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

by Jean Gill

  ‘Sing my praises all over Occitania,’ Aliénor smiled weakly, ‘instead of having her wings crushed in Paris. I see.’

  ‘And?’ prompted Ermengarda.

  ‘Yes,’ was the tired response. ‘Go ahead.’ And then finally, because she had to say it aloud, to someone outside her own head. ‘Oh, Ermengarda what if it’s a girl?’

  ‘It will be a boy,’ Ermengarda told her firmly. ‘Now, would you and the future King of France like to accompany me to the Viking Games?’

  ‘He hasn’t!’ Aliénor felt her spirits rise.

  ‘He has,’ Ermengarda confirmed, tight-lipped but laughter in her grey eyes. ‘Dragonetz los Pros has accepted a traditional Norse challenge from the Prince of Orkney.’

  ‘Oh, my sweet Lord!’ blasphemed Aliénor. ‘And what exactly led to this challenge’

  ‘I am reliably informed that Jarl Rognvaldr Kali Kollsson chose Dragonetz los Pros as the most worthy.’

  ‘And Dragonetz?’

  ‘Says it will be fun.’

  Aliénor sighed.

  ‘Quite. So I take it you would like to go to the quayside?’

  ‘It is clearly our duty to be there,’ was the regal response. ‘Let’s inform the Ladies.’

  Estela had a privileged vantage point in the front row with other Ladies, seated on rough benches that were themselves raised on trestle tables, hastily erected round a makeshift arena on rough ground near the docks, close enough to see the ships soughing and to hear the metallic clank of anchor chains tensing and relaxing in the swell. The Viking ships looked sleek and sophisticated, unmistakeably alien even without the dragon prows rearing up, and dwarfed by the sturdy Narbonnais merchantmen. Estela shielded her eyes against the glare, which was intensified by the glitter from the water, and she made out the figures of Dragonetz and the Jarl, gesticulating and presumably giving instructions, surrounded by their men. The full company of Vikings were ashore for the spectacle and Dragonetz had an equal number of his men-at-arms. Estela picked out Arnaut, Raoulf and some others she recognized. There was no sign of al-Hisba, probably in among the spectators somewhere.

  Three young page boys hastily lined up at the side of the arena with their trumpets and blew a fanfare, which lost a bit to the breeze but achieved its aim and attracted everyone’s attention. The same Norseman who had interpreted the Jarl’s poetry came to the front of the arena to address Ermengarda and Aliénor, with Arnaut at his side.

  After enough formal compliments to satisfy everyone round the ring who might consider him or herself deserving of them, and when Estela had lost concentration on the strange accent, her attention was caught by the words, ’The Individual Challenge will consist of three parts; spear throwing, Glima wrestling and swimming. Does Dragonetz los Pros accept the challenge?’

  ‘He accepts!’ Arnaut’s reply rang out while beside Estela someone whispered, ‘Wrestle against that? He’s crazy!’ Estela looked at the Prince of Orkney, now in the Arena, colossal, shaggy-haired, Zeus in bull form and she looked at Dragonetz beside him. ‘He’s crazy,’ she confirmed.

  Lady Sancha added, ‘They tell me that the Jarl started the competition earlier with a little appetizer. He made his oarsmen man their places, then he skipped along the oars over the ocean and juggled three knives in the air, balancing on an oar-tip.’ Her eyes glittered with excitement, the pupils huge and shiny.

  ‘And Dragonetz?’

  ‘Walked along an oar, stood on his head and asked Arnaut to pass him a full horn of wine, which he downed in one. The Jarl promptly summoned another, bigger horn and downed it, standing up.’

  ‘And here they are, still standing up,’ Estela mused.

  ‘All praise to Dragonetz los Pros,’ continued the Viking. ‘And to show how highly he esteems the men of this region, Jarl Rognvaldr Kali Kollsson offers a challenge from his men to conclude the sports with a game of Knattleikr. Does Dragonetz los Pros accept the challenge?’

  ‘On behalf of his men, he accepts the challenge,’ shouted Arnaut and the trumpets were accompanied by all the noises that can be made by appRoxiemately two hundred people hoping for a great sporting occasion, otherwise known as broken bones and a bloodbath, on a fine spring afternoon.

