by Jean Gill
‘Barcelone is leaving,’ she stated, knowing it was not news. ‘We can build up our forces again while he takes care of his own land. Hugues will carry on with your training methods here and draw in new recruits. Once Barcelone has left, we can win back those he swayed. I am confident we have more than half of Provence with us already.
There is time for you to go to Arle, oversee the mint, produce all the gold we will need to go to war again. We will need coin and this time I want our money. I know you won’t marry me for foolish reasons.’ Her eyes flashed again. ‘But you will come back to Les Baux when we declare war and lead an army. And it will be my head on the gold we use to fund it. I don’t want to see a Barcelone head on anything but my battlements!’
Dragonetz lost any hope that Etiennette might have softened. ‘You signed a truce…’ he risked saying.
‘I had no choice!’ she spat back. ‘My husband murdered, my sons threatened - and Provence all but taken from me! Besides, Hugues was too young to know what he signed. He will wage war, not I.’
‘You have been the perfect host these last months,’ murmured Dragonetz. ‘Barcelone has nothing but praise for your hospitality.’
‘Of course.’ Etiennette drew herself up with pride. ‘This is Les Baux. We know how to conduct ourselves with courtesy. And how to wage war with honour.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘Once Barcelone and his lordling leave, they are no guests of mine. Whether it takes one year or twenty, I will have my father’s lands back!’
‘My Lady, if you love Provence, don’t tear her in two.’ Dragonetz knelt so as not to tower over this indomitable widow. Never had he felt so strongly that she’d been wronged. ‘Please. Give it up. Accept an overlord and rule Provence in his name, as you always have. Be the power, not the name.’
‘Never,’ she said. ‘I will never bend the knee to some foreigner.’
If Dragonetz thought it equally unlikely that she would bend the knee to some local, a Porcelet for instance, he was wise enough to hold his peace. But he had reached the moment he knew would come.
‘I won’t help you tear Provence apart. I do believe your cause is just. I have done everything I can to teach Hugues leadership but some qualities are within, not learned. You still lead here. And if you choose war, you choose death for brother against brother, friend against friend. Barcelone soldiers will die, yes, but the people in Barcelone will carry on farming and going to market, while the people of Provence see their crops burned, their wells poisoned and their children murdered by their neighbours!’
White-faced, Etiennette said, ‘I will not yield.’
‘But I will,’ Dragonetz told her. ‘I will not help you turn Provence red with blood. Ramon is leaving because I have sworn to go with him. He will keep the truce and leave because he knows you aren’t strong enough to fight him without me.’ Her stubborn lack of reason suddenly infuriated him. ‘God’s blood! Don’t you know he could have wiped out your entire family and it’s by his mercy you’re alive at all, let alone governors of his province!’
‘It’s not his province.’ Her voice small and cold, her fists were clenched, she held firm. And she hadn’t hit him. ‘It will take longer without you but we will go to war again.’
He shook his head, torn between frustration and respect. ‘The courage of Les Baux. I make you one promise: should it come to war, I will never ride against you. I swear it and I am no oath-breaker.’ He bowed farewell.
‘Au hasar, Bautasar,’ were her last words to him.
When he reported the conversation to Estela, she asked the very question that had crossed his own mind. ‘Will she have you killed?’
‘No.’
‘Because?’
‘It would not be honourable. Another ruler would have poisoned Barcelone and his family here while they slept.’ They knew such rulers. Mélisende of Jerusalem, perhaps even Aliénor - there were rumours.
‘Hugues?’
Dragonetz had gone straight to Hugues on leaving Etiennette. ‘More complicated. Some days he seems to understand what war would bring to Provence. Other days he wants to lead his men into glorious battle, avenge his father and please his mother. The hero of song. At bottom, I think he’s glad to get rid of me.’ He teased her. ‘Apparently I’m competition for all the women in the castle.’
‘That would sum up the focus of Hugues’ romantic attention,’ was the dry reply.
