by Jean Gill
Dragonetz acknowledged the Prince with a bowed head, made his decision. ‘We are honoured, Sire,’ he called, loud and clear. He yelled at one of the men glued to the railing. ‘Bavex. You’ve been wheedling to put that over-fed barrel-on-legs through her paces. Get in there and learn!’
It was a popular choice and the men relaxed into bets on whether Bavex would drop his spear trying the fancy new hand-switch or whether the horse would balk at a scarf being thrown in front of her. Three of the men had been appointed as ‘irritants’ to simulate the unexpected events that might spook a horse. With a brief nod in Dragonetz’ direction, Ramon acknowledged his new partner courteously and set to work.
As the atmosphere lost its edge and men returned to comments on the quality of al-Andalus horseflesh (perfection) and armour (girlish), Dragonetz asked quietly, ‘My Lord Hugues is not training this morning?’
‘Summoned by his mother. Turn her! Shield her eyes at the side!’ yelled his neighbour as Bavex’s mount stamped nervously by a silken banner weaving snake-like in the dust. ‘Needs a hood on that mare,’ he told Dragonetz. ‘Something at the side will always spook them - any boy knows that but Bavex always thinks that pudding of a beast is too placid to react.’
‘Confuses her with hisself,’ agreed another.
At least there had been no confrontation between Hugues and Ramon but Dragonetz felt a stab of irritation. Damn Etiennette! Did she realise how it looked to an army when their leader was called to heel by his mother? He remembered another boy whose mother had withheld the power that was his birthright ‘until he is capable of wielding it’.
And now that little boy had his mother trapped in the city of which she called herself Queen. Little boys grew up and widowed mothers who didn’t let them, paid dearly! Unlike the Queen of Jerusalem, Etiennette still had her son’s respect but she was abusing it daily. Dragonetz half-wished Hugues would stand up to her as Baudouin had to Mélisende. That would be better than hearing a man whisper, ‘Barcelone doesn’t wait on his mother’s permission...’
Dragonetz chose two of the guard. ‘Take this man. Get him washed and dressed in clean clothes, then bring him back here.’ Their disappointment at missing the display in the manège showed in their eyes. ‘When you come back, when the Prince has had enough, we’ll train together, the three of us. Make sure you’re saddled up and ready.’
Their smiles were all he needed to know. They were still his men. But there was so much work to do to make them Hugues’ men and only Hugues could do it. Frowning, he fetched armour and weapons, saw Sadeek prepared for the ring and then, like everyone else, he enjoyed the show.
Finally, the Comte de Barcelone declared ‘Enough,’ and dismounted. His boots scuffed and dusty enough to enter a gaol, he strode towards Dragonetz in the bow-legged, heavy walk of an armoured man. He removed his helm and his whole face still glowing with exhileration, he spoke, soldier to soldier.
‘Well done, my Lord Dragonetz! I had no idea the men of Les Baux were so skilled!’
‘My Lord Hugues has trained them well,’ Dragonetz replied, loudly.
Ramon let it pass, with another nod of respect, one leader to another. ‘I would they were better equipped as to horses. What say you to some southern stock joining you?’ The men’s spontaneous cheer spoke for them and Dragonetz could only try to benefit from their pleasure not disappoint them. ‘I’m sure my Lord Hugues will be delighted.’
‘I’m sure he will.’ Ramon’s usually severe expression was beatific, his eyes dancing with excitement. El Sant was in his element and the coup de grâce was his modesty. ‘If I can help others improve, then I do God’s work. As Regent of Provence, I take The Lord of Les Baux and his men under my care, as much as those of Barcelone and Aragon. Of course I knew of your training. I find it’s even better than I imagined, my Lord Dragonetz. I am only sorry…’
His eyes lost their sparkle and Dragonetz read into them a renewed request for them to ride together. He saw the moment he needed for his own request. ‘Sire, I seek a boon.’ Scrubbed and dazed, the forger was on hand, flanked by Dragonetz’ two guards.
Serious, deep brown eyes met his. ‘Speak.’
Dragonetz gestured and the forger was brought in front of the Prince. ‘My Lord, this is one John Halfpenny, a master minter who was wrongly convicted of forging coins of your realm.’
