ He looked down at the polished brown leather, a little dusty from the dry earthen paths but otherwise unscuffed. ‘I’ll bring him to you.’
If the man had only seen the state of ‘my Lord’ and his boots when camped on Damascan soil or crossing the desert by camel! Dragonetz reminisced idly while waiting. He did not lean against the wall, which was oozing moisture and green with lichen. Did you get used to this? he wondered, the smell already diminishing from his immersion in it. And then the gaoler appeared, leading by chain something which might be human underneath the filth, and Dragonetz’ stomach revolted anew.
‘He was pelted right well, my Lord,’ asserted the gaoler, torn between pride and apology. ‘A good crowd came to the stocks and they’ll bring their friends back for the boiling today. It’s not the usual, a boiling.’
Dragonetz studied the unfortunate topic of conversation but there was no reaction at all. The forger had gone beyond thought and feeling as men did when tortured. Nature’s kindness, professional torturers called it, and they would allow a pause to maintain life, to let feeling return - as it always did - so they could recommence their work. Without pain, their work was wasted.
In this case, neither feeling nor pain were necessary, only speech and, in Dragonetz’ case, some fresh air. He motioned the gaoler to drop the iron ball and the prisoner to follow him, dragging the chain. He was barely up to the height of Dragonetz’ shoulder and further bowed by his treatment, so each step pained him. He breathed in ragged fits, hobbling as best he could. As soon as they were outside, away from others’ hearing and not close enough to the cliff edge to risk a premature end to the conversation, Dragonetz posed his questions.
Although the forger had made pennies of billon, silver alloy, it seemed he did know how to make true silver coin and even gold. His strange accent was explained when he told his story. He had once worked for the Royal Mint in the barbarous north, in England, which he claimed made ‘the best money in Christendom.’ English sterling was weighed and true, carefully controlled.
‘The King’s head means you know the money is good,’ he declared proudly.
The irony was not lost on Dragonetz. ‘The money you make is clearly not good so how did you come to this pass?’
‘The wars between the Queen and her brother,’ was the terse reply.
‘Matilda?’
‘And Stephen, aye.’ Dragonetz noted that Stephen was not dignified with his crown, whereas ‘the Lady of England’ was given one.
‘While they were warring, every Baron in England wanted his own head on a coin and I had a family.’ There was silence. There were many forms of torture. ‘I had no choice but make coins for this lord and that lord, as the battles turned for and against each one.
Such a collection of noble heads is rarely displayed from pikestaffs and battlements but I take no pleasure in it.’ In the circumstances, the man’s gallows humour had a certain style, above his station. ‘Stephen won. I had nothing left to lose but my life and that was wanted, so I escaped. Travelled south where no-one cares about English wars. Fell into another one instead.’
He’d searched for employment but soon realized there were no official mints in the region and before he could head south or west, he’d been approached and offered work, producing Barcelone billon. ‘And here I am,’ he finished with a tremulous attempt at what was probably once a cocky smile. His eyes still carried the knowledge of his sentence.
‘Who sourced and funded your material?’
‘I don’t know names. Intermediaries hired me, set up the foundry, brought the silver needed. All I know is that they were Genoese.’ Yes, it would be the Genoese, who could only profit from fake Barcelone money. If it went undetected, they could spend it. If caught, the blame could be placed on Les Baux, as part of their war. ‘They came stealthily to Arle by ship, took money from me and left enough that I could live,’ continued the forger.
‘The foundry was at Arle’
‘Aye.’ A little illegal counterfeiting to discredit Barcelone coin would be a neat move. So neat in fact that it could never have been dreamed up by the guileless Pons but Barcelone would not have known that. It could however have easily been dreamed up by another wealthy family, with connections to Genoese trade. Dragonetz had learned enough when in Arle to smell a Provençal rat behind this forgery. Porcelet would benefit even more than his Genoese allies if - or rather when - the forgery came to light.
‘How were you caught?’
‘I can tell you where, my Lord, but how, I’ll never know. That coin is as good as the real thing, I swear on the life of Mary mother and all the saints. The Genoese told me to use my coin around the province and I heard there was Barcelone coin in plenty round Les Baux so I thought it would blend in well here and I could spend more than usual.
