by Jean Gill
The Commander reined in beside a girl who stood stock-still, a great hound at her side, growling menaces. The entire procession ground to a halt behind its leader and Danton jumped out the saddle, sword unsheathed, eyes on the dog.
‘No!’ came instinctively from the girl, who stepped forward, interposing a reckless arm between Danton’s approaching sword and the growling dog. Her other arm clutched some sort of large bundle close to her chest.
‘No,’ agreed the Commander, looking fixedly at the girl. ‘Danton, I think the puppy would benefit from some space while we decide whether to slit its throat or not.’ Danton backed off but kept his sword ready. It was obvious to all there that his leader was not only referring to the dog. ‘You see,’ he said gently, ‘we can’t be sure that you won’t run across the fields, then get ahead of us and prepare your bandit-friends to slit our throats and steal our valuables. And that just wouldn’t do.’
The girl looked at him, astonished. ‘But I’m on my own!’ Topaz eyes, like those of the hunting leopards in Alexandria, green shadows and muddy depths, sparks where there should have been fear. Topaz eyes and black hair, silky as the tents of the Moorish armies. Olive skin like a slave girl but smooth, unpitted, ripe. Her clothes spoke of the servant but the fire in her eyes did not.
Even more gently, he told her, ‘We just can’t take the risk. And so that gives us two choices.’ She didn’t move but he could see the movement of her long throat as she swallowed. ‘Either Danton here is allowed to exercise his duty and his sword - ’ She neither flinched nor spoke. Interesting. Physical courage combined with the good sense not to provoke him. ‘- or we must invite you to join our company.’ Was that a frown? There was definitely some mystery here.
‘What is going on?’ Aliénor pushed her horse through to stand shoulder to shoulder beside the Commander’s. ‘Can’t we just get on with the journey?’
‘We can, my Lady, as soon as you tell me whether I must have this maid run through or packed with the other baggage.’
For a heartbeat he thought he had misjudged his Queen and that finally her wildness had overcome her humanity. Aliénor studied the girl. Then, after a tortuous pause that stabbed a hundred times, ‘She has something to hide,’ Aliénor stated, in a tone that reminded everyone present why they followed her. ‘Muddy servant’s clothes, alone by a ditch on the busiest road in Occitania… Who are you and what are you doing here?’
The girl looked down but she said nothing.
‘No! Don’t hit her,’ the Commander and Aliénor spoke as one to prevent Danton showing what he thought of dumb insolence to the Queen. ‘If you are told to hit her, you must deal with the dog first, not second, I think you’ll find,’ the Commander added unnecessarily, as the dog snapped the air where Danton had nearly been.
‘Quite,’ said Aliénor, her gaze level and merciless on the girl. ‘As you see, it is dangerous to ignore me, and suggests guilt. What is in that package?’
‘My belongings,’ the girl muttered.
‘Well, that wasn’t so hard to say, was it,’ Aliénor’s eyes narrowed. ‘Now open it up,’ she ordered. The girl hesitated and Aliénor’s voice steeled further. ‘Either you open it yourself or Danton kills the dog, which he is very keen to do, and then it is opened by force while you are held very, very roughly by the arms. And then it gets worse, much worse. Am I clear?’
The girl’s answer was to lay the brocade down on the rough stone. As she bent down, her hair swung clear of her neck and the Commander revised his first impression. Her skin was not flawless; a badly healed scar marred the clear skin of her left shoulder. His professional eye judged it to be deliberate, and whip rather than blade. With tenderness, she unwrapped her precious object until it was laid bare on the outspread brocade.
The musical instrument revealed was of reddish wood, so highly polished that the girl’s figure gleamed dully in the deep, pear-shaped bowl. Three circles of cream enamel inlay decorated the wood, each with a design of arabesques and interlaced points. Eight strings, frets, a bent peg-board for tuning.
‘Al-Oud,’ he breathed.
She looked puzzled. ‘It’s a mandora.’