  Dragonetz and the Jarl then came forward to make a formal obeisance to Ermengarda. They were so close that Estela could see the sweat glistening on the men’s foreheads, both of them dressed Viking-style in the plainest of leather jerkins and britches. Did she imagine Dragonetz glancing her way with a quarter-smile that chilled on his lips and glanced over her to ripen for some other woman nearby? She certainly didn’t imagine Arnaut’s lips tightening in disapproval as his eyes dipped towards her waist and he instinctively raised his own hand to the chain around his neck, attached to her own token.

  Estela’s hands followed Arnaut’s eyes and she cursed her thoughtlessness as she felt the embossed surface of the Pathfinder Rune clasping her sashed waist. Whether it was magical or not, it was the only possession that was hers by right, not by charity, and she wore it always but of course it must seem a public declaration of support for the Prince of Orkney. Her cheeks flamed but there was nothing she could do without making things worse and anyway, it could hardly matter to someone as important as Dragonetz. It was Arnaut who cared too much and she could easily explain to him, later.

  And then the competition began in earnest. Accompanied by trumpet-bursts, chatter and then silences in anticipation, servants brought four javelins and cleared any bystanders from a wide arc in front of the royal stand. It seemed to be Dragonetz’ right to go first but whether this was a good thing or bad, Estela could not decide. She had of course witnessed tourneys and also less chivalrous games among the pages at her father’s castle but nothing like this.

  ‘Does anyone know what the rules are?’ she asked Lady Sancha.

  ‘I believe the Vikings do.’

  ‘So what will Dragonetz do?’

  That unnatural brilliance in her eyes even more evident, Lady Sancha replied, ‘What he always does.’

  ‘Make it up as he goes along,’ murmured Estela, not needing confirmation as Dragonetz took his spear, now identified with a blue ribbon. He paced out a run-up, turned and took his run, stopping at the mark. Sideways on, his right shoulder muscles glistening as his body curved into the throw. He hurled the spear in a perfect arc, scything the blue skies like a blade to land point down so far out that Estela had to shade her eyes to see it.

  Then it was the Jarl’s turn. He moved lightly for such a big man, at ease with his own weight and power. His run-up gathered such speed that it seemed impossible for him to stop short at the marker but he did, transforming all his energy into a throw that seemed to hardly test his giant physique. Another right-handed throw. Estela followed it with her eyes, a more upward trajectory, curving down and true but - she held her breath - just short of Dragonetz’. One-nul. There were some words exchanged between the men, explaining some aspect of the rules probably, as Dragonetz nodded acceptance, and then he took his second spear - in his left hand. The run up was identical but his movement was more awkward and when he turned to throw, the inverse position of the first time, Estela could feel the lack of fluidity, could see the hesitation in his shoulder, before she noticed the flight of the spear, long but low and straight so that it shaved the ground and landed flat. A mis-throw.

  The Prince of Orkney gave one nod and then followed with his second spear, in his left hand, as fluently as with his right, following an identical arc to his first to land beside it, just short of Dragonetz’.

  Amongst the clapping and cheering, Estela hissed, ‘Do we have any idea who has won?’ No-one answered her. No doubt it would be revealed at the end. The servants were herding spectators back into a closer ring around the arena, where the Jarl and Dragonetz donned leather garments not unlike a blacksmith’s apron but shorter and joined like underclothes, with a strap at the waist and a strap at the thigh. They wore these on top of their britches but had taken off their shirts.

>   At a signal from one of the Vikings, the two men went into a clinch, one hand in the other man’s waist strap, and one hooked into the thigh-strap. The size difference was obvious when the two of them were in this strange embrace. They moved together as if at the start of a dance, the feet mirroring each other’s moves.

  Then there was a whistle blown and the dance changed into a frenetic blur of moving legs, each trying to hook the other and bring him down. Pushing, pulling, still gripping each other’s leather straps, the men’s feet stamped, kicked and twisted into impossible positions as each tried to turn the move back on the other with a shift of weight. A feint, a sideways pull and a deft foot put Dragonetz on his back. ‘Nul-one’, muttered Estela, unconsciously clenching her hands.