‘You intrigue me. Pray continue.’
John Halfpenny seemed equally intrigued but had enough sense to look down at his boots and keep his mouth shut. Dragonetz presented the forged billon penny to Ramon, hoping that the forger was as good as he said he was. ‘You can see, my Lord, that this is true coin, and envious mouths secured a false conviction.’
‘It does look like good money,’ Ramon agreed reluctantly. ‘I’d heard there was a sudden influx of Barcelone coin into this region at present.’
Dragonetz looked suitably puzzled. ‘I had not heard, my Lord? Be that as it may, this good servant of Provence and Barcelone is highly skilled and could be put to good use.’
‘Indeed? I have heard of your penchant for lost causes, my Lord, projects and people. Is this another such?’
The hit went home but Dragonetz had too much self-control to show how aware he was of his failures.
‘There is a royal permit for a mint at Arle and Lady Etiennette begs your indulgence in allowing your Mintmaster to set up his forge there, under her surveillance, so that your province might have its own currency.’
‘My Mintmaster?’ Barcelone queried.
‘Evidently,’ Dragonetz confirmed, indicating the Barcelone coin produced by the man.
‘So I sanction the… Mintmaster… to commence coin making in Arle, for Lady Etiennette.’
‘If it please you, Sire. Provence would be appreciative of such an honour, especially it being your own Mintmaster and a coin specially created for this noble region.’ The last was said on a note increasing in volume, guaranteed to draw the cheers of the men standing around. Dragonetz could have said, ‘mmm, mmm, PROVENCE!’ and the men would have cheered, as he and Ramon both knew well.
Ramon’s lips twitched but he played the scene well and announced for all to hear, ‘Be it known throughout the province that my man John Halfpenny shall be Mintmaster in Arle, tasked with the setting up of a new mint for the money of Provence, under surveillance of the lords of Les Baux.’
‘Thank you, Sire.’ Dragonetz’ words were barely audible above the weeping of John Halfpenny, whose bravura cracked. He knelt to kiss the hem of Barcelone’s surcoat. The knight laid his hand lightly on the forger’s head as he added, ‘If you would make a point of telling Lord Porcelet, personally, that Master Halfpenny is under your protection and the mint authorised, it would be much appreciated, Sire. I think old rivalries have clouded some judgements in this matter and in the interest of the truce with Les Baux…’
‘Ah.’ Ramon mulled over the implications. ‘My Lord Dragonetz, I think you have magicked some faux monnaie into my purse but with such skill I can only admire the magick and spend the coin. Rise, man, you’ve watered me enough.’
So addressed, the little forger rose, new minted. ‘Your Highness,’ he whispered, ‘the silver I make will be the mark of true coin in the whole of Europe, weighed and stamped to but one standard. I swear by all that’s holy.’
‘Possibly,’ Ramon replied. ‘But I suspect it will have a double face, and neither of them mine.’
Chapter 12
The best grain is spelt (spelta). It is hot, rich and powerful. It is milder than other grains. Eating it rectifies the flesh and provides proper blood. It also creates a happy mind and puts joy in the human disposition. In whatever way it is eaten, whether in bread or in other foods, it is good and easy to digest.
Physica, Plants
The horse’s movement gave the illusion of a breeze and Estela breathed in the scents and sights of Provence in summer. Heat had its own smell and shimmer, skies hazy or blown sharp by the mistral, that wind which etched the white-stone
mountain crests to whetted blades and which drove men mad or made them poets, so said the legends.
Today was still and hazy, perfect for an escapade. Nici didn’t need asking twice to come out for a run, his plumed tail waving enthusiasm as he tracked and backtracked alongside the two horses. Gilles had been more reluctant but well aware that his disapproval was water off a duck’s back. Estela knew perfectly well that her man wouldn’t let her ride anywhere without him and he knew she wouldn’t change her mind. She really needed to escape from Les Baux. Her finger was callused and sore from plucking chords for a melody that she could hear but not capture; her eyes ached from penning the words to her ballad.
