by Jean Gill
It didn’t take Dragonetz long to sort through the contents of the coffer and re-pack everything for Maria to keep or distribute. The signet ring, he would send to de Rançon’s parents, with a letter penned by Dragonetz and signed by Etiennette. It was unlikely that de Rançon Senior would take kindly to any missive from Dragonetz, let alone one informing him of his son’s death. The leather pouch, Dragonetz kept till last, hesitating as to whether he should read its contents or not.
Finally, only this one task remained and he sat, contemplating de Rançon’s private letters. It was unlikely that Maria could read so, even if the judgement of such a woman could be trusted, she could make no sensible decision about the letters. A man had the right to his last wishes and they might be expressed in one of these letters. Somebody should read them in private.
But this was his enemy’s lair. What if there were details here about Muganni’s murder? How could he read such things and bear to continue living? What if Estela saw them?
He could just burn them. Too bad if there were last wishes that went unread - Muganni’s last wishes had counted for naught. But de Rançon was Aliénor’s official messenger. What if there were orders or news here that might make a difference to Aliénor’s campaign? Dragonetz still felt the allegiance he no longer owed. He certainly wouldn’t risk any damage coming to Aliénor from these letters getting into the wrong hands.
Decision taken, he started reading. And continued. He read the letter from father to son twice, then put it in the fireplace, touched a candle to the lantern and set the paper alight. He watched the paper flare and turn to ashes, singing softly.
tu eam citius in igne
comburis cum volueris
your fire purges all ill
as is your will.
In the dark fireplace, Dragonetz saw two young knights eager to fight a holy war for their beloved Aliénor; saw fathers and sons; saw hate that festered and ate its own young like a pelican. He heard Geoffroi’s light baritone in duet with Estela and was no longer jealous listening; they were two people who had travelled far together, in friendship. Both had risked their lives to save his.
The fallen angel in his tower of pride: de Rançon or himself? Or all men, one way or another. He could not forgive but he could almost understand. Their paths had too much in common not to feel the pain of his comrade’s tortured choices. Dragonetz let all his ghosts sing to him in the darkened fireplace as he waited for his decision to come to him. Some accused him as he accused de Rançon; others offered him only love and these were the ones who hurt him most. But he listened anyway, until he was sure. The last words that rang in his mind, after all the others faded, were, ‘I’d have followed her to the ends of the earth.’
Dragonetz could find no will or last words, no further letters that would call de Rançon’s honour into question, though it sounded like his parents were like enough to do that without help. Or maybe the new Geoffroi de Rançon would grow straight and tall, without the crippling of spirit suffered by his brother. In the end, Dragonetz had not been called upon to judge. He would not do so in the absence of the accused. ‘What a waste,’ murmured Dragonetz as he left the room to go to Estela.
He found her red-eyed and white-faced but she made the effort to smile weakly at him. ‘That green tabard with yellow hose makes you look like an Italian herald,’ she told him, her eyes filling up once more. ‘I can’t speak of him.’ She buried her face in his shoulder and he hoped she took comfort in his arms.
‘Geoffroi would have hated my poor taste in clothes,’ he observed, seeking to lance the wound, and assuming that more crying was a desirable effect. He was dry-eyed, a gnarled black lump for a heart. He could feel the solid, poisonous weight of it. He looked over her head at Malik, who was still there, true to his word. ‘Maria had gone, no doubt to her family. I found no last words or will. I’ll make provision for Maria and send word to Geoffroi’s family tomorrow.’
Malik nodded. ‘I need to send for the laying-out boards and notify the sextant. The sooner a grave is dug the better. It’s too hot to wait.’
‘A day and a night, for those who wish to keep vigil?’
‘There is only you.’
‘Then don’t wait. I have made my peace this evening.’
‘Your peace?’ Estela picked up on the odd phrase, looking up at him, her golden eyes red-rimmed.