I was buying sausage in the market when Lord Hugues’ man cried ‘That’s the man! Forger!’ and the guard brought me before Lady Etiennette. Smoked, with garlic,’ he added. ‘The sausage,’ he clarified, wistfully.
‘So the foundry is still untouched?’
‘As far as I know.’ But not for long. If Dragonetz was right, the moment the Porcelets knew that the forger was caught, they’d be trumpeting that Les Baux were behind the counterfeit. Not only would Barcelone be forced into punitive action but the lords of Provence would react against Les Baux. Forgery was a despicable weapon, unworthy of any liege and would cost Les Baux supporters. Even those loyal would feel shame by association. And the only man who could prove the accusation false would be dead.
‘A forger may prove what’s true,’ Dragonetz murmured.
Wisely the other man held his tongue, no doubt hoping beyond reason that he might keep that same organ and other parts.
‘Do you have a name, Master Forger? In true coin, now,’ Dragonetz warned.
‘Men called me John Halfpenny.’ Eyes the colour of mud fixed on Dragonetz like a starved cur’s when he sees the meat on a market stall.
The knight nodded. He felt he had the measure of the man; billon by force of circumstance but could be recast yet as sterling.
‘Well then John Halfpenny, good luck has come your way.’
‘That was my exact thought when I woke at dawn, my Lord,’ was the dry answer. Then Master Halfpenny saved his breath to drag himself back to the gaol.
Another penny sealed the gaoler’s speedy co-operation but nothing could compensate for his disappointment - nor, he warned, that of the crowd - for the loss of their afternoon’s entertainment. ‘I’ll have to find a whore to strip for the stocks’, he muttered, ‘and they won’t be happy.’
Unchained but still shuffling, the forger followed Dragonetz, who paid no attention to men’s stares but headed directly to the training-ground with his unlikely companion.
He knew before he reached the men that something had happened. He knew from what was missing; no banter, no movement among the onlookers beside the manège, who were all focused intently on whatever was happening in the ring. The tension was palpable as Dragonetz approached and a space cleared automatically for him to see what everyone was watching.
Chapter 11
…where the fiery power that flows in water penetrated the earth, the fire of the water transformed the earth into gold.
Where the purity of the flooding water penetrated the earth, that purity transformed itself and the earth which it suffused into silver.
Physica, Metals
As always, there were two men in the ring, practising steps and weapon positions. The difference was that one of the men was Ramon Berenguer IV, Comte de Barcelone, Prince of Aragon, Regent of Provence and the very person these men were being trained to fight against, even if no-one was stupid enough to say so.
Dragonetz breathed again once he realised that the other man was not Hugues des Baux. A direct contest of any kind between Barcelone and the heir to Les Baux could only have led to bloodshed, whoever won. Watching the elegant steps of Barcelone’s al-Andalus mare, and the ease with which the seasoned warrior switched hands with his spear, there was no doubt in Dragonetz’ mind as to Hugues’ chances against Ramon. He weighed up his own chances, and was within one curt order of taking Sadeek into the manège and putting them both to the test, when he realised what Ramon was doing.
Barcelone was not demonstrating his superiority. In fact, a trained observer could tell that he held back some of the fancier moves of which he and his horse were clearly capable, in favour of repeating the ones his partner in the ring could copy. He was training the man! And, by observation, he was training all those who watched.
A flick of his gilded helm in Dragonetz’ direction indicated that Ramon knew exactly who was in the audience. Of course he did. Yet he continued, patiently, drilling and demonstrating, praising and constructing. The other man was nobody; or rather someone chosen because he wasn’t in the political game but a member of this army. Ramon was here to win hearts like the brilliant general he was reputed to be.
The other man, representing all his fellows, was now someone very important and when Ramon called, ‘Another man?’ those gathered around looked at Dragonetz, waiting to know what he would do, what they should do. Hugues was nowhere to be seen. The golden helmet faced Dragonetz, also waiting, delegating the choice, neither challenging nor backing down.
