Song at Dawn: 1150 in Provence (The Troubadours Quartet)

by Jean Gill

  Raoulf nodded approval or gave curt instructions as they rounded each wagon. He gestured at empty buckets and men scurried to refill the water for the horses. One look from Dragonetz was enough to correct anyone mistaking this stop for journey’s end. ‘And?’ Dragonetz prompted, his jaw setting in even more severe lines.

  ‘And, Sire?’ Raoulf countered.

  ‘I believe I asked you a question.’

  ‘The girl.’

  ‘Quite. And it’s a military question not a man’s.’

  ‘Your loss,’ Raoulf couldn’t resist but carried on quickly. ‘I don’t think she’s playing a game of bait and rob but she’s not telling the truth either. I’m sure she’s alone - good, that means no cut-throats round the next bend. But there again, she’s alone - bad. Why is she alone? Her hands say she’s no servant. I’d say that all she knows of the world came to her by songs and travelers to wherever she lived. I don’t think she’s ever left there before. Seems innocent, sheltered, behind that air of know-all. Didn’t even know you. And the way she sings says she’s no ordinary girl. She was exhausted when I laid her in the wagon and when I covered her up, she called me Gilles.’

  ‘A lover, a husband…’ Dragonetz wondered. ‘Someone who’ll come looking for her, someone who’ll want recompense for his damaged goods.’

  ‘She’s not damaged by me! Yet!’ Raoulf retorted. ‘I was waiting for your word first but if you don’t want her -’

  ‘And neither do you. Nor any of the men.’ It was an order. ‘If she’s not what she seems, we should be all the more careful that she isn’t damaged by any of us. I want her chaperoned by the Ladies.’

  ‘Purely as a military consideration?’

  ‘Purely. I’ll have enough problems caused by Lady Aliénor amusing herself politically without adding some enraged Castellan from the back woods chasing my hide.’

  ‘Not lover, if you want my opinion, nor husband, this Gilles person. She might have been tired but she still knew it was me, or rather someone like me, serving her I’d have said. Yes, someone like me.’

  ‘Is there another one like you?’ Dragonetz was sardonic. ‘Then God help us all.’

  ‘Thank you, Sire.’

  ‘Raoulf, don’t you ever get tired of people under-estimating you? The big black bear lumbering after young Dragonetz?’

  ‘Have you seen a bear catch a fish, Sire? The slower people think me, the more I can find out and the easier I can catch them.’ He hesitated. ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to say to you - ‘

  ‘What, still more? Thank the Lord the journey will be over soon if it ferments so many thoughts. Well, go on. You might as well spit it out man, now you’ve started.’

  Raoulf was conscious of the need to choose his words carefully but finally he came out with, ‘You know Lady Fortune and her wheel?’ Dragonetz nodded impatiently. ‘Well, it doesn’t do to bind yourself to the Lady on the way up or she won’t let you go on the fall. So if you’re bound, now is the time to loose the ties.’

  The bustle was dying down around the camp as men settled to chew the fat round camp-fires in the waning light. Pink rays from the setting sun glinted off abandoned armour and swords. An assailant would have to be foolish or very strong to chance his arm against two hundred fighting men and a Templar stronghold, even in a surprise attack. The Watch was sound, no sign of danger anywhere. Dragonetz sighed.

  ‘You care about me, Raoulf, don’t you.’

  Although it was expressed as a statement, Raoulf answered all the same, his matted black hair blowing back from his face as he looked down at Dragonetz, eyes tinged blood-red from the sun. ‘I swore an oath, Sire.’

  The two men held each other’s gaze and it was Raoulf who dropped his first. ‘You take second watch,’ Dragonetz ordered. They both knew that if trouble was coming, that’s when it was most likely. ‘I’d better oil my charm for dinner with our hosts.’

  ‘No harm will come, Sire.’

  ‘That you still believe so, Raoulf, is only one of the differences between us. Until tomorrow.’

  ‘Sire.’

  Dragonetz watched the broad back retreating, heard Raoulf’s coarse remark and the laughter in response as he mingled with the other soldiers. It was a pity but Raoulf would have to go. He had become a liability. Dragonetz refused to be loved by anyone, man, woman or child. Never again. He would indeed loose the ties, all the ties, including those with the Lady whom Raoulf designated Fortune. But first he had business to conclude.

