Plaint for Provence

by Jean Gill

  Red tabards, of course. Two of them. No, make that three. That hadn’t been part of the plan either.

  ‘Congratulations,’ he shouted. ‘Looks like the reds are doing well. Do you really need another one?’ He readied himself.

  ‘No,’ one said. The ringleader Dragonetz noted, trying to identify the voice. Was that a band round the man’s arm? Not a token from a lady but his own blazon? A pair of tusks on yellow background?

  ‘No, we don’t need another blue. But we’re having you, ferryman.’

  A prank come back to bite him in the bottom. Dragonetz sighed. ‘Porcelet. Such a grudge-bearer. Go on then. Do your worst. One at a time, of course, in all honour…’

  ‘There was no honour when you cried ‘Forger’ on John Halfpenny and then played his rescuer.’ Dragonetz’ protests of innocence were ignored as Porcelet nodded to his companions and all three rushed their victim. Boot, fist, sword and shield took the first onslaught but it wouldn’t take his three attackers long to realise that all they had to do was force him back. The sheer drop would do the rest. Would they really murder him for some paint on their hands?

  Dragonetz manoeuvred sideways, hoping to be driven towards the centre, to reach Barcelone’s mediation but he saw recognition dawn in Porcelet’s eyes. ‘Go round the other side,’ he ordered one of his cronies. ‘Block him. Force him that way. We’ll see how well he dances with air beneath his feet.’

  Before the men could move to trap him, Dragonetz felt the rush of air as a sword tip whistled past his ear, from behind. Hugues? Who would not allow such a breach of chivalry, however irritated he was with his mother - and Dragonetz.

  Holding the sword like a lance, under his armpit, the newcomer knocked Dragonetz to one side as he lunged at Porcelet, piercing the mail by his ribs as the latter turned to avoid the blow. Blue. The newcomer wore blue.

  ‘In all honour, Dragonetz! You have my oath!’ shouted de Rançon and moved so the two of them were back to back, in the strongest position of brothers-in-arms. The way they’d fought on crusade, two young knights from the same region, with de Rançon Senior as their Commander. But that was a defensive position, a way to postpone death while waiting for help. De Rançon was too fine a swordsman for them to need help.

  Dragonetz stepped forward, turned his sword hilt first and whacked a bemused attacker on the nose-plate, then in the chest. The man stumbled and Dragonetz hit him again, made his nose run then winded him once more, forcing him in the direction of the cliff-face. ‘Three steps,’ Dragonetz warned him. ‘Any last words?’

  ‘Mercy, my Lord,’ the man stammered, dropping to his knees.

  Dragonetz pulled him up roughly, span him around while the man screamed and then jogged his dizzy prisoner enough towards the centre of the field that he could continue staggering towards Barcelone and his just desserts.

  De Rançon had just booted Porcelet between the legs, to judge by the latter’s response, and was battering the other attacker with his shield but was finding it difficult to use his sword to finish either.

  ‘Don’t feel constrained to keep them alive,’ Dragonetz drawled as he joined in. He was met by eyes that danced, reflecting not just the sun. Partnership. This is what we do.

  Dragonetz turned his attention to the leading Porcelet, the one wearing a blazon on his arm, but he was disappointed. No finesse, he thought as fended off a weak thrust with his shield, and drove his sword hilt into the same spot de Rançon had weakened with his boot. Winded, Porcelet dropped to his knees and was begging mercy before Dragonetz had even threatened him with a further blow.

  ‘You know the way. Don’t look back!’ Dragonetz told the quivering merchant. He watched long enough to ensure he didn’t get another surprise from behind then rested on his sword to enjoy de Rançon’s skills. And they were a pleasure to watch.

  He drew things out a bit for Dragonetz to enjoy, remarking, ‘Missed that opening didn’t I,’ as he exposed all the vulnerable places on his opponent while goading him to continue.

  ‘The man has some gumption, I’ll give him that’ Dragonetz teased. ‘He’s making you work.’

  ‘Think so?’ De Rançon grabbed the other’s sword, allowed his to be grabbed in return, so that they were eye to eye. Then de Rançon twisted neatly so the swords crossed and in the confusion he took them both and held them with the points an inch from the attacker’s eyes.