  The Jarl stood to one side and waited politely, until Dragonetz rose, walked back to him and once more they clutched each other by the straps. Again the dance, the signal and the struggle, this time for longer as Dragonetz used his balance to mislead and counter-attack the bigger man, who could not lean as far or as flexibly as his slimmer opponent. ‘Ouch! declared Estela, and ‘One-all,’ as a swing from one side to the other, accompanied by a neatly placed foot, dropped the Jarl on the ground with a thud.

  Then they were into the third bout. Estela noticed that all Dragonetz’ actions were with his right side and right foot and she thought of the spear-throwing. ‘Hide it!’ she instructed him, jarring an imaginary opponent with her own left shoulder and earning ‘hrumphs’ of disapproval from those around her.

  Inevitably, the Jarl tried to force Dragonetz on his left side, expecting weakness. He must have been disappointed. The knight’s training might have left him one-sided with a spear but not in muscles or defensive skills. Having thrown himself into a failed attempt, the Jarl was caught off-balance at the strength of the riposte and, spinning out of control away from Dragonetz, he hit the ground a third time, shaking his head, annoyed with himself at falling for the trap.

  Dragonetz bowed, the Jarl dusted himself off and joined him, then there was a short break for the men to take off their leather wrestler costumes and refresh themselves with water brought out to them. At least Estela assumed it was water. Lord knew what the effect of more wine would be and she had already witnessed Dragonetz at play in a river. She did not fancy the idea of him testing the Prince of Orkney’s capacity to hold his breath under-sea. So far, the contest had been fair, but she could see how heavily the two men were breathing, how high the colour in their faces. Pride was at stake in this last event and there was no doubt they both wanted to win. What did ‘swimming’ mean exactly?

  She was still wondering this as word went around the crowd that they must go down to the docks to watch the next event. And so she joined in the milling, moving throng making its way across the arena that had once again become wasteland. She passed a spear, still stuck in the ground, its little blue ribbon still tight around the shaft and she had an idea. Minutes later she’d lost sight of the Ladies and was mixing with the townspeople and the men-at-arms, less attractively scented but more interesting in conversation. ‘Arnaut’, she called as she recognized him and caught him up. ‘What’s happening? What’s this swimming competition? Who’s winning anyway? Is he all right?’

  ‘Who?’ He gave a sarcastic glance at her clasp. ‘The Prince of Orkney?’

  ‘It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a pretty ornament. Now stop fooling around and tell me.’

  ‘He’s a bit bruised,’ Arnaut admitted, ‘and I don’t know when the alcohol will wear off. I just hope it’s before he starts swimming so that he knows when to stop.’

  Estela’s stomach clenched. ‘It’s a distance swim,’ she guessed. Arnaut nodded. ‘And there’s a marker?’ There was no answer and the feeling of panic deepened. ‘Arnaut, tell me there’s a marker.’

  ‘The only marker is common sense,’ he told her bitterly. ‘They swim out to open sea and the first one to turn back loses.’

  ‘You’ve got to stop him!’ she said. ‘Common sense? Dragonetz? And the Viking’s as bad. You can see it in their eyes!’

  ‘You know I can’t do a thing when he’s like this.’

  ‘Al-Hisba, he’s here somewhere, get al-Hisba.’

  Arnaut took her arm gently, spoke to her as if she were a startled horse. ‘He’ll be fine, Estela. He always is. And no-one can stop him anyway. You have to let a storm run its course.’

  Dazed with a sense of wrongness, Estela allowed Arnaut to lead her to the front of the crowd, find the other Ladies, now accompanied by various of Ermengarda’s advisors and town nobles. Arnaut leaned towards her so that she could hear above the noise. ‘And it’s even. He won the wrestling, lost the spears because of the left-handed mis-throw so it all depends on the swimming.’ Then he was gone.

  Before Estela could think of anything she could do to prevent it, two wild figures, stripped to work-britches, ran towards the sea and threw themselves off the jetty. Now, all there was to do was to wait and hope that two wild figures returned at some time, presumably loser first but who knew what Viking rules decreed!

  Meanwhile, the tradesmen were making the most of a captive crowd, offering pastries and honeyed water at exorbitant prices. Estela suddenly felt very hungry and even knowing that the pastries were likely over-salted to sell more drinking water, she succumbed to the urge and withdrew her purse from its hiding-place next to the reassuring weight of her dagger.

