by Jean Gill
He pulled his tunic back down and rolled onto his side again, risked a glance in her direction. ‘Will you tell Dragonetz?’
‘That you came off badly in training?’ mocked Estela. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I will not tell my Lord. But women do chatter. And if I hear that any girl wishes you’d learned from this lesson in training, my Lord Dragonetz will be the first to hear the full story. Do we understand each other?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry.’ Hugues looked so sheepish that Estela found it hard to feel as angry as she knew she ought to. He directly looked at her, no trace of the earlier madness. ‘But is it all right if the girls are willing?’
Estela chewed the inside of her cheek to prevent herself laughing. ‘Yes,’ she said gravely. ‘If the girls are willing.’ The relief in his face tested her self-control severely. ‘You are not a camel!’ she told him and left, leaving him to make of that observation whatever he would.
Chapter 22
Since birds are lifted by their feathers into the air, and since they dwell everywhere in the air, they were thus created and positioned in order that the soul, with them, might feel and know the things which should be known. And so, while the soul is in the body it extends everywhere, elevated by its thoughts.
Physica, Birds
Dragonetz was disappointed in Estela. Her incomprehensible refusal to share a bedchamber with Vertat left him no option but to return the goshawk to the mews at night. Her notion that she’d feel spied on and inhibited in her love-making made no sense at all. ‘Jealousy!’ he explained to the bird on his shoulder. ‘She ought to be above all that.’ Vertat shifted her feet and swore in bad-tempered agreement. If ‘manning’ meant being accustomed to human company and social situations, then Vertat was as thoroughly manned as a hawk could be - despite her recent exile from bedchambers.
‘And this business with Hugues is badly timed. What idiot gave his lord such a wound in training? Though it is noble in Les Baux to hide the man’s name. That will gain him credit with his men, maybe even outweigh the indignity of his injury.’ Dragonetz heard the warning shout and automatically side-stepped a bucket of slops being thrown out an upper window; continued along the cobbled street that led to the training ground, still thinking aloud. ‘Hugues must lead a side in the tourney if I have to strap him to the saddle like El Sidi’s corpse! Getting him to agree to that will be less of a problem than getting him to see who his team-mates must be… and what to do with the Porcelets? The dratted family goad like gadflies, a dangerous distraction.’
As they neared the training ground, Dragonetz hooded Vertat, who was unruffled by the noise and movement that greeted them. Ramon was leaning on the fence, concentrating on the manège where four riders put their mounts through some simple paces. Not so simple when done in unison. And nothing was simple when one of the riders was the young Comte de Provence, perfectly at ease on horseback, taking instructions from men who would have killed him a year ago, during the war.
Under the watchful eyes of Ramon Berenguer, the Protector, Hugues’ men stepped up the pace, gradually, working together, watching what the lad could achieve comfortably and not testing his limits. Banter from the onlookers was soldier-crude but without malice and turned to cheers when the youngster was allowed to finish on a flourish. He reined his steed to a snorting two-legged stand, catching Dragonetz’ eye as he came back down to earth.
Ramon turned to follow his nephew’s gaze, nodded, as the boy rode towards them both, face glowing from exercise and praise. ‘My Lord Dragonetz, did you see me in the ring?’
Vertat’s weight steady on his shoulder, comforting, Dragonetz answered the boy truthfully. ‘I did. I am impressed. Your uncle must be proud of you and your training.’
‘Uncle?’
The grave, rare smile broke through Ramon’s reserve. ‘I am. My Lord Dragonetz is right. I am very proud. Of you…’ he raised his voice, ‘and of the men here who have trained hard and let you work with them. May their families see the benefit of such work.’ A word to his aide and it was clear to all there that some Barcelone gold would find its way to the men who’d pleased Ramon with their conduct.
‘And you’ll let me ride in the tourney?’ asked the Comte. ‘Uncle?’
Heavy eyes, lined with responsibility, gazed unblinking at Dragonetz. ‘That is not my decision,’ Ramon said, giving Dragonetz yet another complication.
The desperation of youth to prove itself, the belief in its own immortality. ‘Please, my Lord Dragonetz?’
