by Jean Gill
After a moment’s thought, Estela said, ‘As we will be spectators at the tourney and wearing the same colours, Dragonetz’ blue, perhaps you would choose a new scarf for me. Mine seems to have gone missing.’ Maria looked down at her pouch as she pulled the string closed again. ‘Yes, if you could choose a new scarf for me at market tomorrow, that would do very well as a thank you. I suspect you can find a poor family who would benefit from your coin…’ There was no need to say that she had Maria’s own family in mind.
‘You shall have three scarves, my Lady. And I know you shall like them because I have studied your taste, to help me improve and be more a lady.’
‘Thank you, Maria! That is quite a compliment.’ Estela was certain that studying Lady Sancha would further the girl’s ladylike ambitions better than imitating someone who spent her time mixing potions or plucking a lute but refrained from saying so. She noticed that Maria had copied her own way of plaiting and coiffing her long, black hair, so that from behind, they looked quite alike. A compliment indeed.
Geoffroi was sitting on the cold stone, his gaze taking in neither the view through the window nor the letter on his lap as light faded from the horizon. He didn’t need the candle-light in his chamber to know the contents of the letter. The words had him by heart and they wound themselves into his confusion. Satiated from the night before, aching to repeat the experience, he wondered what on earth or hell he was doing. For he had surrendered his chance of heaven on the long, shameful journey back from the Holy Land with his disgraced father. Instead of heaven, he had discovered a purpose in life, revenge instead of crusade.
What if he’d stayed with his brothers? If he’d died fighting the Infidel, the Pope had promised that his soul would be cleansed of all sins - so few and boyish in those days! Wasn’t that his duty, to fight in God’s army, for his Liege Aliénor, alongside men like Dragonetz? His father had been found wanting, not him!
Yet he’d accompanied that broken man into perdition. And now? The missive had been addressed to Geoffroi, hereto known as de Rançon and he’d known before he read it that his father had finally lost his mind but he would never have guessed why, nor how the circumstances would allow no appeal.
Your mother has died. Three years in a convent, refusing all contact with her son after she’d fled her husband’s violence.
In her last moments, she begged the sisters to tell me of my true heir, your younger brother, Geoffroi de Rançon, born after she went to the convent. She told me that this baby was conceived in pure thoughts and blessed by the nuns. She confessed that your conception was by an incubus in my guise and that she committed the sin of lust. This is why you brought evil on our house. Your devilish spells made me fail in my duties as Aliénor’s commander and led to my disgrace.
Once God revealed the cause of my behaviour, your mother pardoned me and bid me exorcise you from our house, so that the good name of our family be restored as if you never existed. She named the baby Geoffroi de Rançon and she did penance for her own part in bringing such an ill-begotten changeling into the world.
Now I understand the cause of all my woes, I too will do penance and protect my heir, Geoffroi de Rançon, from all evil. Do not come within one hundred miles of Rançon or I will have you tried by the Church for the sorcery you inflicted on this family. Seek employment or damnation elsewhere.
Formal repudiation of your rights to inherit has been lodged with our Liege, Aliénor, Duchesse of Aquitaine and Queen of England and with the Clerk de Rançon.
No signature, just the seal. In pity and respect for his service, Aliénor had sent Geoffroi on this mission and told him he could rejoin the company in England. If he did, it would be as a knight with no name. He heard the whispers, saw men crossing themselves behind his back.
He had vowed before God to avenge his father against the cause of their downfall, Dragonetz, and all he had left was his knighthood and that vow, plus the worldly goods he had accumulated. These were sufficient for his upkeep but no compensation for what he’d lost. Nor help in understanding what he’d gained.
He had a baby brother, growing up in the Rançon estate, its precious heir. Falling and skinning his knees on the gravel around the walled potager. Being shushed and cuddled by his nurse while he cried. Geoffroi felt the warmth of a woman’s arms soothing a little boy’s pain: his nurse - sometimes even his mother.
