Plaint for Provence

by Jean Gill

  The Comte had spared Dragonetz’ family, given Hugues a warning and killed a pigeon. A lesson for his nephew? Or for them all. Dragonetz shivered, as the exhileration of the day’s sport turned to chill foreboding. He was suddenly glad that Estela had not come hawking.

  Hugues blew his hunting horn loud and clear, the long one, then two, then three note sequence that signified the return. The hunt was over. As the party rode back to the castle, the black cloud of Ramon’s displeasure lifted, the ladies tootled their hunting horns in all manner of conflicting calls; the indefatigable spaniels were allowed to scamper freely; and the swaying bags of game returned everyone to good humour.

  The camaraderie of the hunt took on an edge of licentious banter as couples rode together, with talk of chasing the hart and finding a sweet deer. Costansa let Hugues coax her back into good humour after her loss of the falcon and it was obvious the young man was enjoying his role of protector. A cynic would have observed that Costansa recovered her good humour quickly enough to adjust her neckline becomingly low over bare shoulders. Hunting roused a man’s blood.

  Perhaps it should not have come as a surprise to Dragonetz when a soft knock came at his chamber door that night. His own blood was aroused, his heart still pounding from the sport and he had deliberately stayed away from Estela for fear the sight of her would tempt him against his better judgement. She needed rest, not a lover who wanted carnal acrobatics. Just the thought of her lying there, hair spread out over the pillow, topaz eyes drawing him in… the knock on the door gave him hope. Perhaps she was well enough and seeking him for the same sweet purpose he desired. He opened the door and invited in the woman who stood there, her tunic showing underneath a cloak thrown on roughly.

  ‘A little après-hunt sport, my Lord Dragonetz?’ teased Etiennette, younger by candlelight, her hair loose and showing strands of silver. She swayed into the room, her eyes large with wine and belladonna, her breasts swinging free beneath the thin tunic. ‘What harm could it do?’ she murmured, her hands small and tender on his shoulders, her mouth reaching up to his, a flower opening to him.

  ‘It has been so long,’ she whispered, pressing against him, curves fitting in all the places he wanted to feel curves. He couldn’t hide his response and he stepped backwards, clumsy with sleep, lust and darkness. He’d forgotten the perch. Stumbling against the wooden block at one end, Dragonetz aroused the demon.

  Vertat bated, squawking expletives, flapping huge wings with intent to kill, lashing out at Etiennette with her beak even though she could not see where to aim. The widow of Les Baux jumped out of range at the hawk’s first movement and the wooden perch was now between her and Dragonetz. He donned jerkin and gauntlets, picked the pouch from the floor, extracted a strip of raw meat and soothed the hawk.

  ‘I’m sorry, my Lady.’ He didn’t look at her. ‘I need to calm the hawk and she’ll tolerate nobody but me when she’s in this mood.’

  ‘A jealous bird, your hawk,’ observed Etiennette, keeping her distance and making no sudden movements.

  ‘Aye, my Lady. I’m afraid she is.’

  A flash of anger. ‘No doubt my son’s hawk will be more obliging!’

  ‘Your son is young and has made no promises to his bird.’ Dragonetz looked up then, saw the double chins, deep crevasses into sagging breasts - and looked back into the eyes of the woman who was the wrong one for a reason more important than all her body’s flaws; she was not Estela.

  Etiennette pulled her cloak tight round her, grasping it closed high at the neck. But she remained the Lady of Les Baux, and she met his gaze, head high. ‘This is your final answer then?’

  ‘I am sorry… But it changes nothing.’

  Her silence spoke. Then she told him, ‘I’m not putting up with it. That whore leaves tomorrow.’

  For one terrible heartbeat, Dragonetz thought she meant Estela. Then he understood. ‘Hugues won’t like it.’

  ‘He will learn that we can’t always have what we want. At least he’s had one night’s fun.’ Her self-mockery pinched the heart but pity could only worsen the rejection so nothing was said, no gesture made. ‘Good night, Lord Dragonetz. I expect you in court tomorrow.’ Her exit was dignified, which was more than could be said for a semi-naked man protecting his genitals as he squeezed past a highly irritated goshawk. They both swore loudly.

