by Jean Gill
He laughed, black eyes gleaming. ‘I brought water,’ he said and laid her on earth that smelled of pine needles, thyme and summer savory. When she closed her eyes, she could still see azure skies spinning, dizzy with sunshine, burning blue.
How could anyone think this was wrong, she wondered, holding him as he slept, both of them clothed only in her hair. A buzzard krie-kried overhead and cicadas rubbed their summer chorus, over and over. A lizard stretched out on the stone, taking in heat. Wise lizard, she thought, knowing its cold nature and finding what it lacked. Like her and Dragonetz. Perfect harmony. Heat and cold. Fire, water, earth and air: no element missing. ‘Nobody will ever come between us,’ she murmured.
‘Nobody,’ he agreed sleepily, rolling over and kissing her again.
Then they talked, far from the castle’s ears, where he could speak of the tourney, of his hopes that the ties begun in hawking would grow in the sport of a tourney: that idle men’s rivalries could be harnessed: that Ramon Berenguer, Comte de Barcelone, had the skills to bring des Baux to his glove while playing the inferior role. He spoke of his fears too.
No such sport was without danger. He had lost men in training exercises before, through careless use of weapons or through deliberate use of the opportunity to settle scores. There would be no shortage of scores to settle on this mock-battlefield. He had to hope that Malik could protect his team-mate, the young Comte de Provence, but that would leave Dragonetz only Raoulf whose loyalty was without question.
Estela listened, asked good questions, offered reassurance. Her heart screamed, ‘Let’s go home, where you’ll be safe,’ but she loved a warrior and knew the cost. He must be himself and she must be a fit helpmate. Lying on the pine needles and scorched earth, she nearly asked him about Etiennette, nearly told him about Hugues, but she knew that none of these revelations would help him carry the burden he had taken on.
She collected the clothes strewn around them, shook off the earth and pine needles, winced at the creases in her riding-skirt. They dressed and he plaited her hair, tutted as he picked some dry grass blades out of her coif. She checked his apparel and passed it as acceptable for view from a distance. Then they mounted once more, touching hands from the saddle as if it was too soon to return to one body each.
Neither of them was in a rush to return to the citadel and they stopped on the ridge as the view opened up. Provence lay spread below them, Les Baux turning blue and gold in the sunset at their feet. ‘Even Provence is blue, ‘she told him. ‘Your colours.’
‘Sing for me tonight.’
‘I always do,’ said Estela.
Chapter 23
When a wolf first sees a person, the airy spirits accompanying it weaken the person’s powers, so he does not know that the wolf sees him. If the person sees the wolf first, he holds God in his heart, and by that effort both the wolf and airy spirits flee.
Physica, Animals
From his seat at the High Table, Dragonetz watched Estela as she performed for the court. Elegant in blue silk and sapphires, her black hair disciplined into a net studded with periwinkles, she looked queenly and unattainable. It seemed impossible that such a woman had been wild and naked in his arms, smelling of pine needles and summer herbs. Impossible that she was here, in public, wearing his colours and glancing in his direction, making mischief with the lines of a song that meant more in private than any other listener could know. How could anyone in that hall look elsewhere? Her fingers running over the oud plucked at his heart-strings and her sweet voice made a man believe in angels.
While Estela sang, all was right with the world. Hugues’ absence, laid up in bed, removed the glowering tension from the High Table, where Etiennette would always be too proud a hostess to let politics destroy courtesy. Ramon was more than her equal and could not be faulted as a guest. Though they would kill each other on the battlefield, they would never trade insults. The same could not be said of the Porcelets and lesser lords - nor of Hugues himself - but Dragonetz had high hopes of the coming tourney. Discussion with Malik and Raoulf had clarified their strategy, so that the event should purge men’s frustrations without turning a blood-letting into a bloodbath. Dragonetz could trust Malik and Raoulf with what meant more than his life, his honour, and he felt whole again at the very idea of such men being at his side. And such a woman.
The pause between songs allowed a newcomer entrance to the Great Hall. Dragonetz was vaguely aware of the shuffling and murmur as someone entered, made way along the tables, past the seated guests and busy servers but all his attention was on Estela as she picked up her instrument for the last song.
