by Jean Gill
‘Please see she is safely returned to her people,’ Ermengarda ordered Makhir, who bowed obeisance. ‘You will keep me informed of your studies. There is a delicate line between philosophy and,’ she swept an arm to indicate the symbols on the walls, ‘the dark arts. I wouldn’t want it said those studying the Kabbalah are crossing that line’ - Makhir said nothing but was intent - ‘by showing an active interest in occult activities such as fortune-telling, which is banned by both your Church and mine.’ There was total silence in the room. ‘But I know that we were both merely showing respect to a passing visitor and her ways, which are not our ways. Should your gatherings here be seen as dangerous, I would have to act, but if a few - and mark, I say a few! - learned men meet discreetly and discuss their faith, and I am fully informed, I see no harm in that at all. Do we understand each other?’
Makhir’s bowed head was answer enough and Ermengarda’s tone lightened. ‘For this evening’s entertainment, we thank you.’
As entertainment, it was on a par with having your face nibbled by rats, thought Dragonetz. The Jew, Makhir, caught him as he turned to go and murmured, ‘We will not be ungrateful for the service you will render us nor will we forget the cost to you.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘You will. The Kabbalah satisfies its own needs and we are all her servants.’
Dragonetz nodded a curt farewell and thanked his own more familiar God that the evening was over. Whatever Ermengarda had learned or decided, she kept to herself, without looking once in Dragonetz’ direction. Hooded once more, the party re-threaded their way to the Palace, without incident. Unless, like Dragonetz, you count it an incident that he quietly asked Estela if she were all right and she replied, inexplicably, ‘Go to hell!’
Chapter 14.
Estela’s husband-to-be was grizzled and lined but still kept a firm chin, she noticed, glancing at his profile. When she had swept in all her finery to the Chapel doorway, Sancha and Guillelma at her side, she had not known which of the small knot of men standing there was the man she was here to marry and sudden tears pricked as she hoped it would not be the specimen whose belly gave the lie of his belt problems, nor the one whose fight against the smallpox had left a pitted landscape of a face. How could the world be so full of ugly men and she had never noticed before? Before she could tuck her train over her arm and run for the stables, for Tou and a thousand miles between herself and this mistake, Sancha touched a man whose back was towards them, saying ‘Johans’ and putting an end to Estela’s nervous speculation.
His smile showed good teeth, he had neither belly nor pitmarks, and his dress, although unfortunately a red that clashed with Estela’s gown, showed the quiet taste of middling wealth. He greeted her with a bow and a few platitudes but her scarlet silk dress didn’t seem to spark any fire in his sobre eyes. There was no sign of that second sneaked appraisal that she had grown used to from the men around her. Perhaps that was to the good, she thought, as her stomach looped like a swift in flight. Kindness was worth more than passion. So she told herself, twice.
There were perhaps ten people gathered outside the Chapel, where it was hot enough even in mid-morning to trickle sweat between her breasts, staining the sensitive silk darker, as she stood in full sunshine, waiting. Heat flashed back from the grey stone paving. Al-Hisba had told her of the lightweight fabrics, sheers and muslins, worn Oltra mar and she wished they had reached Guillelma’s clothing coffers. She covered her face with the veil and felt less vulnerable, not just to the sun. A few passers-by in working clothes paused from curiosity and stayed when they saw the figures of Aliénor and Ermengarda approaching, regal even in their choice of informal apparel, turquoises and garnets glinting in the sun. Did they even go to bed be-jewelled? Estela shook off the image of Ermengarda, golden and naked in turquoises. She really must concentrate.
Ermengarda took her place of office in front of the couple at the Chapel Doorway, ensuring that the ceremony could be seen by the public. It should have been so different. If her mother had been alive, if Estela had been matched with a man from a neighbouring estate, there would have been a betrothal, rings and flowers, promises and kisses, processions and of course, music. Estela would cope with anything this day but that. Whatever the private thoughts of Aliénor and Ermengarda, they had respected Estela’s wish that not one chord be struck during this most practical of small ceremonies.