But this child was motherless and so was he. His mother’s last act had been to kill her elder son. Worse than killing, she had taken his life and his name, given them to another, and left him breathing still.
Perhaps he should kill the Geoffroi usurper. He tried to imagine running his sword through the toddler, even gave the babe their father’s eyes to stir up a rush of heat. After all, he’d done worse, for less reason, and enjoyed it. And yet, he couldn’t do it. He could not change who he was and he had never betrayed his family, or rather what used to be his family. All he wanted was to make good the family name, protect this new member, teach him dice games and take him to his first drink, his first woman, his first fight.
Unclenching his fist, he studied his hand, saw a small fist curled in his, heard a baby’s laughter. He would have been so good as a big brother. He could be such a good father too, he who knew the worst of parenting. What future was there now for any child his woman might bear.
Had he really pictured himself a ruddy-faced lord in Rançon, Maria and a brood of children beside him, accepting what life allowed him instead of seeking what was impossible? Hadn’t Dragonetz himself found solace in some Damascan woman, even after he’d realised she was not Estela?
Never before had Geoffroi taken a woman without feeling disgust. He could not name, even to himself, the sweetness that had swept through in bed with this girl but he had dared to imagine that the future could be re-written. That he and the bloodied diamond could both be cleansed.
‘An ill-begotten changeling’. He clenched his fist again, would have smashed it into the stone but for the knowledge that tomorrow was tourney day. Here, he was still Geoffroi de Rançon, stronger and more devious than Dragonetz los Pros and fighting beside him in the field. There was much to consider and he wanted all parts of his body at fighting strength. He remained a knight.
‘Eschew false judgement and treason; honour and aid womankind. Thou shalt never slay thy lord, lie with his lady or surrender his castle. He murmured the words spoken over his making, when he had sworn fealty to Aliénor, as had Dragonetz. And look where they were now.
A soft knock on the door announced his evening visitor and the moment she was through the door he buried his face in the girl’s long, black hair, twining it through his fingers like a safety rope. He kissed her silent, swept her to the bed, trying to be gentle. So soft, so sweet. He felt the wave of pleasure, surging too soon, tried to hold back. The pressure built like a thunderstorm, crashing up from his loins to the back of his neck and into his head, where it exploded like the wrath of God in pain such as he’d never known before.
‘My Lord? Are you all right?’
Rainbows zigzagged in front of his eyes. The girl crushed beneath him split into three concerned faces, as she wriggled to breathe more easily. His head thumped with a headache worse than the time he’d caught a mace blow on his helm.
He rolled over, controlled his breathing as if in full armour under desert sun. Gradually, the thumping reduced to bearable pain.
‘My Lord?’ Frightened this time.
He reached for her hand, heart pounding to match his head.
‘I’m all right,’ he lied. ‘Too much pleasure, too quickly. Go to sleep.’ Perhaps his mother had been right. Damned in this world as well as the next. Why had God chosen to punish him for lust, just at the moment he was ready to atone for worse? Maybe this was a warning, a reminder. As he lay there, recovering, a sleeping girl’s hand clasped in his own, he vowed that he would make it good, all of it. He would make the pilgrimage to Sant Iago de Compostela and complete it on his knees. He would marry his be
dmate, bring children into the world and be a good father. His lashes were wet as his headache receded and he fell into dreams of storms and rainbows.
Chapter 28
If someone is bruised on any part of his body from a blow or a fall, he should take old fat, and mix with it equal amounts of sage and tansy. He should press prasine into it, then heat it in the sun or near a fire. Then he should place all this, with the stone, so heated, over the place where it hurts, and it will be better.
Physica, Stones
Dragonetz could still hear the echo of seven voices blending, the gift left to him from his poppy dreams. While the singing lingered, he knew an inner peace. ‘Inshallah,’ he murmured. One day, he would find the voices to bring his music to the world. He had tried, had sent messages to abbeys and monasteries famed for their plainsong, but the reply was always the same. The notion of multiple voices singing different melodies was not possible. How many times in his life would Dragonetz be told something was ‘not possible’? When he could hear the music of the spheres! One day, he told himself. One day, he would find the voices and teach them to interweave the pattern of his dream.