He was apprehensive when he recognised her transposition for a lute and one voice of the von Bingen song that had so moved him in the chapel. However, as she put her soul into the words and sang for him, his very being sang with her. He’d underestimated her and what a woman’s voice could bring to this heavenly music. ‘Praise be to thee, O spirit of flame,’ she sang, and he shut his eyes to concentrate better.
Intellectus te in dulcissimo sono
advocate ac edificial tibi
cum rationaliate parat
que in aureis operibus sudat.
Intellect calls to you
with sweetest sound
and teams you with Reason
to make works of great worth.
This was his life’s work, in the words of a song, and he could already hear the next verse in his mind, describing Talharcant’s blessed mission, when another voice chimed in, adding an unmistakeable male tenor to Estela’s soprano. The blend chilled Dragonetz, every word become a deadly irony. Poison indeed. He opened his eyes.
Tu autem semper gladium
habes illud abscidere
quod noxiale pomum
per nigerrimum homicidium profert.
Sword e’er in hand
to cut out
what the apple poisons
through blackest murder.
The singer was weaving through the courtiers towards Estela. A knight, muscular, and fresh from travel. He was still wearing mail shirt, the hood cowled round his neck and revealing tousled gold-brown locks. His leather britches were serviceable and no doubt stained, hardly meant for a court appearance. He’d no doubt left his sword with the weapons at the door but Dragonetz would bet he was armed - a dagger in both boots probably.
Estela had faltered in surprise but picked up the next verse and they completed their duet. They bowed and curtseyed to the audience, smiled silly grins at each other. The knight made obeisance lingering long enough over Estela’s hand to make Dragonetz’ sword-hand itch beyond bearing.
‘Who is it?’ whispered Etiennette.
‘Geoffroi de Rançon,’ replied Dragonetz. The knight who’d tried to murder him in the Holy Land. The knight who’d wormed his way into Estela’s good graces, posing as Dragonetz’ best friend. The enemy Dragonetz could not kill or even unmask without losing Estela. And the only other person who knew de Rançon for what he really was had been banished; Gilles would be no help this time. Aloud, Dragonetz said, ‘One of Aliénor’s men, an old acquaintance.’
Beaming, resting on de Rançon’s arm, Estela brought the knight to the High Table, no doubt to introduce him to Etiennette and re-unite him with his best friend. Swordless, Dragonetz willed himself to be Damascan steel, fine and strong, honed and meet for purpose.
‘Dragonetz, my friend!’ the man hailed him, with evident delight at renewing their acquaintance. He threw his arms round Dragonetz in a manly hug, his hauberk catching on the linen tabard, pinching the skin underneath. ‘At last!’ De Rançon’s eyes were what people remembered of him, all colours and no colour, gathering and reflecting light, hypnotic, hypocritical.
‘My Lord de Rançon.’ Dragonetz could not feign a matching warmth and felt Estela’s disappointment. Already, he thought. It begins. He didn’t have to wait long for the first hit.
De Rançon’s expression shifted to the solemnity appropriate to announcing a death in the famil
y. Dragonetz waited, impassive. ‘Would I had found you under other circumstances…’ began the newcomer. Estela looked from one man to the other, her smile fading. Stammering in his embarrassment at the errand but loud enough to be heard by everyone in the hall, de Rançon said, ‘I have been charged by our Liege,the lady Aliénor, Duchesse d’Aquitaine and Queen of England, to declare you Oath-breaker, exiled from her protection and her presence, hencewith.’
Estela gasped, murmuring, ‘It has begun!’ as if she’d read Dragonetz’ own thoughts.
Through gritted teeth he said, ‘This makes no sense. There is some misunderstanding.’
Sadly, de Rançon shook his head. ‘No my friend. She sent a messenger to you telling of the threat posed by King Louis after her marriage to Henri Courtmantel, Lord of Anjou and King of England. She summoned you to her side and you were oath-bound to obey. She did not believe you had not come but the evidence of her own eyes could not be denied. And as soon as the battle with Louis was over, and she was victorious - without your support - she sent me to proclaim your dishonour to the world. I begged her to send someone else…’ he tailed off, broken-voiced looking down.