‘And Ramon?’ That had been a happier interview. When Dragonetz had offered his sword to Barcelone, with his conditions, there had been no hesitation. ‘He is a man I can follow,’ he told Estela, de Rançon’s words ringing in his ears. Ramon had proved his mettle a hundred times, in the field and in tactics, as a leader and as a man whose judgement was tempered with mercy. El Sant indeed.
Malik’s reaction had been even warmer than Ramon’s and Dragonetz owned that it lifted his spirits to think of riding beside his friend, speaking freely with him again.
Estela hesitated, then named the last of the five. ‘Sancha?’
‘Turned her back on me.’
Estela said nothing but went on her own mission to bid farewell to their friend. Sancha did not flee her but stabbed at a piece of embroidery that was more in Estela’s style than characteristic of her own neat work. She kept her eyes firmly on the victim of her mood, refusing to meet Estela’s gaze.
‘I don’t want us to part like this,’ Estela said, talking to cover the silence. ‘We’re leaving tomorrow, with Barcelone’s party. Dragonetz has sent a pigeon to the villa and we’re stopping to collect Gilles, Musca, Prima and Nici. Then we’ll go to Marselha, sort out our business affairs - I have to visit the baths so the ladies have access to funds and know what to do with treatments. I’ve written notes for them.
Then we’ll go to Arle and catch up with Barcelone’s party. Dragonetz wants to see the mintmaster. He’s sent a pigeon there too, has some idea that the man might come to Barcelone and work there. Etiennette will probably forget about him as there’s nobody who can run a mint now Dragonetz won’t do it. He’d have been good at it too. I think it’s the one thing he regrets about going…’ she broke off, realising that her chatter had taken her in a direction that was unlikely to help matters.
‘I don’t care,’ Sancha told her. ‘Baths, money, pigeons. It’s all a game to Dragonetz. And to you.’
‘That’s not fair,’ Estela retorted. ‘You turn faint at the sight of blood. You had to hide your eyes during a tourney! Yet you want Dragonetz to start civil war here again, your own people killing each other.’
‘They all ought to fight for Les Baux,’ Sancha said weakly.
‘I don’t want our last words to each other to be an argument. We’re not going to agree about Provence but you should know that Dragonetz is going to Barcelone to keep the peace here. We understand Etiennette’s rights but that’s not the point any more. The point is not to kill people. And I’m going to miss you!’
‘Really?’
‘Really!’
‘But you’ll have Dragonetz and Musca…’
‘Dragonetz will be training men and Musca can’t say much more than ‘Icky’. I’ll miss intelligent company. I’ll miss women’s conversation.’
‘There will be women in Barcelone.’
‘They’ll all have strange accents and believe that babies arrive in baskets.’ They laughed and some of the ice thawed. Estela told Sancha her plans to pursue her medical profession and establish a dispensary in Barcelone. At first they’d be living with Malik’s wife and children. The prospect of living with strangers, who were also Muslims, was a little frightening but also part of the adventure. And she had no doubt that it was going to be an adventure.
Finally, Sancha accepted a hug and a tearful goodbye, and said she would wave to them when they left and check the message that came back by pigeon from Arle, to know they’d arrived there safely.
Estela had not realised how empty her arms had been until they were full of wriggling toddler. Musca cried when he saw the strange woman
who wanted to grab him but after seeing Nici greet her in somersaults of joy, the little boy allowed himself to be cuddled. Stories collided as Gilles asked whether ‘the witch’ was dead yet; Estela asked whether Musca was eating vegetables; Raoulf wanted to know how many horse and guards were at the villa and Dragonetz wanted a pigeon count.
Large quantities of food and wine eased the conversation and after dinner, Dragonetz found himself in a quiet moment with Gilles. Although there had been no open animosity, there was obviously tension between him and Raoulf with regard to Prima, who seemed blithely unaware of her current lover’s protective glares.