  As a spectator sport, the distance swim left a lot to be desired and some of the men in the crowd had rushed to commandeer whatever skiffs and rowboats they could, to head out into the bay and hope for a glimpse of the competitors. Probably run them both down and kill them, thought Estela cynically. Chewing layers of fatty dough had restored her spirits and it was hard to believe in danger while the sunshine glinted on the water, the children played tag in and out of adult legs, and the breeze caressed her skin.

  ‘My Lady Estela.’ The deep voice startled her. She had been too far away to notice the approach of a man in church robes but she had seen him at High Table often enough to recognize him straight away and wonder why he would seek her out. His manner suggested business. ‘It is a pity that men should spoil a beautiful day with their rivalries and attempts at self-glory,’ commented Pierre d'Anduze, the Archbishop of Narbonne.

  Now that her own reservations were expressed in such a fashion, she found she objected violently. What was she supposed to say? Nothing, seemed safest.

  ‘You don’t agree?’ he pressed.

  Saying nothing was not going to be an option and this was the Papal Legate, the most powerful prelate in Occitania, backing her into a conversational corner. Why? Her mind raced as her mouth responded, ‘I’m sure your Grace’s presence reminds us all of a higher purpose in life.’

  Then he did look at her, weighing her up. She returned the favour. He was much of a height with her, showing signs of his advanced age. His hair was silver, thinning over skin mottled with age spots, his eyes lightly clouded with cateracts, but his carriage was erect despite his bulk, and his voice that of someone used to deference. She forced herself to look away, let him think she was over-awed. Pretend your left side’s weak, she told herself, and make him give away all his tactics.

  ‘You are new to Narbonne,’ he continued smoothly. She kept her gaze demurely lowered. ‘But have already made quite a stir.’

  ‘I am flattered, your Grace.’

  ‘Don’t be. Flattery is only one of the dangers to your immortal soul in this frivolous court where you play the songbird and keep bad company.’ It was hardly a surprise to Estela that the Archbishop disapproved of games, secular music, in fact every sophistication of Ermengarda’s court, and his animosity towards Ermengarda herself was well-known. From the gossip that Estela had picked up, d’Anduze had not leaned as far towards Toulouse as his predecessor but in the eight months he had been in power he had already challenged the ruler of Narbonne over judicial rights, land rights and of course the state of her immortal soul. No, the
Archbishop’s disapproval was no surprise but why in heaven or earth was he bothering to express it to her personally, a nobody?

  ‘I have a lot to learn, your Grace.’

  ‘Evidently. And you are young enough to benefit from wise counseling.’ Estela could guess who the wise counseling was likely to come from. ‘You would do well to find a more responsible patron, one more sensitive to your reputation, something which is only possible in one who takes care of her own reputation.’ So this was about Aliénor? It still seemed strange that the Archbishop would take such an interest in the well-being of Estela’s soul! ‘And the young man, our Champion of the Games,’ he sneered, ‘he also could do with some counseling. From someone who knows about milling. You’ve seen the mill I believe?’

  ‘Yes,’ Estela began enthusiastically, ‘it’s taken a lot of work to set it up.’

  ‘A paper mill,’ prompted d’Anduze. ‘Ingenious as an experiment - but of course, it won’t work in practice though.’

  ‘Oh it works already,’ Estela responded heatedly, ‘Now that they’ve regulated the hammers,’ and then she tailed off as she sensed the heightened interest and belatedly remembered that paper production would not go down well with the church.

  ‘Really? And these hammers do what exactly?’ d’Anduze smiled, encouraging her to continue.

  Estela returned his smile with one equally false, an I’m just a girl smile. ‘I have no idea. I heard one of the men say it. I think the workers bring hammers to repair the water-wheel or something like that. I have no idea how it all works but I’m sure my Lord Dragonetz would be only too happy to discuss his mill with you.’

  The smile disappeared. ‘Don’t play games with me, little girl. You are as far out of your depth as that devil’s spawn out there.’ He jerked his head towards the ocean and prodded a podgy finger into Estela’s throat. Her hand tightened on the handle of her dagger but she held still, as she would with any snake rearing its head. ‘As far out of your depth and just as likely to drown. Remember that,’ he told her, then he left, cutting a stately swathe through the crowd, distributing verbal largesse right and left as he disappeared from view.