‘I received no such message. I knew nothing of the Queen’s danger or need.’ Why did he know nothing, Dragonetz wondered. He looked along the High Table, caught the pity and guilt in Etiennette’s eyes, the calm judgement in Ramon’s and he understood. They had known.
When he’d knelt before Ramon and spoken of his fealty to Aliénor, Barcelone had known full well that all Aliénor’s men were at her side. But he’d said nothing because he’d wanted Lord Dragonetz for himself. Etiennette had known and said nothing, for the same reason. And he had played with pigeons from the south, caring nothing for events in the north, thinking nothing of the lack of news. What a fool he’d been and how de Rançon must be enjoying himself.
‘This is a grave mistake. No news reached me or I would have gone to my Lady’s side. I am no oath-breaker.’ His voice rang out in the silence of the hall and the word ‘Oath-breaker’ echoed, lingering.
‘The Queen will have you killed if you go within a hundred miles of her,’ stated de Rançon. That, Dragonetz could believe. He’d been on the receiving end of a red-headed temper more than once. If he couldn’t get to see Aliénor, he could never redeem himself.
‘There’s more,’ de Rançon declared solemnly, his face the picture of pained sympathy. ‘Your father…’
Dragonetz’ jaw ached from gritting his teeth during the dramatic pause but he managed to keep silent.
Clearly struggling to say something so difficult, de Rançon continued, ‘… your father, Lord Dragonetz, is shamed to have given birth to you and disinherits you. He says you are no son of his and Ruffec is barred to you.’ Apologetic eyes looked frankly into Dragonetz’ own, man to man. ‘He bade me say this to you, word for word.’
I bet he did! Dragonetz took the gaze as he was trained to do with a sword through the guts; noting the pain, knowing he would have to feel it later, disciplining his body and speech. ‘I need to take some air,’ he said. ‘Please excuse me, my Lady. My Lords.’ A nod in the direction of Etiennette, Ramon and, of course, de Rançon, sufficed and he could make his escape. He had to pass the infernal man within touching distance and the latter took the opportunity to give friendly solace, whispered but loud enough to reach Estela. First mistake, thought Dragonetz grimly, even as he reacted helplessly to the new thrust.
‘This must be hard for you. I have brought the medicaments that gave you such strength in the Holy Land. Just send me word if you should need a little help in sleeping…’
Dragonetz felt the instant craving that returned if he did not keep busy and out of temptation at all times. All he had to do was send a messenger to de Rançon, any time he felt overwhelmed and the poppy would let him sleep, would do more than that - would give him such dreams… He stumbled against a courtier. ‘Excuse me’, he mumbled and headed blindly for the door.
Behind him, he heard Estela’s angry, ‘No! I am in charge of any medicaments here.’ He had the impression she was following him out but he was too churned up to look, as he reclaimed Talharcant from the pile of weapons and fantasised about driving his sword through de Rançon’s smug face. Part of Dragonetz’ mind registered that Estela knew the impact de Rançon’s parting words would have and that her angry reaction played against the enemy.
She caught up with him outside, took his arm, held on tightly as if he would float up into the sky if she didn’t tether him. He laughed at himself, bitter. Poppy-thoughts already.
‘He just thought to ease your mind after such a blow,’ Estela put the best interpretation on de Rançon’s words. Of course; she would. ‘He doesn’t know what we went through, what you went through.’
Dragonetz leaned against a wall, breathed deeply, shut his eyes. ‘Oath-breaker,’ he said. ‘What is my fealty worth now?’ She moved into his arms and they clung to each other.
‘Nobody will come between us,’ she murmured. Why would she say that again? Was it because somebody might? Somebody who’d found them, here, in Les Baux.
‘It seems we are both orphans,’ he told her, digging deep for a lighter tone and gently disengaging from her embrace. ‘But there is a bigger field of battle to consider. I need some time to think.’ She nodded and said nothing. He left her standing at the entrance to the Great Hall, and strode off, blind to the guards he passed, the giggles of girls giving night exchanges until he reached the chapel.