‘It goes well?’ enquired Dragonetz, delicately.
Gilles understood. ‘She’s a good lass and we’re suited.’ Then it was his turn to probe. ‘De Rançon turned up. Did he try to kill you again? Did you tell her about Jerusalem?’
Gilles was the only other person who knew, who’d been there and seen for himself. He could tell Gilles about Muganni, share the burden, have one other person who knew his real grief. But he’d already made that decision, when he thought of telling Malik. ‘No,’ he said. ‘De Rançon intended malice but didn’t follow through. Even saved my life.’
Gilles looked sceptical. ‘He’s a fancy enough swordsman but looking to run you through from behind no doubt.’
‘No. I think something changed him.’
‘I doubt that very much.’ Gilles was clearly not overwhelmed by the notion of redemption so Dragonetz didn’t pursue the issue. ‘Have you told her?’ Gilles repeated. Nici was barking furiously somewhere near the entrance.
‘No. Even if I did, she wouldn’t believe me. And now?’ He shrugged. ‘Where is the good?’
‘She should know,’ persisted Gilles stubbornly.
‘No. the subject is closed. Estela has lost a dear friend and is hurt enough.’
Gilles humphed again.
‘Dragonetz?’ Estela was calling him. ‘There is a messenger…’
Pinned to the spot by a large white fury was a messenger attired in the sort of colours for which Estela had criticised Dragonetz the night of the storm. He and his horse looked rather more portly than was the usual case in such an active job. Nici was doing his best to impress, barking manically, hackles raised, snapping if the man moved but otherwise causing no real threat. Those who knew him well could see that he was enjoying himself. His upward curve of a tail thrashed the air like a feathered sabre.
The messenger did not know Nici well, to judge by the stain on the front of his hose. ‘Good boy,’ he stammered, further delighting the dog.
‘Icky!’ Musca said sternly and the dog looked at him, wondering for a moment, then dismissing the idea of obedience.
‘Nici!’ commanded Estela and this time the dog considered it to be more than an invitation. He stopped barking but stood ready to pounce, staring at the stranger.
‘I had word, in Marselha, that you’d come back to the villa, and I’ve a message for you, my Lord. Only I couldn’t deliver it because I was attacked and robbed by a gang of twenty men. They left me for dead and I was rescued by a good Samaritan, a landlord, who nursed me back to health. As soon as I recovered, I sought to deliver my message but you had left the villa so I was too late. I put the word out that there would be a reward for whoever told me you’d returned. I’m sure you’ll repay me the reward, my Lord?’
Dragonetz bit back all the words that came to mind. There were ladies present. ‘The message?’ He already knew what was coming but he listened anyway.
The messenger shut his eyes and recited, ‘‘By this token, I, Aliénor, Duchesse of Aquitaine and Queen of England, command you to come to me with all speed, lead my men against Louis’s armies, protect your Liege and keep your oath.’ And she said I was to give you this.’
If Estela hadn’t put a hand on his arm, Dragonetz would have hit the man but he restrained himself and took the note from him. He broke Aliénor’s seal and read the words she’d scrawled, ‘I need you, Dragonetz. Come now. I trust you.’ And he had not gone.
Raoulf stepped forward and hit the man’s face with a mailed fist. Estela winced and gripped Dragonetz more tightly. Reeling, the messenger said, ‘Thank you, my Lord, thank you.’
‘Enough.’ Dragonetz cautioned Raoulf, even though he couldn’t find it in himself to be sorry. ‘You owe me a message. You and your nag are well-fed and well-rested; you start for Aquitaine tonight and you ride until you find first the Duchesse and then my father Lord Dragon. You deliver two messages.
Tell Aliénor you never reached me, I never received her message in time and I am more sorry than she will ever know but I am no oath-breaker. You have that?’ the man’s lips moved as he repeated and memorised the words. He would not be Aliénor’s messenger if he did not have at least that capacity so Dragonetz trusted his memory if nothing else.