  ‘Mercy?’ he suggested.

  ‘Mercy, my Lord,’ stammered the vanquished red tabard and was allowed to run off towards the prisoners’ camp.

  Dragonetz clapped de Rançon on the back, ‘That was fine!’

  De Rançon took off his helm, shook his curls free from the mailed hood and breathed heavily, his face flushed, his eyes glowing like a boy’s. ‘I think we’ve lost,’ he pointed out the numbers of red tabards still on the field.

  ‘I do hope so,’ Dragonetz grinned, ‘but we have done it in style. Let’s go and console our standard-bearer and congratulate the winners.’ He started to remove his helm but de Rançon stayed his arm.

  ‘I should wait, if I were you,’ he warned Dragonetz.

  Advancing on them was a red tabard, determination in every stride. ‘Dragonetz,’ the knight shouted. ‘We haven’t finished, damn you!’

  Before his would-be opponent drew near enough to swing a blow, Dragonetz dropped to his knees. ‘Mercy, my Lord Hugues,’ he pleaded. De Rançon stood relaxed beside him, making no move to replace his own helm. His eyes danced with light, catching his grin and throwing it back to his partner in blue, whose own smile was luckily hidden.

  ‘You can’t surrender before we fight! I demand satisfaction!’ Hugues’ outrage did not lead him as far as attacking the man who knelt in front of him, so he’d obviously calmed down a little. Dragonetz cursed himself again for not realising the cause of Hugues’ moods, swinging towards him as a comrade and away from him at the idea of a stepfather, taking not only his father’s place but his own title. He stayed still, waiting, considering his words.

  De Rançon rescued him, lancing Les Baux’s hurt pride neatly and cleanly. ‘I think he has earned the right to surrender, my Lord. There is no dishonour for a tired man who spares his victor an uneven fight.’ In a few words, he told Hugues of the attack by three reds and who they were.

  As soon as he heard the name ‘Porcelet’ Hugues’ frown disappeared. His mood swung back to the easy camaraderie that Dragonetz had been at such pains to create. ‘Oh get up, Dragonetz. I accept your surrender. We said those whoresons would take their chance to make mischief and that it would be more difficult for them to take me if they were on my team, but I never thought they’d go after you! And three of them! Truly, men without honour.’ His mouth set to a grim line. ‘Well, it shan’t go unpunished.’

  Dragonetz stood, not jumping to his feet this time. He’d need some treatment from Estela for bruising and stiffness, and he suspected his nose would swell as if bee-stung, but if that was all the harm, he’d come off lightly. Thanks to de Rançon. The understanding between them still lingered, like an invisible handclasp.

  As always, the task was to restrain Hugues. ‘It would be easy enough for you to punish them,’ Dragonetz allowed, ‘and not without entertainment, but what if you test Barcelone instead?’

  ‘The Porcelets are his men, aren’t they. So it would be a good test of his justice to see what he does.’

  Hugues took the point. ‘And whatever he does will weaken his side and not affect my standing at all. Masterly, Dragonetz!’

  The three men had walked to the centre of the field, where three riders awaited them, two blue and one red, and one blue knight on foot. The rest of the combatants had walked over to the stands, where they’d find wineskins and debate over what they should have done, rather than what they did.

  Dragonetz bowed first to his standard-bearer, still holding aloft the silver dragon on blue. However proud his bearing, the boy’s eyes gave away his disappointment, cloudy as the terrain.

  ‘Bravo, my
Lord.’ Dragonetz met the youth’s gaze full on.

  ‘We lost.’ Then the brown eyes did fill with unshed tears.

  ‘Did we?’ Dragonetz queried softly, with a barely perceptible glance at the scene beside them. Barcelone had dismounted and thrown his arms round Hugues, who returned the embrace with vigour, shouting, ‘We won! Dragonetz surrendered!’

  ‘Winning a battle is easy. Winning hearts is harder.’ The boy nodded, understanding but not yet accepting. He would learn. Dragonetz glanced at Ramon, probably the finest general he’d come across, playing the lieutenant, hoping to avoid another war.

  ‘Say it, Dragonetz,’ yelled Hugues.

  ‘I surrender,’ repeated Dragonetz, ‘and may the honour of both teams be sung in halls across Provence!’