  Chapter 20

  Likewise, an excellent powder for provoking the menses: take some yellow flag, hemlock, castoreum, mugwort, sea wormwood, myrrh, common centaury, sage. Let a powder be made and let her be given to drink one dram of this with water in which savin and myrrh are cooked and let her drink this in the bath… Or let there be made another pessary in the shape of the male member and let it be hollow, and inside there let the medicine be placed and let it be inserted.

  On the Conditions of Women, The Trotula

  Estela was feeling quite recovered from the dizzy sickness but the ache in her belly, as if she’d been kicked by a horse, was only too familiar. Her menses would start some time soon and she just wished her body would sort itself out so she could get on with her life. She still felt reluctant to face any public situation so she intended to take refuge behind her ‘illness’ for a few more days. Not even to herself did she name the individuals she couldn’t face, represented by ‘public situations’.

  When the knock came on her door, her badly-behaved heart skipped a beat but, as Sancha was absent on other duties, Estela forced herself to take the normal action of opening the door, seeing who was there. How did all these fears take root? She watched her own hand as it turned the door handle. She felt her heart pounding as she tried not to picture the unknown behind the door.

  The more she tried not to picture someone the more convinced she was that Death had come for her, a skeleton in a cloak, a skull for a face. Only when she’d given in to her day-mares, when she accepted that if it be Death, then whatever God willed would happen: only then, in total acceptance, and after a third attack of knocking, could she open the door.

  Where a page stood bearing a large bundle wrapped in sackcloth. As was the way of young boys, new to their position, he delivered his message at full sing-song speed with no inflexion whatsoever as if it might be the receipt for orange preserve rather than a matter of any moment.

  ‘Roxane once of Montbrun know this that the Lord of Montbrun casts you off you are no daughter of his nor heir to his lands and you renounce all such rights for yourself or your ungodly offspring as you swore in front of witnesses should be…’ the boy took a breath and continued, ‘… the case if you should regain the object alleged to be a legacy from your dam which is hereby given to you to seal the contract his dearest wish is that he never see you again and they leave Les Baux this morning the Lady Costansa de Montbrun says it is not over and she has given you token also…’ another breath ‘… thank you my Lady if you are satisfied with my delivery please to remember that a boy needs to eat.’

  Estela felt like clapping at the end of such a message, almost distracted from its content by the unique form of delivery. She fetched a penny from her pouch, was rewarded by genuine thanks and a huge grin, then she took the parcel from the boy and he skipped off along the corridor.

  After checking, twice, that the door was firmly closed, Estela put the package on the bed and unwrapped it carefully, afraid of her stepmother’s parting shot. Her father’s word counted for enough still to guarantee that the oud would indeed be inside the sackcloth but Costansa was perfectly capable of breaking the instrument.

  Not until she had examined every inch of the oud did Estela believe that she really had her precious lute back unscathed. She exhaled with deep relief, her thoughts singing ‘leave this morning’, telling her that the Montbruns were gone, out of her life. She placed the oud on a stool, her fingers itching to pluck the strings, find a new melody, create the song of a freed cagebird.

  Absent-mindedly she started to shake and fold the sackcloth wrapping, when a tiny chirp arrested her. Maybe that was th
e sound that had suggest birdsong to her troubadour’s senses. It was no doubt a cricket, hopping on to warm fabric and getting caught up for the ride. Not wanting to harm any living creature on a day that promised fair, she unfolded the cloth again to rescue the little insect - and jumped back as black claws clicked shut where her hand had been a second earlier. The unmistakeable arched back and clicking claws of the black scorpion continued their small threat, then scuttled off the bed, across the floor and into a crack in the stonework.

  Costansa’s parting gift - a scorpion bite. No doubt intended to be fatal. Except that she’d sent the wrong kind of scorpion. Even if it had bitten Estela, the black scorpion would have caused no more pain than a wasp sting. If Costansa had been brought up by a wise woman, as had Estela, she’d have known that the brown scorpion might look less offensive but was far more likely to kill. Costansa! Always judging by appearance - and hoping that others would do likewise. And the worst she could think of was to send a chirruping black scorpion to say ‘Boo!’ Estela could think of a million far worse things to do to Costansa! However, all of a sudden, she no longer needed to; Estela de Matin was somebody who did not need to prove herself. Roxane de Montbrun did not exist any more.