‘And the message for Lord Dragon?’ the messenger asked, relieved that he’d been given work and no worse.
‘Tell him I am with the only family I care about and he may go to hell.’
The messenger lost any colour he’d regained and looked perilously close to vomiting.
‘If you survive the two messages, we are quits,’ Dragonetz told him. ‘If you don’t deliver them, you will never know a night’s rest again because I will find you, wherever you may be and I will rip out your coward’s liver so you may watch it fry while you’re still alive!’
‘Thank you, my Lord,’ the messenger managed to say, before backing towards his horse and galloping away.
The sombre mood lasted until Musca said hopefully, ‘Evvybody happy now?’ and his father laughed, threw him in the air, replied, ‘Everybody is very happy now!’
The next day, Nici was bored. His favourite people had gone somewhere without him. So when he caught sight of another stranger walking onto to his territory, he took great pleasure in repeating the previous day’s behaviour.
The man was carrying some object in front of him, which he waved above his head as Nici warned him to stay where he was. This time, there was nobody to help Nici defend his family’s home so he added a few menaces to his routine barking and snapped a bit closer to the man’s legs.
This was very effective. The man shrieked, dropped what he was carrying and ran back to the horse he’d tethered at the entrance.
Nici let him go, more interested in the leather bag on the ground. Underneath a top note of mint, citrus and a spice new to him, his perceptive nose detected the mouth-watering smell of decay and dead things.
The dog lay down and held the package firmly between his paws. He chewed on the leather for a while, sucking the flavour out. One part of the bag gave way between his teeth and he investigated the interior with his tongue, then tore the bag a little more. Some parchment rolled out but smelled of little interest.
The musty smell was stronger though so Nici ripped apart more of the bag until he could pull out its contents: a small wooden box. The smell was inside the box so he chewed on it for a bit but the wood resisted his teeth.
So he did what he always did with a carcass that needed to mature. He kept it for later and buried it between the roses.
When his family came back from their outing, Nici’s world livened up again and he had so many treats passed to him under the table as they dined, that he completely forgot the one he’d buried.
The next day, he was anxious to see preparations for travel again and he chased his tail, worried at spending another day unable to guard his people. When he was summoned to join them, and allowed to run alongside the wagon, his tail nearly lifted him off the road in excitement. This was new!
It was too good to be true so he checked again. Everybody he loved, his whole family, was under his guard. He could see Dragonetz, a squawking bird on his shoulder, riding up and down the train, giving orders to Raoulf, and to other men, who didn’t matter; Estela riding her palfrey beside Gilles; Prima and the two little boys in the wagon.
Nici settled into a lope. He could sense this would
be a long journey. He was many lopes from home when his stomach reminded him of pleasure postponed but it was too late now to dig up the box and bring it with him. He forgot about it and kept running.
In all the packing to leave for Arle, nobody had noticed the small parchment scroll carried by the wind to catch on a thorn, waving from a rose bush like a small pennant. Only the breeze read the message before the rain washed it away.
Dearest Estela,
My heart is yours, in life and in death.
Geoffroi.
Epilogue
One fine day in 1152, Petronilla, the sixteen-year-old Queen of Aragon, gave birth to the baby boy who was expected to unite Barcelone and Aragon into the most powerful state of northern Al-Andalus, a counterbalance to the recently united kingdoms of Castile and Léon, further south.
Little Pedro had been conceived twelve years earlier by Petronilla’s father, Ramiro, ‘the Monk’, and her husband-to-be, Ramon Berenguer, Comte de Barcelone, ‘the Saint’. All that remained was for Petronilla to grow up and give flesh to their conception.
Bells rang; two kingdoms rejoiced at the birth of the little king, and everybody agreed that Petronilla had fulfilled her destiny. What the midwife said to Petronilla, as she passed the squalling baby to his mother, was a little more practical.
Historical Note and List of Historical Characters
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This was Book 3 of The Troubadour Quartet.