She could have visited Petronilla again, and listened to the girl’s unworthiness until boredom lulled her to sleep. She could have taken needle to cambric in whatever monogram was the choice of the day in the solar with the ladies but, in addition to her hatred of chain stitch, her eyes were tired of close work, and conversation with Sancha drew more blood than the needle. Estela could not listen to the demonization of Ramon and Petronilla any more than Sancha would hear of their rights.
If Sancha had been interested in healing or music, they might have found safe ground, as did Malik and Dragonetz, but Sancha was ready to faint at the mere word ‘swelling’, never mind naming of parts. If ever Estela wished to torture her friend, she only had to read aloud parts of Trota’s ‘Treatments for women.’
Sancha preferred romances, tales of unattainable ladies and their gallants. From personal experience, Estela found the whole business of sneaking around bedchambers to protect a lady’s reputation rather tedious. Even the perpetrator of said sneaking seemed of less interest to Sancha than in the past.
When Estela mentioned Dragonetz, desperately seeking a topic on which she and her friend could agree, Sancha was interested in a friendly way but without the more tender feelings she’d shown in the past. Something had changed in Sancha and the only passion aroused by mention of Dragonetz was over his support of Les Baux, which was exactly what Estela did not want to talk about.
As for music: Sancha had the voice of a crow with the ague and as much appreciation of the finer points as she had dress sense. Estela caught herself short, ashamed. She knew full well why Sancha shaved her forehead too high, cluttered her garish robes with clashing lace furbelows and ribbons, wore shoes so pointed they were lethal weapons.
Estela also knew why she was indulging in this spiteful line of thought. She felt guilty. And she’d really had enough of being torn apart by Provence’s civil war. If it was like this during a truce, what would happen if the killing started again? Friend against friend; brother against sister; vassal against liege. She dug her heels in savagely and startled her placid mare into a few quickened steps. And for what? Both sides are in the right and neither of them can see it!
‘My Lady?’ her man Gilles queried anxiously, pulling his mount into step by her side. The pathway south curved downwards, opening up once they’d left the citadel and the rocky passes.
She couldn’t hide much from someone who’d known her since childhood so she didn’t try. ‘This truce is wearing,’ she acknowledged. ‘Every day, new lords come to swear fealty to Barcelone and some do so with their hearts; others with their fingers crossed behind their backs. God might forgive them but Ramon won’t.’
‘Dragonetz is no oath-breaker, my Lady.’
‘At the moment, he’s no oath-maker! He trains Hugues’ men, he kneels to Lady Etiennette in her ante-chamber,’ and the less said about that the better! Gilles showed no awareness of Estela’s more personal anguish at the latter fact and she continued quickly, ‘and yet his respect for Barcelone grows each day. I can feel how torn he is and I am worried he will break in two. All he will say is that he has chosen already and his choice is Provence. Whatever will keep the peace. But it doesn’t feel like peace!’
‘No, my Lady,’ agreed Gilles. ‘It feels heavy and the storm must break some time.’
‘Well, I’d rather it broke when my family was five hundred miles away!’
Gilles pointed out the obvious but it was good for Estela to hear it said. ‘That is not Dragonetz’ way. If there’s a storm, he’ll be the lightning. And you wouldn’t want him any other way.’
‘I know,’ she conceded, ‘and I will listen and love, and say nothing to shake him from whatever he decides. But I need a moment out of that atmosphere. Come, let’s see what it is that all these lords are squabbling over. Let’s see Provence!’
They rode in companionable silence. Nici disappeared after scent trails and reappeared ahead of them, checking on where they were before following his own distractions once more. Estela listened in the way Dragonetz had taught her, reaching for the song that was always there for those who were open to it.
Cicadas pulsed shrill with summer urgency; house-martins and swallows swooped their joyous loops; a skylark’s solo soprano rose to heaven. Birdsong was replaced by the work-songs and shouts of peasants threshing the spelt, their jointed whips flailing at the cut sheaves. Estela couldn’t see the golden grain falling onto the threshing sheets but she knew the precious harvest was there. Behind the men, the fields were scythed stubble, dry and golden under relentless blue skies.