  ‘All but three,’ muttered de Rançon.

  ‘Three?’ queried Malik, still mounted beside his young lord. Dragonetz knew full well why the blue standard had never been captured; Malik and Barcelone. If any man had tried for that prize, no man had - or could have - succeeded.

  ‘Dragonetz?’ prompted Raoulf, who’d clearly won his combat at the cost of being unseated and a few flesh-wounds. It was just as well his women apparently found his scars attractive.

  De Rançon filled them in on the details as the group made their way back to the stands, accepting the spectators’ cheers for the winners. Special applause for protecting the standard from capture cheered up the young Comte enough to ride twice past the spectators, making his mare perform a neat little bow to the crowd in thanks. The spectators loved him, shouting out his name as he waved to them. Winning hearts thought Dragonetz, checking Hugues’ reaction, but he needn’t have worried. Hugues was basking in the success of his own team and any lesser glory reflected on a youngster was all part of the glorious success of his tourney.

  The heralds played a few notes that were almost in unison. Hugues spoke to Ramon, the latter nodded and sent a messenger to the stand where the Master of Horse still guarded the prisoners; seven red and ten blue. Three of the men in red shambled reluctantly towards the men on horseback, who waited for them in front of the stand where Etiennette held state, waiting for the moment she could formally congratulate the winners.

  The three knights in red tabards dropped to their knees in front of Ramon Berenguer, Comte de Barcelone and the spectators shushed each other loudly, finally dying to an expectant silence. ‘These men have behaved in a cowardly manner during the tourney, seeking to overcome one knight by attacking three against one. Their reputations are tarnished and that of Lord Dragonetz los Pros glows only brighter.’ The name ‘Dragonetz’ was whispered round, with much confused bickering as to whether those who’d bet on him had won or lost.

  ‘I hereby demand their spurs from men who do not deserve their knighthood.’

  The townspeople who’d come to watch found a target for the rotting fruit they’d brought for just such an opportunity and nobody prevented them hurling it along with some abuse for good measure. Shamed, Porcelet and his companions gave their spurs to one of Barcelone’s men and trudged back to the keep.

  ‘My Lord Dragonetz’ team might have lost the tourney this day…’ More cheering. ‘But there is no loss of honour when men like Lord Hugues des Baux lead the opposition.’ More cheering. The townspeople responded to the praise of their own Hugues. If they were to be believed, every single one of them had personally contributed to the upbringing of Etiennette’s eldest boy.

  ‘But I have to single out one man in the field, who stands for all that is noble and right, who showed chivalry and courage, skill and restraint. Who told his tale in all modesty, claiming no virtue in his own deeds.’ Speculation was whispering through the crowd like flames in dry grass. Dragonetz, most were sure, but the speech had been oddly phrased. His nephew? Mere nepotism then, surely.

  ‘My Lord Geoffroi de Rançon, for the part you played this day, and the manner of it, accept this gift with my admiration and respect.’ Ramon took off his own swordbelt, studded with jewels and engraved in silver. His man removed his sword, returned it to Barcelone, and then presented the belt to de Rançon, who was dumbstruck. He looked towards Dragonetz, shook his head in disbelief, in denial.

  ‘It is merited,’ Dragonetz told him, throwing an arm round him, pushing him to accept, whispering in his ear, ‘It is customary to express thanks - and don’t forget Hugues, for God’s sake.’

  Recovering, de Rançon made a pretty speech, flattering the opposition leader and his strategy so that all were in good humour when they mounted again. It was Etiennette’s turn to congratulate the combatants and to present gifts of armour and weapons to the winners. Then it was over. Officially.

  De Rançon wheeled by the spectators, close enough to snatch a kiss from a pretty black-haired girl in blue scarf and gown. For one heart-wrench, Dragonetz thought it was Estela but no, his lover was there, looking steadily in his direction.

  In his turn, he rode right up to the stand as Estela fought her way to the front. A summons, a squire and some manoeuvring attached his gift for her to the point of a lance, which he swung over two screeching women to reach her sure hands. She slipped the token off the end of the lance and looked as beautiful as the day he’d first seen her, dazzling him, an addiction without cure.