‘My Lord Dragonetz?’
‘Raoulf.’ More cause for guilt. Dragonetz had barely wished good-day to his loyal lieutenant since they’d come to Les Baux. Barring some curt words over Raoulf’s dispute with Gilles regarding Prima, conversations had been little more than instructions and yet Dragonetz had grown up with this bear of a man always at his side. Such a history, and the loss of his son, gave Raoulf the right and, in his own eyes, the duty to say what nobody else dared.
‘I’ve not spoken to you since de Rançon’s message -’ Raoulf began
‘ - Then don’t.’ Dragonetz cut him short.
‘Your father, and the Duchesse, will see they’re mistaken…’ persevered Raoulf, flinching at the black-eyed glare he earned.
‘Have you checked horses, armour, weapons?’ Dragonetz asked, pointedly ignoring the comment.
‘Of course, my Lord!’
‘And is Hugues really recovered enough in your view?’ The very question was intended as a salve to Raoulf’s pride, a reminder that his opinion counted - on military matters.
‘Put it this way: if he comes unseated, his arse will be sorer than a pair of unblemished buttocks would be. But between us, I wouldn’t cry over it. And he’s champing at the bit to have at the enemy - whoever he might decide that to be.’
Dragonetz smiled. ‘Astute as ever. There will be a few on both sides having at their enemies, whoever they might decide fits the name. Walk with me and tell me what you think of a wheel formation to begin the tourney. If we have the young Comte as standard bearer and Malik beside him, of course, then each of us rides as in a spoke at his jousting partner, do you think that would work?’
Raoulf sucked on the coarse hairs of his black beard, discovered a breadcrumb and disposed of it, chewing on the idea. ‘Maybe,’ he said cautiously. ‘I like the formation itself but you’re hoping they’ll form a loose outer wheel, riding around until each selects his target?’
‘Not hoping,’ replied Dragonetz, a glint in his eye. ‘relying on it.’
Raoulf sighed. ‘Inside information.’
‘Of course. So?’ Dragonetz prompted.
‘It’s the best way to protect the young Comte,’ Raoulf conceded, ‘and it makes the one-to-one combat better organised than your average melée. But it gives them three advantages; they’ll already be moving into the joust and they’ll be picking who fights whom.’
Dragonetz shook his head. ‘Hugues and I’ve agreed that each of his men turns and stops, then charges in turn, on the signal. That’s time enough for us to do likewise. And it means we’ll all move from a standing start.
As to the partnering - Hugues and I have decided that already. And of course Barcelone will be doing all he can to protect the young Comte too,’ Dragonetz pointed out, ‘so he’ll work to keep our formation in place, even if he’s on the other team.’
Raoulf’s eyes widened. ‘It wasn’t Barcelone who…’
‘I’m saying nothing,’ grinned his Commander. ‘Besides, Hugues is the opposition leader, not Ramon.’
‘And you know fine well that any seasoned general can direct Hugues, simply by telling him what he mustn’t do,’ observed Raoulf.
‘The third disadvantage?’ pursued Dragonetz.
‘They’ll be charging at our standard-bearer - your precious young Comte - and we’ll be charging towards a precipice.’ The plateau might be flat and easy-going underfoot, especially in summer drought, but on three sides there were sheer cliffs.
‘Motivates our men to control their horses well. Practising in a manège doesn’t offer the same discipline.’
Raoulf wisely bit back whatever he had started to say. Instead, he asked, ‘The rules are unchanged?’
‘All as agreed. First contact with the lance, one attempt only, to avoid damaging other contenders. If one is unseated, he yields. If neither or both, the combat continues by sword until one yields. The men have been told we want no deaths and there is no shame in yielding but glory in fighting with honour.
We expect chivalry.’ Dragonetz shrugged. They both knew how men behaved, once roused to a fight. ‘Those taken prisoner are honour bound to go and stand with the Master of Horse. He has a vested interest in seeing that any riderless horses are removed from the scene by his hands and cared for properly.