‘And obviously stolen.’ One of Aliénor’s Ladies had edged forward. At first sight, she was no less magnificent than her mistress, but whereas Aliénor’s finery was merely the setting for Aliénor herself, this Lady was diminished by her trappings. Her painted face seemed set as a mask, her fur trimming too broad as if to compensate for lesser quality, her jeweled ear-rings too glittery, obviously paste to a connoisseur. ‘Cut off her hand and let’s be done with her.’
‘And your reasoning in this?’ Aliénor asked quietly. No-one doubted her willingness to judge and, if that be the judgement, sentence as proposed. No-one questioned that the girl’s hand was forfeit for her theft. Most would have judged this lenient, for such an instrument was a unique treasure. Had they not been on the road, the girl could be an example to others, could be caged, and tormented by the public before the next phase of a long, slow death. No-one present would have flinched at such a necessity, although some would have enjoyed it more than others. However, they were on the road and there was no time for such deliberation.
‘My Lady, how would a servant come by such a thing, except dishonestly - and servant she clearly is, by her clothes. And I can think of only one thing a woman might be doing alone on this road! My guess is that she has stolen this instrument and fled, offering her legs in the air, until she can sell her other goods at market. She couldn’t even tell you her name, my Lady! What more proof of guilt do you need!’
The girl’s eyes blazed but she just picked up the mandora and clutched it to her. Aliénor’s eyes met those of her Commander as the fingers of the girl’s left hand found their habitual place on the frets and she cradled the instrument in the position they had seen a thousand times, in every banquet hall of the civilized world.
‘The proof is easy,’ Aliénor declared. ‘If the instrument is yours, play for us, girl.’
Amid the jangles and snorts of restless horses, the mutterings of people impatient to get on, and the birdsong of amorous April, the girl closed her eyes. She thrummed the strings, adjusted the pegs and cleared her throat. Then she sang a scale. The sweetness of the simple ut re mi fa so la already held promise and when she opened her eyes and wound her voice round the strings in perfect harmony, the company around her hushed. The well-known words of the Aubade, the Dawn Song, floated like apple blossom on the breeze and the dog lay down, silent, beside the singer.
‘A-bed beside his lady-love,
Her own true knight stopped kissing.
‘My sweet, my own, what shall we do?
Day is nigh and night is over
We must be parted, my self missing
All the day away from you.’
If only day would never come
If only night could spare the pain
Of each new parting, little Death
That leaves enough to die again.
The Watchman calls the hour of Dawning
Bids me stand and face the day,
Exiles me to constant Morning
Grieving that I must away.
Know that whereso’er I wander
Never shall I find true rest
Without the circle of your kisses
And may you love your Night the best.
‘My sweet, my own, what shall we do?
Day is nigh and night is over
We must be parted, my self missing
All the day away from you.’
The last notes of the mandora hung plaintive in the air as Danton sheathed his sword.
‘You have answered the charge of theft and we find you innocent,’ Aliénor’s measured voice broke the spell. ‘What have you to say, that you refuse to give your name to me?’
‘I do have a name to give you, my Lady. My songster’s name is Estela de Matin.’
‘Then Estela de Matin it shall be and such a musician is always welcome at m
y court, whether man or woman. If you would like to join us, we can explore the mysteries surrounding you at our leisure.’
If the girl saw the mailed fist in the glove of this ‘invitation’ she gave no sign but curtsied acceptance and wrapped up her instrument again in its brocade.
‘What do you think?’ Aliénor asked her Commander.
‘A sweet voice but empty,’ was the verdict. ‘It lacks the maturity the song needs.’
‘What made you choose that one, of all the songs?’ Aliénor asked the girl, who had looked down, hiding her flushed face, but now raised her eyes to meet the Commander’s.
‘I love the song,’ she said simply. ‘It is the work of a Master and it seemed right to me and I thought everyone would know the song…’ she tailed off.
‘You chose well,’ Aliénor told her. ‘And yes, we know the song, don’t we.’
‘Too well, my Lady.’ The Commander excused himself and rode back down the line.
A bulky man, with wild black hair and beard, pushed his horse to the front. ‘My Lady, I am sent for the girl.’