‘It’s not my decision, either,’ replied Dragonetz, earning an amused twitch from Barcelone, quickly controlled. ‘It is my Lord Hugues’ tourney. I am just organising practicalities for him - and it is on exactly that matter I wish to speak to your uncle.’
Not completely bamboozled, the Comte persevered, ‘But you will speak to him. He listens to you, I know he does.’
‘I will speak to him - but I make no promises.’
‘I will keep practising - tell him that!’ Shining eyes said that a hope was already a certainty. Youth. ‘Vertat is magnificent!’
Dragonetz was sure the hawk fluffed up its feathers, maybe sensing his own pride. ‘Thank you,’ he said simply.
‘Your horse needs rubbing down,’ suggested Ramon and the boy obeyed the thinly disguised order, as did Dragonetz when asked, ‘Shall we walk?’
Their path followed the cliff edge along the earthen promontary, at one side of what was to be the tourney field. The view stretched far south, across fields and vineyards to the white mountains and a glimpse of blue sea, but neither man stopped to gaze outwards. Dragonetz made his proposal. Ramon understood what lay behind it but asked anyway then kept silence while he considered the answer.
At the furthest point away from the keep, before they must round the head and walk back, Ramon seemed to reach a decision. ‘Will you let Truth fly?’ he asked. ‘If she comes back to you, I will do it.’
The place was not good to hunt with a goshawk. It was exposed, windy, lacked cover. The prey would be down on the cliff-face and Vertat might overreach the distance he could feel their connection. He had not intended to fly her and she had eaten, not enough to satisfy but more than she should have. He might lose her.
‘Yes,’ he said, unhooding the hawk. He stood at the edge of the cliff, stared down at the black fissures in the rock with the eyes of a hawk. Vertat stiffened at the same time as Dragonetz spotted a slight movement, bird or vole, he knew not. Too high and steep for rabbit. He picked up some pebbles and gave them to Barcelone. ‘Throw them there, where the shadows look like sheep, when I give the word.’
A moment’s concentration on the hawk, her anger, her desire to kill, her wildness and then Dragonetz ordered, ‘Now!’ loosed the jesses and flung her into the wind.
Ramon shied pebbles at the rock face, disturbing a scurry of greyness with feet. Vertat rose, shrieked and dived, taking something with her that wriggled, had a tail. She perched on a ledge far below and the bubbling scream told of her kill but that only mattered to the hawk, not to her master. Getting her back was what mattered and had to be done quickly, before she wondered what it would be like, to keep eating, to keep flying, to become unmanned.
Dragonetz pulled a strip of meat out of his pouch and whistled, cursing the wind that stole his breath and mocked him. The hawk cocked her head, heard and ignored him, renewed her drilling into the squirming prey. He cupped his hands round his mouth and the whistle was louder but gained even less of a response from the hawk. He could almost feel her disdain. What did he offer that was worth coming for?
Provence. War. Brother against brother and blood on every man’s hands. What did that matter to a goshawk? Out of the corner of his eye, Dragonetz sensed Ramon putting down what was left of his pebble collection, one careful stone at a time. One last time, Dragonetz called his hawk, but not by whistling. He cried out, ‘Vertat!’ in the voice that had lost a siege and survived; battled nightmares and been helped back to himself; won the only woman he’d ever loved. He p
ut everything he was into calling his hawk and all his attention into the tie between them. And she came. Fierce and proud, she flew to his glove and snatched her reward. He took the mangled creature and fed a bit to her, threw the rest off the cliff, leashed Vertat.
‘So it’s yes,’ he stated.
‘Yes,’ said Barcelone. They walked back to the training ground in silence broken only by a goshawk’s complaints. Then Dragonetz went to visit Hugues in his sickroom.
As predicted, Les Baux was determined to lead a team in the tourney, despite his inability to sit up in bed, never mind ride a horse. ‘A week, Dragonetz! Give me a week and I’ll be mended!’
‘I don’t know… Estela said the wound went below the surface and would be sore for some time.’ She’d sounded oddly satisfied at the thought too, perhaps pleased at having prevented infection. For the umpteenth time, Dragonetz demanded, ‘How in God’s name did you get such an injury in training?’
Hugues’ flush could only be genuine. ‘I told you - these things happen.’