We want to avoid any serious bloodshed. I had an idea that we could make blunted lances for such an occasion but all tell me ‘it’s impossible’. There will be a lot of excitable men and horse in a small space, even with the plans for formation. Bloodletting will be useful but I’m hoping we can stop at that.’ One day, he told himself, blunted weapons would be in use at tourneys. Another project that would prove not only possible but practical, in the future.
Another hesitation from Raoulf before speaking.
‘Spit it out, man,’ Dragonetz told him. ‘I’d rather know beforehand than after I’ve missed something.’
‘It’s just… there are a lot of men in this with good reason to kill each other.’
‘That’s what makes it entertaining!’
‘And if Hugues de Baux manages to kill his young liege under cover of sport? You’d not find that so entertaining!’ retorted Raoulf.
‘Neither would Ramon,’ was the reply, serious now. ‘But you underestimate Hugues. He values his reputation as a man of honour too much to choose the assassin’s route. If Etiennette were on the battlefield, now that would be a good question!
I’ve even wondered about Ramon,’ he confessed. ‘Whether he might take the opportunity to rid himself of Hugues. But I think El Sant is hoping to win Hugues over, not kill him, or he’d have done so long before. And on a more practical note, killing Hugues would only leave three younger brothers to follow, each more vengeful than the next, if Etiennette has her way. No, Ramon’s main task will be watching over his nephew and no doubt arranging some sword-play for him to feel like a man.’
Raoulf was sucking on his beard again. ‘Ay, there’s another thing. If the young lordling is out of combat as standard bearer, does that mean they’re doing likewise? Keeping a man out of play? Where will he be then? First man to win a joust could take their standard early on?’
Dragonetz shook his head. ‘It’s more complicated. Malik is out of play too, protecting the standard. Neither he nor Ramon would allow the boy to join in otherwise. We have the extra man with de Rançon, they’re keeping standard-bearer and one guard, the rest are paired in combat.
Some of the pairs I know; some I don’t but I can guess. They don’t have the same constraints as we do so maybe the standard-bearer will roam. But you’re right, it’s always good for morale to capture the standard, so if we can, we will.’
His grin was boyish, infectious, as he teased his lieutenant. ‘Keep that in mind when you’ve won your bout.’
It was Raoulf’s turn to shrug. ‘What can go wrong?’ he
asked, with gloomy scepticism. He refrained from pointing out that charging over a precipice could be considered bloodshed by onlookers. Or indeed by the knight who found himself riding through clouds. War was tough. Training was practice for war.
‘What indeed?’ Dragonetz’ smile would have warned anyone who knew him that the tourney would unleash all the wild energy hiding within the nickname ‘los Pros’.
Striped canopies and banners in silks of all colours protected the spectators from the sun and many a lady wore her heart on her sleeve in red or blue favours. Pinned by a small gold dragon to the fashionable ruches, Estela’s blue ribbons fluttered proudly from an azure gown. Her hips were girdled by a plaited navy leather belt, fastened with her Pathfinder Brooch. Was it only two years ago that she’d worn the Viking rune-gift to another tourney, when Dragonetz had misinterpreted her attire as support for another? She would give him no cause to doubt her this time.
In the same stand as Estela, but seated as became her status, the Lady of Les Baux sported a red scarf embroidered with the new house blazon, the sixteen-pointed star of her ancestor Bautasar. Estela smiled to herself at the birth of a legend and made a mental note that she would pay another visit to the Gyptian on her own behalf, to extract more details about her own mysterious discovery.
Red ribbons and scarves decorated the ladies like poppies in a field but there was no shortage of azure. Anticipation turned to anxiety as the spectators watched an empty battle-field and waited. The trumpeters sounded a fanfare. Then another.
‘I feel faint,’ murmured a familiar voice beside Estela, the woman’s face hidden behind a makeshift fan, wielded more energetically than should have been possible by a damsel about to sink to the ground.