‘Take her, Raoulf and see that she is comfortable.’ Raoulf dismounted, took a step toward Estela and the dog half-rose. ‘No, dog,’ she told him. ‘Go! You are not my dog! I don’t want you. Go away!’ The dog watched but made no move as she went towards Raoulf. He lifted her onto his saddle, with her mandora, as easily as if she were a puppet, then he jumped up behind her. A dainty boot lashed out at Estela’s shins as she passed, with a murmured ‘So sorry,’ that dripped poison and smelled strongly of musk. Estela would remember the smell but for now she was beyond caring. There was just one question to resolve before she gave in to an overwhelming weariness, of body and spirit.
‘Who is your Commander?’ she asked Raoulf.
‘You’re not going to pretend you don’t know,’ was the strange reply.
‘Truly,’ she pressed.
‘Dragonetz los Pros, of course,’ he stated, as if it was obvious. And it should have been.
‘I thought he would be older,’ she said. Dragonetz, Aliénor’s knight, who had earned his title ‘los Pros’, ‘the Brave’, as a Crusader, when so many had come home with titles like ‘Brown-britches.’ Dragonetz, the Master Troubadour, the writer of the song she had presumed to sing in front of him. And the inanities she had come out with! He would think it deliberate! Her cheeks burned and she was only too pleased to be unloaded like a sack of corn onto a simple mattress in a wagon. When Raoulf pulled a coverlet over her with his calloused hands, and told her to rest now, she responded automatically, ‘Thank you, Gilles,’ and drifted with the bump bump rhythm of the wagon into deepest sleep.
Chapter 2.
Ermengarda, Viscomtesse of Narbonne, glanced idly through the narrow window, over the city wall to the River Aude, swollen with winter rain and snow melt flowing down from the mountains. Another few weeks and it would be time for the sheep to go back up from the plains to the heights for summer grazing. The reckoning from the harsh winter was being tallied daily in the ledgers of the clerks, who reported conscientiously to their mistress. They had no option as Ermengarda knew every last solidus in her coffers, and if Narbonne was the richest city in Occitania, it was in no small measure due to its ruler.
Today, however, Ermengarda had more pressing and personal concerns. Within the next day, few days, week, depending on how the journey went, she was expecting the Duchesse d’Aquitaine with a full entourage of Ladies and men-at-arms. The Palace had been preparing for weeks, storing grain, wine, hams; sweeping and strewing herbs in bedchambers; laying straw and placing troughs by empty stables. No detail was too small, from the Narbonne coat of arms on the heavy fabric newly draping the windows of Aliénor’s chambers, to the phials of oriental perfume by the bathing tubs.
Like the ducks. Ermengarda watched as a group of mallards seemed to float along with the current while their little legs were paddling for all they were worth. And the paddling would continue for as long as Aliénor honoured Narbonne with her presence and with the requirement that Narbonne feed, quarter and entertain four hundred personnel. Ermengarda sighed. The timing was not good. Apart from the disastrous winter, her people were suffering in the wake of the great failure known as the Second Crusade. Also considered by some, more specifically, as Aliénor’s great failure.
Narbonne relied on trade, and trade relied on trust and security. The sea-captains needed to set sail from their safe harbour without fear of being attacked by Genoese pirates when they’d barely left the bay, and in the certainty of re-victualing and repairing boat damage while they bought Moorish goods in the spice ports of Oltra mar. In addition to the sea-ways, overland routes had to be safe from thieves and brigands. And now look at the state of things! Every day her captains and merchants brought Ermengarda new problems; news of peaceful traders imprisoned, tortured and disfigured in deliberate reprisals against any Christians; news of safe routes barred by weather and wreckers. Everywhere, the balance for which she worked so hard shifted into insanity. Soon the trading season would begin in earnest and she must use all of her connections to repair the damage as best she could.
So, how did she feel about Aliénor coming? They had last met before the Crusade, Aliénor blazing with the passion of her adventure and Ermengarda full of misgivings, like a spectre at a wedding, a crone spreading ill-will and evil omens with her caution and reservations. Having been right gave her no pleasure now and she was slow to judge Aliénor as harshly as much of the world judged her. This elegant woman, her senior by ten years, had dazzled fourteen-year old Ermengarda with her intellect and exquisite taste, had shared her inside knowledge of the most powerful men in the land along with her secret recipes for cheek rouge, had called her a friend - and still did.