Dragonetz sighed. He respected Hugues for loyalty to his men but found it odd that no gossip between the men themselves had hinted at the miscreant. ‘Are you sure there was no foul play?’
Hugues flushed even redder. ‘No,’ he said shortly. ‘I deserved it.’
‘Well I only hope you have the defence prepared for another such duel.’
Hugues frowned and returned to more interesting matters. ‘Fix the tourney for Saturday week, so we have no complaint from the church, and I will be ready. My shield has been painted with the star of Bautasar and my standard will be ready by then. I suggest each of my team wears a red scarf around his arm.’ There was no mistaking his satisfaction with his newly-discovered ancestor and livery. ‘I have given thought to the teams while I’ve been lying here. Do you have the names for me? Of all who enter? Barcelone will, won’t he?’
‘He will, my Lord.’ Dragonetz was dismayed by a sudden thought. ‘He’d never agree to serve on your team as your lieutenant. That’s what you had in mind wasn’t it?’
Surprise washed over Hugues’face, quickly replaced with his usual stubbornness. ‘You don’t think I can get people to do anything, do you. I’m the Lord of this citadel and Barcelone is my host. If I invite him to be on my team, he cannot in all courtesy refuse. I shall ask him tomorrow and you will eat your words. Or shall we have a wager on it? His eyes brightened at the prospect.
It was Dragonetz’ turn to wince. ‘No, my Lord, please, no wagers. I’ve had enough gambling today.’
Hugues laughed aloud, then winced as he accidentally rolled on his sore parts. ‘Threw dice with Cam and Moran, did you?’
‘Something like that.’ Dragonetz gave a wry smile. ‘The sort of day I’m having, I wouldn’t be surprised if you ask me to head up the other team!’
Hugues sat bolt upright, startling Vertat. He grunted with pain, made himself comfortable and said, ‘That’s a splendid idea! You must lead the other team.’
‘My Lord,’ protested Dragonetz weakly, ‘I can’t fight against you, even in sport.’
A shadow passed over Hugues’ face and the laughter died out of his eyes. ‘I can fight against you, though.’ There it was again, the wrong note, something sour between Hugues and Dragonetz. Surely he hadn’t drilled Les Baux too hard, trying to make a leader of him? Had Hugues seen the easy respect his men gave Dragonetz? Respect for which Hugues had to work so hard? Dragonetz gave up trying to discover the cause. Whatever it was would work its way out in the tourney.
‘My Lord,’ he sighed. ‘I will do as I’m bid but I don’t like it. And you still have to get Barcelone on your side. He’s the obvious leader for the second team.’
‘You’ve heard my decision. So, let’s talk about who we’ll each have.’ The enthusiasm came back into his voice as they traded team members, taking turns in choosing from the list that Dragonetz reeled off. Assuming that Hugues would have Barcelone, Dragonetz chose Malik. After that, they competed for the strongest fighters, approving each others’ choices with ‘He can turn a horse on a denarius!’ and ‘He’s a good man with an axe!’ until they reached the Porcelets, whom neither of them wanted.
In the end, Hugues took the three of them, on the grounds that it would cut them down to size being under his leadership. Dragonetz hid his satisfaction at placing the irascible family where they were least likely to harm Hugues under cover of sport.
They tallied up to find that Dragonetz was a man short.
‘I’ll ask a Porcelet to stand down,’ suggested Hugues.
‘Can’t. We invited them to enter their names for tourney so we dishonour anyone we don’t accept.’
‘I don’t mind dishonouring a Porcelet.’ Hugues grinned and Dragonetz was tempted but shook his head.
‘Then we must add someone. There must be someone else who wants to join in the sport.’
Dragonetz bit his lip, not naming the someone else.
Hugues picked the name from his mind. ‘The young Comte,’ he said with a sneer. He’s man enough to inherit my province, to hunt with hawk and I bet he’s been training in the manège. He’d follow you, wouldn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ said Dragonetz, quietly. That was exactly the problem. But if he said no to Hugues des Baux, the young heir would make a liar of him by pestering Les Baux personally to join the tourney.
‘Perfect.’ The light of battle was in Hugues’ eyes. ‘And your team will wear what colour?’