  So she must think of herself as Estela now. She splashed her face in the stream, which was already losing the warmth of the afternoon sunshine. Downstream, men were taking their horses to drink, easing into the routines of setting up camp. The usual pack of dogs that hung round human dwellings was scrounging for scraps round the cook-fires. If there was a flash of white fur among the blacks and browns, Estela didn’t notice. Beside her, other women were dabbling feet and arms, gossiping about laundry and kisses; no time for either until they reached Narbonne and then it seemed that they would catch up on both.

  Guillelma paid her no attention as she chatted to her friends but the girl knew that however sympathetic the raw-boned servant had been, she was also her prisoner-warder. Not that Estela had anywhere to run to, nor that she even wanted to run. It was soothing to flow with the river, follow Guillelma to do ‘what we women do’, be given bread to eat and water to drink. Perhaps she would be a servant after all, she mused. Laundry and kisses.

  Was it possible to begin life at sixteen? It had to be. ‘Estela de Matin’, the Morning Star, could be whoever she wanted to be. She wouldn’t be the first troubadour to hide behind her chosen name. Forget the laundry. She would be famous like Cercamon, ‘Seek the world’, and no-one would care what she had been before. Cercamon’s childhood was buried with him. Whether he had been a pot-boy or a Castellan’s son, no-one knew or cared but everyone sang his songs and his name would live forever.

  Estela sang the Cercamon opening ‘Ab lo pascor m'es bel qu'eu chan’, ‘At Easter time ’tis joy to sing,’ and flushed as she realized the chat had stopped and she was the centre of attention.

  ‘I told you so,’ Guillelma informed the others, as if she’d won a wager. ‘Don’t stop, pet, it’s lovely. A real breath of spring, you are.’

  ‘You carry on,’ encouraged a woman whose body seemed about to explode from her coarse burnet gown at any moment. As the sun burnished the distant hills, the women were gilded statues, sitting by the rose-gold water, listening to the unaccompanied, plaintive solo. Inevitably the song darkened, turned to infidelity and loss and when Estela reached the lines

  ‘Miels li fora ja non nasqes

  Enans qe'l failliment fezes

  Don er parlat tro en peitau’

  the sun dipped and Guillelma shivered.

  ‘Very nice but we’d best be getting dry and warm,’ she interrupted Estela, who stopped on a false note that jarred her entire body. She blinked, still lost in the world of the song. Guillelma took her by the arm and led her back to the wagon that seemed to contain whatever meagre possessions the woman had. Satisfied that they were alone, Guillelma shook her head and glared at Estela. ‘You’ll get yourself killed, you will!’

  Estela just looked at her wide-eyed.

  ‘And you really don’t know why, do you!’ Guillelma whispered. ‘Singing about her being better off not born than sinful,’ Estela still looked blank, ‘and that people were talking about it all the way to Poitiers. Who do you think the song’s about! And what do you think she’d do if she heard you singing it!’

  Understanding dawned and Estela wished it hadn’t. Poitiers, the capital of Aquitaine. ‘But I didn’t!’ Estela exclaimed.

  ‘Well, that’s fine then. You didn’t.’ Her voice was its usual matter of fact tone. ‘And we’ll all keep it like that. You didn’t. And we didn’t hear you. And hope to God it stays like that! But I won’t be there with you this evening so just keep your mouth shut and learn everything you can, quick
ly. ‘

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The Lady Aliénor has taken into her head that you should eat with your betters in the keep this evening, at the bottom table of course, but I’ve been asked to make you respectable all the same.’ She frowned and studied Estela. ‘Silk purse and sow’s ear come to mind but we’ll do what we can.’

  ‘You know how to make me … respectable?’ Estela didn’t know how to put the question tactfully.

  Guillelma threw back her head and laughed without restraint. ‘You mean how can a peasant like me fit you up as more of a lady?’ Estela flushed. ‘Because, my dear, this peasant looks after the Queen’s wardrobe and when we’re not on the blessed road for weeks on end, this peasant dresses herself up a bit too. But yes, it’s my needle not my good looks that got me where I am.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Estela couldn’t meet the other woman’s eyes.