‘Peace with his death,’ he told her gently. ‘There was nothing anybody could do to save him. And today he shone bright. He will not be forgotten in Les Baux.’ Her sobs stopped any further investigation of his feelings but he knew that was temporary and he must prepare his words better.
Malik slipped out and Dragonetz took Estela to bed, found comfort in her warmth. The rain was now steady, clattering on the cobbles below and the wind had eased. Somewhere far away, the thunder still rumbled. ‘Are you awake?’ he whispered.
‘Yes.’
‘I have decided.’
‘About Provence?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because of the tourney?’
‘Partly.’ The tourney seemed a lifetime ago. ‘Mostly because of Geoffroi. Something he said helped me decide.’
‘Whatever you do, wherever you go, I will be there with you.’
A tremor, some tension in her voice told him she was afraid of what she might have to face, being there with him. Something from earlier in the day nagged at him, something that affected Estela but he couldn’t quite bring it to mind.
‘I hope so,’ he said. ‘I need you with me.’ And then he told her what he had decided. Her reaction was unexpected.
‘I thought you were going to marry Lady Etiennette.’ Her voice was barely audible.
Hugues. The accusation, the resentment. Of course, if Hugues had heard snippets of conversation then so had Estela.
‘Why didn’t you tell me she’d asked you?’ Estela asked.
‘Because it didn’t matter. It was just a complication not a possibility.’
‘You should share things with me.’
‘Yes, I should,’ he agreed, the black lump in his heart calcifying. He reconsidered her words. ‘You would stay at my side, even if I marry Etiennette.’
‘I would have,’ she emphasised, ‘but I’ve changed my mind. You missed your chance.’
Chapter 32
When the pelican first sees her chicks hatch from their eggs, she thinks they are not related to her and she kills them. When she sees that they do not move, she is sad and lacerates herself, resuscitating them with her blood.
Physica, Birds
De Rançon’s honour and tragic death grew in the telling as word spread through the castle, with Dragonetz given a supporting role in both; Roland and Oliver not only in battle but with Geoffroi dying in Dragonetz’ arms. Whatever Maria thought of this version she did not come out of her refuge to contradict it.
In his role as physician, Malik notified Lady Etiennette of the death and she sent word to all the officials required to conduct a Christian burial. When a notary came bustling up from the village, red-faced and waving Geoffroi’s last will and testament, this too was passed on to the appropriate authorities.
Estela found talk of the tourney even more painful than plans for a splendid funeral. Her first instinct was to seek out Maria and see if she could help the girl but Malik suggested it was too soon. She could not sit and cry all day but she felt guilty at doing anything else, surrounded as she was by the business of a grand death. She had to get away from the castle so she would pluck up courage and pay one last visit to the beekeeping Gyptian, while she still could. Perhaps she could wring some truth out of the wretched woman regarding the cloth that was supposed to show her ‘ancestry.’
It would be easier to dismiss the Gyptian’s ramblings if none of them had come true. Yet, against all possible prediction, Dragonetz was dishonoured, accused of disloyalty. The prophecies weighed like curses on her and Estela wasn’t sure whether she wanted them removed or explained. If Maria had come to her dispensa
ry talking of such superstitious nonsense, she’d have laughed in her face. And yet. Estela fingered the Pathfinder rune that she wore for protection, for guidance, for reassurance in this crazy quest.
The Pathfinder medallion was her only protection. She preferred to go alone on such an errand, with the mysterious cloth in her saddle bag. She had no problem slipping away unnoticed and picked her way slowly and carefully down the sodden track, past the place where the white rocks narrowed and on to the hidden cave opening.
Tying up her mare, she walked through the large entrance, surrounded by water drips and plopping echoes, the night’s rain seeping through the rock and sliming walls. She stumbled, caught herself against a wall and quickly pulled away. It was like touching an eel.
‘Dame Fairnette,’ she called, the ‘nette’ echoing through the caves and back to her, mocking. She entered the woman’s private sanctuary but nobody was there. The hearth was cold and yet in her state of health such a fierce night must have been chilling. The bee veil was on the cot. Not down at her hives then.