‘Blue,’ said Dragonetz, remembering Estela’s blue scarf fluttering, wearing his colours with no idea how he felt about her. Suddenly, he wanted to find her. Vertat could go to the mews.
‘I’m tired now,’ declared Hugues. ‘I think we’ve organised everything rather well.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Dragonetz, ‘I think we have.’
Estela was in the solar, dutifully stabbing white lawn with a blue silk trail of what could have been broken arrow-heads or duck footprints. Blue, Dragonetz’ colour.
‘My Lady Estela?’ As if she’d conjured him, there he was, framed in the doorway, dark and intense. ‘We need your healing skills. One of the men is fevered, crying out that he’s a thirsty camel and only you can help him. Could you leave your embroidery to do a work of charity?’
Estela lowered her eyes demurely to hide the laughter in them as she sought permission from Etiennette to quit her task. ‘My linen thanks you for the reprieve, Lord Dragonetz,’ the Lady des Baux told him, as Estela secured her needle and dropped the sorry excuse for decoration into the work basket. Sancha looked up from stranding an iris petal, in silks graded from pale blue to purple. ‘Camels,’ she said. ‘He does sound in a bad way. You will no doubt require all your skills. And your box of medicines.’ She smiled as she returned to her delicate stitches.
‘Box of medicines,’ repeated Estela, flushing. She’d been ready to run out of the hall and skip along the corridors.
‘And riding skirt,’ suggested Dragonetz. ‘We’ll ride there. Meet me at the stables. I’ll get the horses saddled.’ He vanished.
‘Ride. Yes,’ stammered Estela, rushing out of the roomful of women and along the corridors, as would be natural when called to an emergency ailment. Another doctor would have diagnosed her condition as having little to do with a sick man. Her blood thrummed in anticipation. She had missed this!
Glossy black in the sunshine, Sadeek snorted, eager as Estela for an outing. His master was waiting, his hauberk and Talharcant glinting silver, his hair and eyes dark as his horse. Estela’s usual dappled grey mare had been saddled and a stable-hand hovered. He moved to help Estela mount but Dragonetz was there first. He stooped and cupped his hands for her. She was pleased that even in the rush, she’d chosen her new blue boots with purple favours on the side and a toning skirt, running Sancha’s iris shades in broad, ragged stripes. It was all rather fine for riding but some days were meant for finery, high days and Holy Days. This promised to be a high day.
As blind to the stable-boy as if the lad had been
a goshawk in the bedchamber, Dragonetz captured one booted foot in his long musician’s hands, holding it long enough for her to feel the pressure of his warm fingers through the goatskin sole, before she was released and boosted into the saddle. His fingers circled her ankle, opened and played three chords on her calf.
Estela looked down at him, laughed, sang the opening line of a duet they had performed many times and chid him. ‘Sadeek grows impatient, my Lord.’
‘As do I,’ he told her, leaving her side, mounting in one fluid movement, saying, ‘Follow me!’ As if there were any other option. She would have followed him, anywhere, Oltra mar across churning seas or to the depths of the devil-goat cave, while this fire burned between them. He led her up the steep southern path, past the cave where the ambush had taken place, past the look-out posts on the hillside, where Dragonetz exchanged passwords and pleasantries with Les Baux guards. At the top of the ridge, Sadeek picked his way off the path and through the garrigue, between white rocks four times the size of a man on horseback. One looked like a crouching ogre, another a hunched vulture.
Dragonetz rode on until a craggy lion couchant seemed to meet his requirements and he dismounted, tied Sadeek to a rock outcrop and came to Estela’s side. His hands spanned her waist as he helped her dismount and she breathed in, hoping he wouldn’t notice the loss of girlish slimness since she’d had Musca. From the way his eyes and hands lingered, his thoughts were not critical. A wind-sculpted pine tree offered another tethering post. After securing the mare, Dragonetz gave Estela his full attention.
Unhurried now, he freed her plaits from their coif, unbound them, loosed her black hair, let it swing around her waist. He twined his fingers round some strands and gently combed through them, stroking her back through the curtain of hair, murmuring a quotation in Arabic that she suspected had nothing to do with camels.
‘Are you thirsty?’ she murmured.
