by Jean Gill
‘Gives me the creeps.’ Gilles shivered and crossed himself. ‘Makes you think burning might be right for one like her.’
‘Gilles! It’s just foolishness. Anyone living here would know the names of people at court, like me and Dragonetz. Peasant gossip. Les Baux has been at war for years so it’s all got muddled in her head with the legends of her people. And the rest of it is market-day twaddle. ‘You’ll find love, big choice to make, beware gold… foolish jabber to please or frighten young girls - and old men-at-arms. Lucky in love, eh?’ she teased him and this time she could see the colour in his cheeks.
‘Mind your step,’ he warned her and Estela smiled as her mare picked a delicate, precise route over the stones. It had been a lovely day and she wasn’t going to fret over the words of a crazed beldame. As if she would cross the sea again!
Dragonetz lay in the circle of Estela’s arms, his shelter from the world outside. He remembered that he wanted to tell her something before giving in to sleep. He started to speak and so did she, at the same time.
‘You first,’ she whispered.
‘Lady Etiennette made me a proposal,’ he told her. She moved away from him, leaned on her elbow to study him as she spoke, looked at him intently and waited. ‘She wants me to oversee a mint, at Arle.’
There was silence. When they sang together he could read her very breathing and he was surprised by the quality of this silence, its wrong note.
‘And?’ she asked, her usual self.
He must be over-tired from all the politics around him to see complication even in the bedchamber, he chid himself. ‘I’m tempted,’ he admitted. ‘The workings of a foundry intrigue me. And I have a mintmaster.’ He told her the strange and wonderful tale of John Halfpenny.
Contented, in her arms again, he asked drowsily, ‘What did you want to say?’
‘Nothing important. A matter of cheese and honey, a ride in the sunshine.’ And clouds, she thought. Black stormclouds. But she said nothing more as she cradled her knight to sleep.
Chapter 14
If the devil should incite a man to love a woman so that, without magic or the invocation of demons, he begins to be insane with this love, and if this is an annoyance to the woman, she should pour a bit of wine over a sapphire three times and each time say, ‘I pour this wine, in its ardent powers, over you; just as God drew off your splendour, wayward angel, so may you draw away from me the lust of this ardent man
Physica, Stones
Wine and chatter flowed liberally and no-one would have guessed the hatred Les Baux felt for their highborn southern guests from looking at the High Table. The most civilised of hosts, Etiennette and Hugues exchanged pleasantries with Ramon and Petronilla. Each evening at meal-time in the Great Hall, Les Baux demonstrated to their visitors just how civilised their court could be, how exquisite the food and the entertainment. From the conger eel in green garlic sauce to the honeyed figs, no expense was spared.
Seated at one end of the High Table, Dragonetz thought cynically that, whether he knew it or not, Barcelone was being entertained at his own expense. Les Baux could afford to be lavish at table, knowing that most of the Barcelone treasure cart remained in reserve. The knight surveyed the assembly, lords red-faced with wine and the flickering torchlight, relaxed and replete, their ladies glittering. One such lady caught his eye. She was taller than most, wearing large paste jewels that dazzled the onlooker as she hid her blushes behind a demure hand, in response to what were clearly outrageous suggestions from a gallant pressing his suit.
Dragonetz smiled. Those who didn’t know Lady Sancha might dismiss her as vulgar and featherheaded but his friend was as astute in gathering political secrets as any minister to the crown. It was a comfort to him that his current path met her approval but he knew their agreement grew from different roots. Sancha’s loyalty to Les Baux was deep and unshakeable; should Etiennette declare war once again, Sancha would rouse for the righteous cause. Dragonetz wanted peace. He’d had more than enough of righteous causes in the Crusade, especially when he could see no clear distinction between the two claims.