  ‘Thank you,’ she mouthed, and he knew he’d chosen well. The token and the lady. She added something, a mischievous lift to one side of her mouth. He could tell she was teasing him but he had to ask her to repeat the words, over the hubbub.

  ‘It makes up for three days with no flowers.’ She laughed. ‘I thought I’d grown boring.’

  He smiled back at her, indicated that he was heading back to the keep, to tend Sadeek, to change clothes. To ponder the fact that he’d not sent her any flowers at all, and that his bright day had just turned to ashes.

  Chapter 30

  And so, precious stones are born from fire and water; whence they have fire and moisture in them. They contain many powers and are effective for many needs. Many things can be done with them - but only honest actions, which are beneficial to human beings; not activities of seduction, fornication, adultery, enmity, homicide, and the like, which tend toward vice and are injurious to people. The nature of these precious stones seeks honest and useful effects and rejects people’s depraved and evil uses, in the same way virtues cast off vices and vices are unable to engage with virtues.

  Physica, Stones

  When Sadeek and his rider had vanished from sight, Estela opened her palm and studied the small object Dragonetz had given her. Hand-carved in oak, oiled to a shine, the wooden dog had a definite air of Nici about him, from the hint of shaggy coat and curved tail to the open jaw. No master craftsman would have whittled two rough fangs to represent a full collection of teeth but Estela loved the little wooden dog on first sight, knowing who’d made it. She imagined Dragonetz, wakeful by candlelight, sweating in need of the poppy, controlling himself with a knife and some wood. Better than flowers, much better.

  Her heart was still pounding from the tourney, beating to the rhythm ‘He’s alive.’ It had been difficult to follow the action with so many men fighting and so much dust but she kept track of her knight, worrying as he moved further away from the standard, from the protection of Malik and Raoulf.

  Her jaw ached from gritting her teeth and when she saw the three red knights converging on Dragonetz, time stopped. Maria screeching, ‘Dragonetz is going over the cliff’; spectators disagreeing, ‘Foul play!’ or ‘It’s only one at a time’; ‘Now we’ll see how good he is!’ was the remark that nearly led to fighting in the stands but Sancha laid a cool hand on Estela’s arm, murmuring, ‘He’s come through worse,’ and then de Rançon joined his friend.

  Maria’s screeching increased but Estela no longer minded. This was how it had been with Arnaut, Raoulf’s son: a bright partnership of sword and spirit. Even from this distance, the swordplay could be appreciated and few spectators were defending the red knights’ behaviour now, as the two blue
s demonstrated their skills. For the first time, Estela saw the deep friendship of which Geoffroi had spoken so much and Dragonetz not at all.

  ‘Like Roland and Oliver,’ murmured one of the more cultured ladies, watching de Rançon dispatch a red knight. Estela could only agree. Like the famous friends of song, Dragonetz and Geoffroi fought together against the odds, Roland’s wild courage tempered by Oliver’s realism. Yet it had been Oliver who was killed. As Arnaut had been. The past does not shape the future Estela told herself firmly, as the third red knight stumbled towards the Horse-master and the prisoners’ camp.

  Dragonetz kneeling to Hugues drew much disagreement from the crowd as to whether it showed chivalry or defeat. Estela would have preferred to watch her lover take the young Lord of Les Baux across his knee and beat him with the flat of Talharcant but she appreciated that there were important issues at stake. Still, it would have been the perfect end to the tourney. If there was a Charlemagne on this field it was not Hugues des Baux.

  Indulging in such pleasant fantasies, Estela let the speeches wash over her and waited for the only moment that was important. The moment when he looked at her. He’s alive her heart commented. And her hand clutched a little wooden dog, proof of life and love. Dragonetz had ridden back to the keep but his token was here in her hand. Her face smiled. Her whole body smiled and she had no control over it. People smiled back at her. Geoffroi smiled back at her, soothing his horse, who stamped impatiently at being restrained so long beside these noisy people.

  ‘Thank you,’ Estela told him. ‘You were magnificent.’ His eyes were diamond-bright, radiant, reflecting happiness.

  ‘Dragonetz was magnificent,’ he corrected her. ‘I would follow him to the ends of the earth.’

  ‘Yes. So would I,’ she said. They both laughed.