  ‘Like I said, you’ll get yourself killed. But you might as well have some fun before then.’ She motioned Estela into the wagon and the girl could now see open boxes piled with bodices, shoes, furs, head-dresses. Guillelma seemed to see order in this chaos and almost disappeared into a trunk, muttering ‘gold, yellow… scarlet too ostentatious… pretty but not standing out too much… impossible…’

  When she came up for air, Guillelma was holding three gowns, which she placed on top of a pile while she searched for shift and bodice. Then five pairs of soft leather boots were added to the pile after a calculated glance to estimate Estela’s shoe size. While her own clothes fell at her feet, accompanied with clucks and mutters of ‘a tuck there, no flesh on the girl, none at all,’ Estela wondered what was going to be expected of her. And what more she could get wrong.

  ‘And if I get asked to sing?’ Estela stammered. ‘What shall I do?’

  ‘Sing,’ was the short answer then Guillelma relented. ‘If you want advice from a peasant,’ she looked up from lacing a boot, ‘don’t take your instrument and do make yourself invisible. And if the worst comes to the worst, you already know two songs not to sing, so I should try a third one. Who knows, even you might be third time lucky.’

  Oh, Lord. She had forgotten Dragonetz and he would be there too.

  And Aliénor and their Templar hosts. Dear God, were there any problems with ‘Assatz es or' oimai q'eu cha,’ ‘Now it’s time to sing?’ She checked the lyrics mentally. One reference to Saint John. That would be all right in front of the knights, wouldn’t it? Well, it would just have to be! Singing never used to be this complicated.

  April evenings were still cool enough for the heat from the blazing logs in the great fireplace to be more than welcome. Shadows flickered on the stone walls from the torches lit at intervals in the sconces round the Hall. The Commanderie at Douzens was less than twenty years old but of basic military construction and rarely saw guests of this rank. Luckily, the well-stocked cellars, the well-staffed kitchens, and the tables laden with fresh bread and hams, richly confirmed the Templars’ reputation for hospitality. From the High Table, Aliénor scanned her company.

  Her gaze travelled below the salt, where she noted and approved her little protégée, black hair gleaming against a tawny gown, sitting quietly among the lower household personnel. To one side of her, was the distinctive headgear of a dark-skinned Moor, no doubt brought back from the last Crusade. Estela’s eyes were cast down, showing no preference for one companion over another. There would be no music tonight but Aliénor was not impatient to launch her new star. Dragonetz could refine the youngster first. And then there would be the pleasure of watching Ermengarda’s face when she heard that voice. It was surely fate that had brought such a jewel to her and she intended to set it off to advantage.

  She continued her appraisal of the gathering. Various knights of the Brotherhood, and some minor landholders attached to the Commanderie, with their wives or sisters. At the High Table, the Master, Peter Radels, red-faced and sweating from exertion or wine, or both; the joint commanders, Isarn of Moleria and Bernard of Roquefort; another powerful Brother, Bernard of the Casul Revull; two of her Ladies, Philippa and Sancha, the latter in a teeth-grinding glitter of blue beads and scarlet satin that clashed not only in itself but also with the brilliant red of Aliénor’s own garb; and then, of course, there was Dragonetz.

  Aliénor’s knight was the model of courtesy, bending his head as he passed two words in exchange with one lady, three words in exchange with the other, then in an animated lengthy conversation with the Master. Aliénor smiled. There was little doubt where Dragonetz’ interest lay and she guessed from the few words she could overhear that he was drilling for information on water power and mills, light relief to him, no doubt.

  ‘My Lady, we cannot leave Damascus and Edessa in the hands of Infidel.’ Isarn was waiting for her response and Aliénor returned to her duty. There would be no light relief for her.

  ‘That is why I took the Cross,’ she replied. ‘And we have not forgotten our lands Oltra mar, however hard the last lesson we took there. It must steady our hand and thought for a more successful venture.’