It didn’t look as though Sancha’s current activities had much to do with politics, however. Never had Dragonetz seen his friend play the fluttering, giggling girl as she was doing now. He had certainly never seen a man encouraging her to do so. Not since the moment Dragonetz rescued her from a Holy Land battle-field, had he seen Sancha vulnerable and he suddenly realised why her feelings for him had changed. It had nothing to do with Estela or with his own indifference to anything other than friendship. Sancha was in love with someone else and from the exchange of glances and laughter, a hand kissed and an anecdote sketched in the air, it seemed that the someone else returned her feelings.
‘God’s breath,’ swore Dragonetz under his breath, drawing a surprised look from the courtier seated next to him, and prompt topping up of his cup with wine by the attendant page. Taking a large swig, Dragonetz wondered whether there could be anything other than hurt come of this sweet romance. Surely Sancha could not hope to find another husband who would accept the body she hid in skirts?
His sense of foreboding weakened with another draught of wine. It was none of his business, anyway, and he had more than enough to worry about. At table, every man should put down his troubles; enemies became host and guest, protected by the most sacred trust and by all the gods.
The warmth in his belly increased as, with a smile in his direction, Lady Etiennette’s celebrated guest troubadour picked up her oud, an Arab lute, and made her way from her end place at a lower table (carefully chosen to allow room for a large white dog underneath) to a clear spot, lit by a wall sconce, where she could perform.
When Estela began to sing, the chatter died to whispers and then to silence and Dragonetz was lifted once more to the realms they inhabited together. Her voice had matured, gained range and emotion but kept the sweetness that hit a man’s soul. Where once she would have trilled the joy and milked the tragedy, now her judgement removed all artifice. There were no barriers between the listener and the music as Estela lost herself in storytelling.
When she announced her new work, his heart lurched with anxiety but she smiled at him again. She knew from experience that an audience never liked a new song. But, if it was good enough, the second time they heard it, they would applaud and the third time they would be humming along. After that, they would request that very song and be disappointed if it wasn’t in the programme. It was always this way.
From the first verse, Dragonetz knew who the song was for, with its tale of El Campeador, a misunderstood hero and his Moorish friend. When had his lover become so skilled at sending him a private message of support in such a public way? He was almost jealous when he realised that each man there felt the same way, felt that the song was specially for him. When had she learned how to win hearts and minds with her own lyrics and melody?
Wild and free roamed the horses of al-Andalus
on the world-edge where plains met sky
where a boy chose with his heart,
the white one who called to him
in a mane-toss and a dance.
Or the black one, thought Dragonetz, seeing himself as the boy Rodrigo and Sadeek as a foal in his homeland. They would have known each other, however leggy and awkward the colt might once have been. As Malik had known, gifted and named Sadeek to be friend of his friend.
‘Babieca’ spat the godfather-priest
despising the young and their ignorance but
‘Babieca,’ announced the boy to his horse
in the naming that seals the future
in the bond that would never break,
not in the blood of battle nor the
shared grave of their old bones.
As Dragonetz’s vision blurred, thinking of Sadeek, so did every man there imagine his own horse, companion in travail and danger. All present were caught up in the story of Rodrigo, El Sidi. Dragonetz began to understand how many stories Estela was telling
in her masterwork and his respect grew. She sang of the hero’s dishonour, exile and near-death; his rescue by the King of Zaragoza and years in his service.
There were gasps in the hall at the idea of such a hero being in the employ of Saracens and many eyes turned towards the Prince of Barcelone’s lieutenant. Turbaned and inscrutable, Malik sat at the High Table, listening to the story that was also his, of the time when his people ruled his kingdom.
Is he thinking of the time before that, wondered Dragonetz , when his people could have been rulers in this very hall? How easily the wheel of fortune could spin and stop at a different place. How clever of Estela to make her audience think this way without having to draw their swords.