In a voice projected to the Chapel courtyard and beyond, Ermengarda had finished enunciating her right as Viscomtesse de Narbonne to legalise this marriage.
‘I, Johans de Villeneuve, receive you as mine, so that you become my wife and I your husband,’ pronounced the stranger beside her.
‘And I, Roxane de Montbrun, receive you as mine, so that you become my husband and I your wife,’ declared Estela, used to an audience, used to keeping her voice clear and firm while her knees shook like mice in a cat’s mouth.
‘By virtue of the written agreement of Roger de Tancavel, liege Lord of Montbrun, I declare parental consent to be given to Roxane de Montbrun in this marriage.’ Ermengarda was holding aloft a scroll and Estela held her breath. Sure enough, the two witnesses carefully selected by Ermengarda received the scroll, unrolled and read it, acknowledged the signature as genuine and set their own names to the marriage contracts.
There was no denying that Ermengarda was a magnificent liar. Blindly, Estela wrote her own name where she was told. If one of the anonymous, capped workers who’d been hanging on the scene open-mouthed, left at that point, Estela didn’t notice, her thoughts a mill-race. She had been wrong to see the coming night as her introduction to womanhood. She was already standing in her mother’s footsteps and she could see it all now, the commitment of body and goods to an unknown man, decades of duties, the perennial disappointment, a sense of being cheated and - in her mother’s case - the fever that took her to the afterlife. Which had to be a better place. Where were the songs in that?! How could she, Estela, sing while leading such a life? Let alone write the lyrics she had dreamed of writing one day! A sour weight replaced the butterflies in her stomach, sending bitter juices like aloes through her body.
Automatically, she followed Ermengarda into the Church for mass and sat beside her husband on the hard bench, while the Priest blessed their marriage and reminded them that carnal knowledge with pleasure or for any purpose other than procreation was a sin unto the Lord. She murmured the set responses, sought and found nothing in the echoes reverberating through the ancient place of worship.
Then there were congratulations from Aliénor and Ermengarda, Guillelma and Sancha, who was leaving for the family estate in Provence immediately after the ceremony. The assembly was reminded that the couple would be feted at lunch in the Great Hall, a meal that would last until dark, with tumbling and puppets instead of melody and strumming. Her hand on his arm, Estela was linked to Johans like a bit to a bridle but she had no idea who was leading or where.
In a brief moment when no-one was near them, he spoke the only words to her since the commonplaces of greeting. Looking full at her, every bit as kindly as she hoped, he said gently, ‘I loved my wife. I understand the situation.’ And so she understood too, that it would be duty on both sides this night, her beautiful scarlet silk notwithstanding. Unable to speak, she smiled and nodded, as she continued to do, throughout what seemed a life-time of patchwork leather balls performing ever more tedious arcs in the air between harlequined fools; of marionettes strutting their uneven walk, directed by Jews and given voices by any wit hoping to needle another; of endless dishes, oyster ragout, yellow-coloured Saracen soup, geese feet, guinea-fowl and boar, frumenty, sweetmeats and fancies.
On and on the day dragged, while Estela picked at crumbs, smiled and nodded, starting at so much as a shadow of a familiar black head with his blonde-haired Aide and Moorish companion but they weren’t there. Thank God, thought Estela, her split soul resentful that not even Arnaut nor al-Hisba had thought it worth attending he
r wedding feast. The third absentee she didn’t name even to herself.
Raymond V de Toulouse, usurped Viscomte of Narbonne, was fifteen, an orphan and a dutiful son. From his mother, he had inherited a narrow, dark face that could be traced back to the Roman origins of her home town Uzès. She had also passed on an unrelenting hatred, based on envy, of the red-haired Aquitaine beauty she had reluctantly served for years as Lady-in-Waiting.