  Collapsing onto her clothes-coffer, Estela started laughing. Once she’d begun, she couldn’t stop, whooping until tears came. She was still chuckling to herself when Sancha returned and rushed to her side, concerned at these signs of hysteria.

  ‘I’m fine, fine.’ Estela told Sancha she was on no account to fetch Malik and concluded, ‘but I have started bleeding, by the bucketful in fact.’

  It was Sancha’s turn to collapse, pasty-faced with shock.

  ‘For the love of God,’ snapped Estela, earning another reproachful look for such blasphemy, ‘act like a woman!’

  ‘Just the thought of blood makes me faint,’ confessed Sancha, perched on the stool beside the oud, swaying precariously.

  ‘Be careful with that!’ Then Estela started giggling again, just at the thought that her oud might be destroyed by her friend after surviving Costansa’s spite. ‘All I need is for you to take a message not to look at…’ Sancha gave her a pleading look. ‘Send me a maid, one of the reliable ones, with clean cotton rags. If I can use pessaries for medication, I can use them to soak up blood…’ but Sancha had already rushed for the door muttering ‘maid, cotton rags’ and she bolted before the end of the sentence.

  Light-headed, perhaps from loss of so much blood, Estela closed her eyes while she waited for the maid; saw a cage-door opening, heard a bird sing.

  ‘They’ve gone,’ Dragonetz told her, hovering in the open door, his eyes assessing her state of health. ‘How are you?’

  Estela was propped up on the bed, her oud beside her. The notebook Malik had given her, in which she recorded her songs, was on her lap. She’d been working. ‘I’m bleeding,’ she told him.

  ‘I know.’ He grinned. ‘I guessed from the way Sancha turned green and avoided in any way telling me what ailed you except to say that you ‘would be better in a few days’.’ His eyes softened and he hesitated. ‘Are you disappointed?’

  ‘If you are.’ She met his question, straight, no games.

  ‘There is no rush for more babies. It’s enough work to look after the family I’ve got!’

  She smiled weakly. ‘I’m glad they’re gone.’ Her not-family.

  ‘Do you prefer me to stay away for a few more nights?’

  ‘I’m bleeding,’ she repeated, stupidly.

  ‘I’m not Sancha.’ The lop-sided charm of his smile made her insides lurch and she suddenly felt weepy again. To be held in her lover’s arms, soothed and stroked was all she wanted. The Montbruns, Les Baux, Barcelone and the whole of Provence could go hang themselves!

  Dragonetz read her face, came into the chamber and closed the door behind him. He placed a stool against the door, moved the oud and the notebook, and stretched out beside her, She found her place, head tucked under his chin, into his shoulder.

  ‘Your training,’ she murmured.

  ‘Can wait. We’re preparing for the tourney. Hugues can manage. Give the boy something to think about that doesn’t wear skirts.’

  ‘Wear skirts?’

  He didn’t answer and she was too contented to pursue the subject. Other people’s amours were of no interest. Her own folded her in his arms and she stayed awake as long as she could, to better enjoy the long fingers stroking her hair from tip to waist. Then again, and again, in the slow rhythm of comfort as he murmured in Arabic the words of the poet Ibn Faraj.

  All night I lay by water

  thirsting like a muzzled camel,

  her bounty flooding my senses

  with fruit and flowers.

  No wild beast, I would not take

  A garden for a pasture.

  Chapter 21

  Sanicle (sanicula) is hot… One who is wounded by a sword should squeeze out the juice of sanicle, pour it into water and drink it after a meal… It purges the inside of the wound and gradually makes it well.