When Estela sang of Ximena’s courage in strapping her dead husband to his horse and defying an army, the Queen of Aragon, descendant of that same heroine, lost her self-discipline enough to clap her hands and call, ‘Brava, Ximena!’ Her own, reserved, stern husband took her little hand in his own and kissed it, murmuring softly to her. Ramon, too, claimed El Sidi in his ancestry, through the couple’s daughter Maria, and the song could only remind Barcelone of what he and Petronilla represented, the unity of two kingdoms and the balance of power between north and south.
Balance, thought Dragonetz. Peace is all about balance and the only justification for war is to restore balance.
As the applause died, one voice carried along the High Table. ‘Perhaps your troubadour would do us the honour of celebrating my grandfather in song. ‘The word of a Porcelet!’ would make a rousing chorus, would it not.’
‘Very rousing,’ agreed Etiennette drily, while her son glowered at the Porcelets.
Dragonetz glanced at the Lady of Les Baux, picking out barbs as to the manner born. He wondered how she really felt about the glorification of her hated guests’ ancestors; not to mention the triumphant performance of her troubadour, his lover. That one glance at Etiennette put his mind at rest. She glowed, the supreme hostess. For the first time, she had established her superiority over Ramon and Petronilla and her magnanimity radiated along the table, basking in the pleasure of her guests. Tonight, Les Baux had lived up to its reputation as the most civilised court in Provence.
Estela swept her final curtseys, her oud tucked under one arm. She observed every formality, with grace, but her eyes found his and always will, he thought, across hallfulls of people and hell itself. Then he shivered at his own blasphemy. Careful! warned his old superstition that he endangered those he loved. Don’t let jealous gods see how blessed you are.
There was no such fear in the troubadour who’d just played for another queen; Estela went to pay respects and receive compliments at the High Table. No matter that Petronilla was younger than Estela had ever been and struggling to enjoy such a banquet in her condition: she was still Queen of Aragon and Estela made her the reverence due, without limit this time.
In response, Petronilla ceremonially unclasped a bangle from her wrist and offered it to Estela in appreciation. Not to be outdone, Etiennette gave her troubadour a golden hairnet, studded with jewels. Estela returned to her place a wealthy woman. Dragonetz remembered the first time Estela had sung in public, beyond her childhood home. The prizes at that tourney had been sword-belt and armour, on the assumption that a man would win. And yet, his then protégée had charmed the Prince of Orkney so much that the gold Pathfinder brooch had found its way onto Estela’s cloak instead of Dragonetz’.
Another man could claim his share of pride in tonight’s music, perhaps the lion’s share, Dragonetz acknowledged. He looked along the table and saw Malik offer his praise to Estela. Some prizes were worth more than gold and his lover deserved every word from such a master of their art. They were linked the three of them, deeper than circumstance, stronger than alliance. Whatever this warlike-truce demanded of them.
Only one person on the High Table remained aloof from the joyful atmosphere. Hugues des Baux lolled back, brows lowered, frowning and drinking hard.
‘My Lord Hugues,’ Dragonetz called to him along the bench. ‘I need your thoughts on new training for the men.’
‘Not now, Dragonetz,’ was the petulant reply.
‘It would be a pity to go ahead and find that you’d authorised something you mislike when you see it…’
‘Tell me here and be done with it, man!’
Dragonetz gave an exaggerated look of distrust at the backs of the two guests between himself and Hugues, who were politely leaning forward to facilitate the conversation. ‘Not here, my Lord,’ Dragonetz said with so much emphasis he could almost feel Ramon smiling at the other end of the table. Barcelone would know full well that any secret announced in such a way was not one he need worry about. Hugues was such a boy!
‘Very well then! But be brief!’ Hugues elbowed his neighbours with no apology as he scrambled to extricate himself back over the bench and accompany his knight past the crowded tables, the attendant page-boys, the scrounging curs and out into a night so black they were blinded at first.