Barely a year after his mother’s death, when Raymond was only seven years old, the pink walls of Toulouse had been shaken by the same red-head’s arrogant claim to his father’s city. Never mind that it was Louis VII, the King of France, who bayed the challenge without their walls, Alphonse Jourdain made it quite clear to his young son that this was more mischief caused by the whore of Aquitaine. Thanks to his father’s clever negotiations, and Louis’ milksop reluctance to spill blood, a new treaty satisfied pride on both sides and the French retreated. The Toulousians repeated with glee the rumours that Louis screamed at night, haunted by charred phantoms from the town known as Vitry-le-Brûlé since Louis’ one attempt at exerting military discipline over unruly vassals. If Louis was convicted by gossip of cowardice, celebrations throughout the streets of Toulouse made it equally clear who the victors were in this bloodless war and seven year old Raymond was lifted on his father’s shoulders, carried high round the Halls and announced to the world at large as the future Viscomte of Narbonne by his slightly inebriated father.
When Raymond was eight, this strange boast was made good when his father married young Ermengarda of Narbonne. Left in Toulouse with his tutors, priests and his father’s advisers, Raymond was told that his father had a new domain and he had a new mother. He wanted neither. He missed his father’s huge confidence, his maleness and his pride in his son. Of course, Raymond was now too old to be physically touched in affection by his father, and after the death of his mother, the little boy had lost contact with her maids and wards, as well as the rare and vinegary maternal embrace. He didn’t need to be touched. In fact, he wouldn’t have believed there had ever been a time he liked it.
The eight year old prayed devoutly every night, adapting the formula he had been taught to include a fervent plea that Ermengarda die as quickly as possible and his father return to him. When his father strode into the Great Hall, beetle-browed with rage at the conspiracy against him and the annulment of his brief marriage, before he had even bedded his thirteen year old bride, Raymond learned young that God answered his prayers, a lesson that bonded him inseparably to his Lord. It was clear to the boy that Raymond’s work and the Lord’s work were one and the same, and his sense of mission filled the empty space he would not admit had been there.
Six years later, it had been easier to accept his father leaving him once more because the warrior wore the Holy Cross and Raymond trusted in God to look after his own. Reports of his father’s valour, his might against the Heathen, came back to Raymond in troubadours’ songs and by courier, to bolster his ego while he trod a tricky measure amongst his Advisers, studying patiently how to twist them to his desires. He learned quickly that he must gain power before he could show any and instead he cultivated subtlety, playing one against another, seeding distrust, misquoting each to the other until only he kept the threads of truth in his head. Or his version of truth.
Then came the news from Oltra mar. His father, the great Alphonse Jourdain, inexplicably dead. Despite the temporary relief of having the messenger tortured by stretch and by spike, and then killed, Raymond could not pretend to himself that the message was false, and he spent dark days and nights, doubting his special relationship with God. He was already starting to think his way out of his trap, to realise that wicked men had the power to act against the Lord, to spoil His plans for Raymond, when Raimon Trencavel of Beziers, his father’s comrade at arms and long time friend, called at Toulouse after his own return from the disastrous Crusade. He wanted to pay his respects to the memory of his friend, to offer his friendship to his friend’s son, the new Comte, and to share some privileged detail on exactly how Raymond’s father had died.
It was both a torment and a relief to Raymond to hear that no Saracen had killed his father, no curved sword but rather a sneak-thief with poison. It seared his guts that his heroic father should have died in such a manner but it also gave him, Raymond V, a renewed sense of divine purpose. There were indeed evil forces abroad. And the main one, as he should have known all along, was the red-headed witch his mother had warned him against, that his father had defeated, who had finally taken down a great man in the only way she ever could have, by poisoning him. Raymond’s eyes shone with missionary fervour. He had an enemy with a name. Of course she wouldn’t have soiled her own lemon-softened hands with the dirty deed, but Raymond didn’t have to search far to know the other name he needed. Who else would it be but Aquitaine’s much-loved knight and troubadour, never a hair’s breadth from Aliénor’s side? Raymond would watch and bide his time but that time would come and he would have no mercy.
It took all Raymond’s exceptional store of self-control to reveal none of this less than two years later when the haughty bitch and her greasy paramour flaunted themselves at his court. At fifteen, he understood his political needs too well to draw the wrath of France on Toulouse by overt aggression to its Queen. But he had set certain actions in motion. Raymond flicked the domino beside him and stood up to watch the fall of the hundred dominoes that he had carefully set up in loops on the floor round the chamber.