  ‘My thoughts, exactly, my Lady. Perhaps you can convey some of our suggestions to King Louis.’ If Aliénor flinched at being taken for a mere messenger, she gave no sign, but continued in her discovery and analysis of the strengths and loyalties of the knights of Solomon.

  The Master leaned confidentially towards Dragonetz, who poured him another cup of wine - good, local red wine from the Corbières, fruity and warming. ‘You should join us, Dragonetz.’

  ‘I did consider it. Last time I was asked.’

  ‘You should,’ Radels persisted.

  ‘The vow of poverty concerned me a little.’ Dragonetz swirled the wine in his silver goblet, mischief in his eyes.

  Radels just laughed. ‘We should have had a whole Kingdom when Alfonso died but as it is, we’ve not done too badly.’

  Dragonetz was well aware of the fiasco sixteen years earlier when Alfonso el Batallador, King of Aragon and Navarre, had died heirless, leaving his entire estate to the knights Templar. In such a manner did a rich man buy his welcome to the next world, while alienating the people he left behind in this one. Wisely, the knights had negotiated their way out of their inheritance, avoiding decades of bloody warfare and adding to their already legendary treasure store. And, according to an increasingly loose-tongued Radels, Douzens had gained its share of the booty, including some very interesting vassals, who were next on Dragonetz’ conversational list, after just one or two more questions for the Master while there was still some chance of a lucid response.

  ‘And I’m sure you will continue to do well, with such a head for business,’ Dragonetz assured the other man, whose head was thrown back more and more frequently in the business of his cups. ‘Perhaps you can enlighten me on one such business matter. Let us suppose that a man had a promissory note from the Brothers of Antioch, and he wished to purchase land in this region, would such a note be acceptable to the vendor?’

  The glint in Radels’ eyes suggested that he was not too far gone to understand the situation. So much the better. ‘A note of some value, I take it?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Then that would depend on whether the vendor is a Brother, an associate or completely other. ‘

  ‘Suppose that any of the three is a possibility.’

  ‘If, for example you - sorry, I mean, such a man - were to buy, for instance, a stretch of the Aude where a mill might be built,’ Dragonetz acknowledged the hit and wondered just how much wine it took to blunt this particular brain. More, evidently. He topped up both their cups and beckoned a servant to refill the pitcher. ‘and if this man were to buy his land from the Brethren, the note would be as good as gold from al-Andalus.’ Dragonetz nodded, concentrating. ‘And if this man were to approach our neighbouring brethren at the Abbey, who might also have such land for sale,’ Dragonetz took a thoughtful sip. Now he was getting somewhere! ‘then they might be willing to accept the note if it were accompanied by a pe
rsonal signature, say, of a local Commander, making it even more flexible as currency, but they will of course fleece this man to his naked hide in the name of God and the Abbey.’

  So the wine was having some effect. ‘And in the name of God and the Commanderie, this man might get a bargain?’ Dragonetz queried smoothly.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘And the third situation? Of purchase from one without connections to the Brotherhood?’

  Radels pursed his lips. ‘More tricky. Some men of affairs understand the benefits of our notes, particularly if they can read. Others stay behind the times and prefer oxen and fishing rights. Believe me, Dragonetz, the day will come when promissory parchment will be current, universally.’

  ‘But meanwhile?’

  ‘Meanwhile, the note promises to pay the bearer the sum stated and any Commanderie will honour that note in solidi, so if this man needs to pay in weight of silver he would need to present me with the note in proper manner.’

  Dragonetz had been through the options a hundred times during the journey and needed only the facts he had gleaned from Radels to come to a decision. He knew what he wanted, he knew who had it and he knew how to get it, and in return he had given away only what he intended to - not a bad evening’s work. He stretched his long legs under the table and eased muscles a little weary from saddle and wooden bench.

  ‘A personal note from a Commander would indeed be a great favour.’ Radels’ eyes gleamed, ‘That could be arranged.’

  ‘And of course, as a little thank you to the Commander we could conclude the other purchase of which we spoke. My word on that and let’s forget this dreary subject. ’

  ‘You will not regret it. Send the note to me and I will issue a new one for the reduced sum, with my personal guarantee for the note.’