The great oak door swung open, offering sanctuary, and Dragonetz knelt before the altar, in the candlelight, the cross of his sword a focus for his thoughts. Any attempt to empty his mind and allow something greater to direct him merely dropped him to base need. Those who’d given him the poppy had known full well the life sentence they had given him. His hands shook and the demon on his shoulder whispered, ‘Just one message. Send a boy to de Rançon and pain will cease. Oh and the dreams will be beautiful, this world as it should be, as it could be, paradise itself…’
He missed Vertat’s weight and claws, suddenly angry with Estela for banishing the hawk. If Vertat were with him, he’d be fine! Poppy thoughts, he told himself, as a cloaked figure appeared and knelt beside him. He didn’t have to look to know that Estela had followed him, was keeping him company. Another surge of anger - she was watching him to make sure he didn’t succumb to poppy temptation. She didn’t trust him. As suddenly as the anger came, it went, and he knew her presence was a silent message of love. He also acknowledged that he didn’t trust himself.
For an eternity, they knelt in silent communion. As Dragonetz prayed and fought his demons, he was visited by memories of his greatest battle with the drug, and of the people who’d helped him. He could not distinguish between the living and the dead in that battle. He knew that Estela and Malik had tended his body’s needs and fought his unreason. He knew that his dreams had taken him beyond this world and there too he’d found friendship from beyond the grave; Arnaut had walked with him in that otherness, fought for him as he had when alive.
The worlds had fuzzed and fused, worlds in which Dragonetz was not alone, but staunchly defended in his weakness. Even the boy, Muganni, had crossed worlds with Malik, saving Dragonetz’ mind as once Dragonetz had saved the boy’s body. In his mind, Dragonetz could hear the perfect voice of that little Arab boy, singing for the Queen of Jerualem. Before he’d been set free, with a diamond in his pouch.
‘Sing for me,’ Dragonetz murmured.
Shocked, Estela said, ‘Here? A woman sing in a church?’
‘Von Bingen and her nuns sing.’
‘But that’s in a convent. The priest here wouldn’t like it.’
‘He’s not here. Sing it again for me. O ignee spiritus.’
Standing, so as to breathe correctly, and facing the altar to do reverence, Estela’s voice filled the corners of the chapel with the words that echoed in Dragonetz’ heart. His insides clenched as she sang the verse he’d last heard in duet, then eased as
he let the words and voice touch him, heal him, cleanse the dirt de Rançon had left on the music.
He let the message reach him, released in the purity of his lover’s song. To poison what was good and what was beautiful would always be easier than to proclaim it. But poison only worked if the body allowed the toxins. Once the poison was identified, it could be purged. And Dragonetz had no problem identifying the poison.
Estela sang on and Dragonetz watched the candlelight flare on Talharcant, the sword consecrated to fight evil. He saw a fallen angel, eyes sparkling with many colours, falling from the tower of pride. He understood what he must do. All that remained was to decide on how.
Quando autem malum ad te gladium suum educit
tu illud in cor illius refringis
sicut in primo perdito angelo fecisti
ubi turrim superbie illius
in infernum deiecisti
When evil draws its sword on you,
you turn it back into its black heart
as you did to the fallen angel
in the beginning
hurling his tower of pride
down into hell.
Chapter 24
Certain people are malicious, either by nature or because of the devil, and express nothing willingly. When they speak they have a harsh look and at times they nearly go out of their mind, as if propelled by madness. They then quickly return to themselves. These people should often, or indeed always, place a diamond in their mouth. It is of such virtue and of such great strength that it extinguishes the malice and evil in them.
Physica, Stones
In the morning, once she was sure Dragonetz was deeply asleep, aided by a potion which owed nothing to the poppy, Estela sought out the one person with whom she could share her fears. ‘You know how he is,’ she told Malik. ‘He has so much self-control in public and then, to deal with all this in private! Of course he is tempted to seek oblivion.’