Ten seconds’ rattle and it was over. Perfect. A servant could pick them up as soon as he vacated the room. He had kept the Archbishop waiting long enough for his audience, and he had come to a decision regarding the other matter. Friend of his father’s or not, Raimon Trencavel the new Comte de Carcassonne needed a reminder not to get too big for his boots, and for that, the girl would do nicely, very nicely now she was back for a few days. Offering a bit of sport along the way, too, although he had tired of her long ago when she had been in Toulouse to learn courtly ways. Well, he’d certainly taught her that and better than she’d learn as a Lady with the Whore of Aquitaine, although she was useful to him there. She had fallen as easily as her father for his promises of marriage and she pleaded sweetly enough when he hurt her but it was all too easy. As if he couldn’t do better than a used Trencavel to bear him a legitimate son.
Raymond adjusted his clothing, which was as sober and pious as the expression he shortly presented to the Archbishop of Toulouse, who wanted to discuss their next steps against the heretics of Toulouse. A burning question, as Raymond V, Comte de Toulouse, agreed, smiling.
Estela lay awake, dry-eyed and sleepless, having listened to a thousand footsteps pass her door, and, having invented a million more, finally accepted that she would spend her wedding night alone. She had no idea when Johans had slipped away from the wedding feast and she had assumed he was avoiding any possibility of ribald accompaniment to their bedding. A sign of delicacy and tact, she had thought, having often enough seen red-faced couples sent to the consummation of their marriage with a clatter of kettles, lewd songs and even help in undressing. She had assumed that he would join her later, slip through the door like a shadow and that, all cats being grey at night, they would take what pleasure they could from each other, unseen.
Instead, her white lawn and lace were even more wasted than her scarlet wedding finery. She might as well have kept Nici to lie by the door instead of confusing him with her insistence that he go play with his own kind. He had gambolled after her at the anti-climax when she left the Great Hall, the only living creature to notice her departure. His outrage when she told him no and shut the door on him was expressed in a series of insistent barks loud enough to reach Carcassonne and only after Estela had repeatedly slammed the door just short of his nose did he accept the exclusion and slink off, his tail hanging, his shoulders slumped. Much, thought Estela, as she felt herself. What was so terribly wrong with her, she wondered, and kept wondering, through a night l
ong with clicking insects, creaking wood, shifting wheels, scampering of four legs and shuffling of two, all the small night noises that torment the sleepless.
Inevitably, morning thumped her from deep sleep into a splitting headache, and she took an infusion of feverfew, glad that she had accumulated her own collection of fresh herbs again, alongside the dried ones she had persuaded al-Hisba to give her, once she had convinced him that she knew what she was doing with them. More than one of the Ladies had found Estela’s knowledge useful. This particular morning Estela had no patience for Ladies and it was just as well no-one approached her for a little something to settle stomach, head or heart; lovesickness was exceptionally high on the list of ailments Estela did not want to hear about. Grateful to be left alone, Estela sat in the window-seat, her head too fuzzy with fatigue and vestigial headache to do anything more demanding than sit. Even so, she became gradually aware why she was being left alone. Sidelong glances and fluttering hands made it clear that she was being served up as titbit of the day and just as Estela felt she was being pecked to death by a barnyard of clucking poultry, Aimée de Rouen, fluttered onto the window seat beside her.
‘The day after is always a bit of an anti-climax,’ she offered, her kind smile unerringly flaying Estela’s raw spot. ‘The day after the wedding,’ she clarified before Estela could say ‘The day after what!’ and announce to the world what wasn’t happening in her bedchamber. But it seemed the world knew anyway, as Aimée continued, ‘And observing the Tobias nights just drags things out doesn’t it, when one has a life to get on with after all, marriage notwithstanding.’ Estela fixed on the reddened mouth delivering the message that everyone knew she would spend two nights alone, while her bridegroom demonstrated his Christian control and chastity, observing his procreative duty on the third night, as long as this was not on a date requiring self-denial. Everyone knew but her.