But even at fourteen, Ermengarda had her own hard-earned understanding of powerful men - and women - and she never forgot that Aliénor’s authority, over however great a realm, was harnessed in uneasy pairing with the King of France, Louis, while she, Ermengarda, was Narbonne. There was no doubt that Aquitaine was Aliénor’s but to what extent did Aliénor belong to Aquitaine? Her eye had roamed to France and rumour said she was still not satisfied.
Rumours. Ermengarda collected rumours along with the daily reckoning of accounts. It was impossible that Aliénor could have carried out half that she was credited or blamed for Oltra mar, overseas, but even so she had played a part that ran to twenty verses in the latest songs, some versions of which had been banned for the coming visit. Although Aliénor might be amused by the stories of herself riding bare-breasted with her Amazons to hack down the Infidels, Ermengarda did not think that a kind hostess would encourage the singing of ‘the whore of Antioch’ in which Aliénor’s trips to her uncle’s bed became increasingly lewd. Whether she had actually made those trips to her uncle’s bed was one of the many little details that might become clearer after Ermengarda saw Aliénor again. Could it have happened? It seemed more likely to Ermengarda than the tale of the Amazon army. It was important to know what you were called behind your back and Ermengarda knew perfectly well that she was ‘the shopkeeper’ and Aliénor ‘the whore’. To some extent she would always be a shopkeeper, Ermengarda acknowledged.
Her thoughts flowed downstream with the Aude. The ducks’ apparent serenity had been short-lived and five male mallards were attacking each other viciously in their attempt to mate the one female. Ermengarda watched as two males, still fighting each other, held the female underwater in their mating frenzy and drowned her. Be careful, Aliénor, be very careful. Not all lovers go down on their knees.
A respectful knock called her attention. Time to attend to the shop window and make sure that Narbonne looked every inch the jewel of the Mediterranean. She hoped Aliénor would have the good sense to send riders ahead that would give her at least one day’s warning of the onslaught. But of course. She smiled. That charming Dragonetz would be the one to send ahead. And he would be sure to remember the sort of courtesy that put her in a good mood.
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br /> ‘Rabbi Abraham ben Isaac, you may enter,’ she instructed. To business.
‘Have you sent ahead to warn the Lady Ermengarda?’ Dragonetz asked Raoulf, as they checked wagons and horses on the grazing land outside the castle of Douzens. Only a select few humans and animals would pass the night inside the security of the walls and Dragonetz clearly wanted to be sure that the party outside was as well-protected as possible.
‘Michels the Weasel and Gervais went this afternoon with your message, Sire. Tonight we halt at Douzens, tomorrow night with the white friars at Fontfroide and we should reach Narbonne after noon on Wednesday.’
‘Good man. Let’s hope the road continues trouble-free. And the girl? What do you make of her?’
Raoulf pursed his lips, considering. ‘I can fetch her for you if you have time for a tumble…’ He felt a point of pressure at his back, a tease of steel suggesting he’d said enough. But he hadn’t said nearly enough. ‘You’re a man, you can’t carry on like this.’ The pressure made its point a fraction clearer and Raoulf was careful not to move. ‘Take that damn thing away from me, Dragonetz, unless you’re really going to knife someone who knew you when you were a mewling puppy.’
‘You really shouldn’t test my temper with your cesspit wisdom. You’re too slow to stop me leaving a lesson across your clothing if not your skin.’ Dragonetz returned his dagger to wherever he secreted it. ‘My mewling days. Thank you for reminding me. Unless of course, you are referring to my more recent behaviour?’
Raoulf would by far have preferred the dagger to the jagged words. ‘Enough, Dragonetz! Leave it behind. What happened, happened. People die in a war and you can’t punish yourself forever.’ Mistake, he thought, the moment he spoke. He had been wrong in thinking the tone could not chill further.
‘Thank you for that reminder too. And as I’ve made clear enough I think, I always appreciate opinions on my conduct.’ Raoulf knew better than to interrupt the silence. Amid the clanking of harness and metal, creaking of wheel wood, human bustle, a clear soprano voice lilted a song over to the camp from somewhere near the river.