‘Where’s the justice?’ ranted Hugues, letting off drunken steam somewhere safer for himself than in the hall. ‘He’s a murderer! I don’t see any punishment though… son of a whore has everything! I could have killed him where he sat! I owe it. I owe it to my father. ’
For once, Dragonetz was grateful for Etiennette’s hold over her son. ‘For your mother’s sake, my Lord, it would not do. Your Lady Mother showed the world tonight that the hospitality at Les Baux, in your castle and your land, is second to none. Would you undo her reputation by breaking the duty of a lord to his guests?’
‘No.’ Was Hugues actually chewing his lip? ‘But it’s not fair that his ancestors - and her ancestors - have stories and mine don’t!’ Dragonetz knew better than to enquire about Les Baux’s ancestors. The very fact no-one knew who they were told its own story. ‘Even Porcelet has a blazon and we have none!’ It was true that more families were putting personalised devices on their shields.
‘I think you can do better than a pig for device, my Lord.’ That raised a laugh and Hugues was beginning to sober up in the night air, which was still warm but fresher than the smoky hall. ‘What’s this training idea Dragonetz?
Luckily, there had been time for Dragonetz to think of one and the mention of blazons gave him another. ‘The men need to practice their skills, in the field,’ he said, adding hastily, ‘but not in a real battle. We should host a tourney, to train the men and to entertain our guests.’ And to defuse the growing urge to kill each other. ‘In two teams so we would need two devices that distinguish one team from the other.’
The idea sparked a ready-laid fire. ‘I would lead one team and Barcelone the other!’ His face glowed at the prospect of a duel against his enemy.
‘You should indeed lead one team, my Lord,’ Dragonetz agreed, ‘and we need time for you to discover the blazon for your house, such that the women can make many; on tabards for the men and carapaces for the horses.’
As to who should lead the other team, Dragonetz refrained from saying that he’d rather have his fingernails pulled out one by one than see Barcelone and Hugues pitted against each other. However, discussions with key players were needed before Dragonetz could enable Hugues to think up the arrangement that would, by then, already be agreed.
As he told Estela that night, ‘I don’t suppose it matters what device or ancestors he comes up with and the work will keep him out of harm’s way for a while. If only he could grow up more quickly!’
Turning onto her side, Estela had murmured, ‘The Malik of Les Baux… she meant Hugues… I know who can tell him his origins… I’ll take him there.’ She was asleep before he could ask what she meant and he’d forgotten by morning. But she hadn’t.
Chapter 15
A certain kind of serpent (quoddam genus serpentis) is very hot and is able to live on land and water. It has diabolic arts for ambushing people. This serpent is hostile toward human beings. It sends out its breath, which is full of deadly poison, toward a
person.
Physica, Reptiles
For once, Dragonetz and Estela were fulfilling their court duties in the same place. Their hostess had asked both of them, separately, to attend the morning’s judgements in the Lesser Hall as part of her entourage. At least she had heeded Dragonetz’ advice to build up Hugues’ standing in the eyes of the people, and he was seated beside her.
After each suit was presented, Etiennette turned to her son, held a whispered discussion and made it seem that the judgement came from the two of them. On Etiennette’s right hand, Dragonetz could hear the content of the whispers and was grateful that others could not. At least she was making an effort for appearance’s sake.
It was not enough, weighed against the Prince of Barcelone’s power, but it was a start. And it would never do to underestimate the power of the widow herself, displayed in the people surrounding her now. Dragonetz was not the only knight on duty in full armour, his hands crossed formally on his unsheathed sword.
Estela occasionally moved close enough for him to smell her perfume but maintained her public discretion. She had come straight from rehearsing her songs with Malik and had her precious oud under her arm as she wove in and out among the other ladies, exchanging whispered gossip or observing the lawsuits. A whisk of white fur made its appearance from time to time as Nici checked on his mistress, then disappeared.
Sometimes the details of a plaint caught Dragonetz’ attention; two men were accused of transporting Christian Slavs from the far north down through Provence to Muslim al-Andalus, where Christians could be legally kept as slaves, as was the case for Muslims in Christendom.