Rather than return to Les Baux, Estela continued down towards the river and the vineyards, where she and Gilles had met the farmers. She glanced idly towards the beehives as she passed and then stopped in her tracks. The flamboyant mix of fabrics and patterns in all colours, draping a hive, could not be mistaken. She had been wrong: Dame Fairnette was indeed with her bees, whose anger clouded the air above their keeper.
‘Dame Fairnette!’ called Estela, not expecting an answer, and not getting one. She turned her horse, rode back to the cave, grabbed the veil and four scarves, then forced the increasingly reluctant horse to return to the beehives. Stopping at what she hoped was a safe distance, Estela dismounted, tied up her mount once more and donned the veil. She folded her dangling sleeves over her hand, tied her skirt with scarves to make a hobble - vulnerable but better than nothing and she took tiny steps towards whatever she might find at the centre of bee attention.
Amidst increasing noise and growing numbers of scouts, who pinged against her veil, she approached the beehive until she could clearly see the Gyptian’s body draped over a broken top, face down amongst all the enraged occupants. The sound grew ever louder and more threatening but Estela kept walking towards it. She noticed a kitchen knife on the ground beside the hive, long strands of wicker stuck to it and she turned the body until she could what was left of the old woman’s face, too swollen to be recognised. Dead.
More inhabitants poured out from their damaged hive, joining the black cloud that already impeded Estela’s vision, ever more determined as they attacked her veil. Estela could do nothing for Dame Fairnette and risked joining her if she didn’t move fast and far. Twisting in tiny footsteps, hobbled by her skirt, she swore as the first stings came through a scarf round her hand and on her ankle.
It was as if the whole swarm became further maddened by the stings and she was chased by the whole black mob almost the whole field’s length, until the noise diminished and she collapsed, panting. She tore off the veil and scarves, hitting her head wildly at imagined attacks. She suffered one more sting on her arm from a straggler who’d stayed with her, then she was safe.
She’d headed away from her horse, afraid the bees would never give up, and now she walked a wide circle to rejoin the mare. Murmuring sweet nothings, as much to calm herself as the mare, she rode back to Les Baux, running over and over in her mind what she’d seen, what it meant and what she was willing to say.
By the time her horse was stabled, Estela was desperate to get to her dispensary and make up a rose-water poultice to soothe the pain from the bee-stings. Van Bingen was curiously silent on bee-sting treatment but an older Arab tome offered a recipe which Estela had used before on others. She sent a stable-hand to tell Etiennette that a peasant was dead by the beehives and then she rushed off to her own domain, confident that the Lady of Les Baux could organise the burial of one of her own peasants.
Estela sat on her stool in the cool dark of the dispensary, amid the scents of dried thyme and lavender, rose and wormwood, that bitter herb which was the closest to cure-all that Estela knew. The poultices had brought instant relief, followed by a gradual return of a duller form of pain. There was already some swelling round the stings she could see but she’d removed the one tiny arrow left by a striped warrior. The second day was always worse than the first but she was confident the treatment was working and her thoughts returned to the dead woman.
There was no chance now of finding out what the Gyptian had meant about the cloth and Estela’s ancestors. Nor was there an opportunity to shout at her for prophecies that twisted words, that had meaning only after the events which they foretold. Estela had been right - Dragonetz had not broken oath! And yet the words had indeed contained some truth. And never would she betray Dragonetz! The Gyptian had spoken hurtful lies when she’d seen another man lying with her! She should have had the chance to tell the woman so! But Dame Fairnette was beyond Estela’s questions and recriminations.
Malik had taught her to look for symptoms and to consider what a patient said as only one of those symptoms. A doctor should never accept a patient’s self-diagnosis but observe and analyse. What had she observed? A dead body surrounded by bees. So many stings would kill anybody. Perhaps the beekeeper had rushed out in the storm, worried that the hives would be damaged. She’d found one knocked over or broken, tried to right it. But then she’d have worn her veil. Unless she was somewhere else first, maybe in a farmer’s cottage, in the other direction. It was possible. If Estela were asked, that’s what she would say.