‘Stop!’ she told Gilles, whose instinctive protest turned into a sigh. He had indeed known her a long time. He dismounted, caught Nici and attached him with a length of rope to the peasant’s cart. They would not be popular if a giant dog joined in the threshing.
Careful to keep her mare from straying onto the threshed spelt, Estela called to the nearest men. ‘Good-day.’ Reluctant to break their rhythm, the men nevertheless recognized her rank and paused. Sweat glistened on their shoulders and in the V of their leather jerkins and Estela flinched from the memory of another young peasant in leather, the smell of sweat and straw, and the terrible harm her young ignorance had caused. Such memories helped no-one but served as a reminder that her rank carried responsibilities. Any words she spoke would have the weight of her standing. Her deeds would take on a life of their own.
‘I mean no harm,’ she said quickly, stupidly, prompted by the past instead of the present. One of the youngest there laughed and was immediately clouted by his fellow, at the same time as Gilles threw his reins to Estela and dismounted, the better to draw sword with his one good hand. ‘No!’ she said. ‘There was no disrespect meant.’
‘No my Lady, no disrespect,’ said one of the older men, glancing at her quickly as the boy who’d laughed was shoved roughly behind his elders, away from Gilles’ half-unsheathed sword. If he still smiled, it was from nerves.
‘I serve Les Baux,’ Estela told them, stumbling on, ‘and I wanted to know how the harvest goes? What preparation should be made at the castle for the winter? And for our people? For all of you.’ As she spoke, Estela felt her mother’s presence: the visits they’d made together, checking on flocks and grain, vines and babies. This was grain and vine country, some goats but not sheep. ‘The spelt has ripened well and you’ve got the harvest in while it’s dry and without storm damage but I wondered whether the quantity was down because we’ve lacked rain this springtime?’
This time the man looked at her with genuine respect and more warmth. ‘Aye my Lady, that’s it, exactly. Good in quality and none ruined but growth was stunted and not as much grain as some years. Middling, I’d say.’
‘Too early to say for the grapes,’ she mused aloud. ‘If the storms bring hail, there’s always a risk.’
He nodded. ‘Till the last moment there’s a risk.’
‘The grape harvest here is in two months? Three?’
‘Aye, thereabouts, depending on the weather. End of August.’
‘And your goats are milking well?’
Another man spoke up. ‘You won’t find better milk or cheese anywhere my Lady. My daughter’s the goat girl and she’d fight that Barcelone army single-handed to protect the village well and her goats. They get water before we do.’
‘That’
s a fact!’ the others agreed.
The goat girl’s father said, ‘By your leave, my Lady,’ and, watched closely by Gilles, he went to the pouches piled together and pulled out an object wrapped in dried leaves, which he presented to Estela, saying ‘You don’t have to take my word for it, my Lady. This be for your break fast.’
Picking open a leaf, Estela studied the contents. Her home region produced exceptional sheep cheese, both the strong blue-veined from the caves and the soft creamy white, but this was a small, firm round. She sniffed and approved. Just a tang of goat and the look of crumpled parchment. The neatness of its form, a perfect round nestled in its carefully interleaved protection, told of a cheese-maker who took pride in her work.
All eyes were on Estela as she evaluated the gift. And found it beyond price. Her eyes glistened as she spoke. ‘You speak truth. Surely, there can be no better cheese than this, for it was made with love and skill, and given with the true spirit of hospitality to a stranger. No money could buy what you have freely given me but please do me the honour of accepting a gift for the goat girl.’ Gilles followed Estela’s quiet instructions. From the saddle-bag he pulled out the silk scarf and linen wimple she’d abandoned there once out of sight from Les Baux, and he took a penny from the purse.
Estela cut short the effusive thanks with one last question. ‘Do you have enough for yourselves, for the winter?’
Honest men, they told her that they could pay their dues without fear of starvation - this year - as long as there was no more war. Fighting would mean fire and destruction, with grainstores and barns the victims, whichever side won. Estela understood. In war, the peasants never won. She nodded, apologised for the interruption and rode on. Gilles walked his horse back to where Nici, sullen, watched from a tethered distance. He’d already started chewing through the rope. With only one regretful look at the men working, he bounded after his mistress and Gilles, mounting, followed suit.