  Physica, Plants

  Two mares, a grey and a roan, were saddled ready for the outing. ‘My Lord Hugues,’ Estela greeted her host with all courtesy, showing no sign of her inner doubts. Never again would she be afraid of ghosts and threats. As a scientific, she could study such curiosities, and as a troubadour, she could turn them into song. A black scorpion was just a natural phenomenon and the Gyptian’s words had lost their sting. She intended to prove this to herself by taking the Lord of Les Baux on a quest to find his ancestry. He had readily accepted the invitation to visit the wise woman of the caves, famed for honey and soothsaying, who had promised to shed light on the matter. Estela just hoped that any light shed would shine as brightly as El Sidi and remove the permanent scowl from Les Baux’s face.

  Although her sympathies still leaned towards Barcelone, Estela had not visited the Barcelone quarters since Petronilla left, and her status as Etiennette’s troubadour required her support for Les Baux. Loyalty to both Sancha and Dragonetz also made her bite her tongue when faced with a sullen Hugues, bearing his ill-treatment by the world in brusque manners and furrowed brow.

  ‘My Lady,’ he grunted, checking the girth and stirrup before mounting his roan mare, without any thought of Estela. A stable-hand rushed to her side and offered her a boost. She had not seen any need to let Dragonetz know of the expedition as he would have fussed about her security, insisting on her bringing one of the men or - heaven forbid! - on coming himself.

  The last thing she wanted was for her lover to hear the old woman’s pronouncements on oath-breaking and infidelity. He had more important matters to worry about. If she could find some glorious past for Les Baux to include in his blazon, that would help Dragonetz in his plans for the tourney but there was no trusting the Gyptian.

  Estela would have brought Gilles and, of course, Nici but her two guardians were safely in the Marselha villa. Her insides gave the usual contraction that went with missing her son but the word ‘safely’ steadied her. Les Baux was anything but safe, whether Costansa had left or not. She could have brought Raoulf, Dragonetz’ bear of a lieutenant but he was Dragonetz’ man to the core and whatever was said in the cave, Estela preferred to rest with her - and with Hugues, who was unlikely to take an interest in anything that didn’t apply to him.

  So Estela sighed and accepted that she must make the best of a bad-tempered young lord, and hope that what they heard in the cave would brighten his day - and hers. Whatever happened, she would bring her remaining fears into the light of day and see how pathetic they looked.

  ‘It is but a few minutes’ ride, my Lord.’ Estela used the same tone with which she rallied baby Musca when he was teething and it had as much effect on Hugues. He made a noise that could be construed as an acknowledgement. Then they rode in silence.

  She’d sent a messenger to the cave the day before so was not surprised that when she called into the cave, Dame Fairnette’s voice answered, echoing from the tunn
el, the hoarse croak of age even more apparent than usual. Would she too grow old enough to lose her voice, Estela wondered. No, of course not. She would never be old. Hugues tied and hobbled the horses outside the cave entrance then escorted her into the dark cavern, apparently remembering some chivalry as he ushered her forward, his hand on his sword hilt.

  All was as before: the tallow candle and rough furnishings; a chill after the warmth outside that felt pleasant for a few seconds, then seeped into the bones with the damp of marsh-fever. Estela felt goose-pimples along her arms from the contrast.

  ‘So she’s back and she’s brought the great Lord of Les Baux. We knew she would. Sit there, my Lord Hugues, sixth of the line Pons of Les Baux, and tell Dame Fairnette what you want of her and what you’ll pay for it.’

  Estela couldn’t decide whether she was irritated or relieved at being ignored. She stayed in the shadows, standing, watching as Hugues reluctantly took the stool, moved it further away from the smell of aged dame, sat on it and stretched his long legs to find some comfortable position. His back gave nothing away but his shuffling and the way he cleared his throat testified to his unease. The shadows flickered across the fortune-teller’s face and she shut her eyes, frowning in concentration, as if to see him more clearly in her mind.

  ‘Well?’ she prompted. ‘Or you can buy honey and go.’

  In his haughtiest tone, Hugues said, ‘I was told that you knew Les Baux family history. Beyond my grandparents. If so, you are to make this known to me.’

  ‘I am to make this known to you,’ mocked Dame Fairnette, imitating his tone, her eyes still closed. ‘And why would I do that?