But she just knew that was not how it had been. What else had she observed? Not just today but previously. Dame Fairnette was coughing blood, showing signs of pain, refusing treatment. She’d turned down Estela’s offer of treatment, suggested she could treat herself and said something strange; ‘the girl can’t do what’s needed for me but I know those who can’. The malady was obviously getting worse and the Gyptian was not young. She gave every impression that her own life was over, apart from her dreams for her people and her desire to join them.
The wicker beehive, hacked. The knife, trailing wicker threads. And something else Dame Fairnette had told Estela; storms make bees mad. Even before the storm breaks. Were the bees ‘those’ who could do what she needed? Had the beekeeper known exactly what she was doing when she’d gone to the hive, probably before the storm. Had she cut off the top of the hive, lain across it? Estela shuddered, scratched at her own stings. If she were right, then Dame Fairnette’s body should be buried without ceremony and her soul condemned to hell. So it would be, if Estela spoke up.
First, do no harm. Surely, the bees were God’s creatures? Dame Fairnette could not be held responsible for their actions and Estela had no doubt that the Gyptian had died from bee-stings. It was not for the doctor to judge what a suffering patient might do or to offer mere speculations to those who made such judgements their business. No, Estela would not even talk to Malik about this troubling death. A physician needed to carry such burdens alone, to keep the patient’s confidences secret, even beyond the grave.
Dame Fairnette’s death might have caused lurid stories in the servants’ quarters but went unnoticed amid the preparation for Geoffroi de Rançon’s funeral. If the vigil over his body had been brief and ill-attended, there was no lack of enthusiasm for the rites themselves, the procession, speeches and feasts. While the Gyptian’s body found a pauper’s grave, de Rançon was allowed a place in the Pons crypt, in honour of his prowess during the tourney. There was much debate as to whether this was appropriate, given that he had died rather disappointingly of some malady rather than in the height of battle, but Etiennette insisted. Dragonetz had stated categorically that Geoffroi’s remains were not to be returned to his home estate, and it was too good an opportunity to show off Les Baux’s renowned pageantry.
Etiennette was deeply disappointed that neither Estela nor Dragonetz was willing to sing at Geoffroi’s funeral feast but she recovered
quickly when a cousin from Aurenja accepted her invitation. Estela had not seen Raimbaut d’Aurenja since leaving Die and, in other circumstances, would have appreciated the chance to hear this reputed troubadour once more. She’d last heard him in the court of Narbonne and his reputation had grown since then - rightly so, she judged. It was no surprise that her friend and ex-patron, Béatriz of Die, had succumbed to his charms.
But Estela and Dragonetz were both too heavy-hearted to enjoy the funeral pomp and they excused themselves whenever possible. Estela retreated to her dispensary to grieve, packing those items that could travel. Dragonetz endured emotions with no name. Unable to bury them with de Rançon, he merely continued with his duties. He tried to make up for the past months by sharing his plans freely, but in confidence, with Raoulf, who approved wholeheartedly. That would not be the case with others and, when the funeral was over, Dragonetz must speak to five people. It would not be easy.
‘Barcelone has announced publicly that he is going home,’ Estela told him.
‘Yes.’ They both knew what that meant. ‘I have an audience with Etiennette this morning.’ Estela kissed him, not needing to say more.
The ante-chamber was draped in its new décor, sixteen-pointed stars on red fields, visible everywhere fabric could be displayed, even on tasselled cushions.
Etiennette smiled ruefully, noticing his expression. ‘I know but it makes Hugues happy. And the name of Les Baux deserves some fame abroad. Au hasard, Bautasar suits us well, don’t you think?’
‘Perfectly. The name of Les Baux will be a byword for courage throughout the world,’ replied Dragonetz, kissing her hand.
