by Jean Gill
Mechanically, she obeyed orders, but his attempt to comfort her sparked some instinctive repulsion that was not his doing. She saw the hurt in his eyes and his voice and she should have said something to put it right. But when Arnaut said, ‘I’m sure you’d rather he were here,’ and withdrew from the stable, she merely stumbled after him, speechless, blinking in the light, seeing nothing but a human form hanging from the wooden beam at the top of the partition that separated the first stall from the second. It shouldn’t be possible to see so much detail in seconds. Peire’s brown hair was undamaged, flopping like that of some marionette above the smashed face, its empty sockets accusing Estela of she knew not what. The head was twisted at no living angle, familiar to Estela from every death by hanging passed along a roadside. But she had never before seen a man’s hands, tied together in ironic supplication as he swung, holding five objects. His empty sockets identified the two balls, slimy as old fish. It was the gouges hacked out his blood-stained jerkin, at groin level, like a carcass in a butcher’s, which told Estela what else he held. But the worst amongst the flesh and flies gathering to feast was the glitter of gold and emerald.
Nausea fouled her mouth and she crumpled to the ground, her head buried in her gown between her knees as she fought to keep control. ‘Tell me what happened,’ she demanded through gritted teeth. Anything to engage her brain, anything to diminish the image that recurred.
Still cold and formal, Arnaut did at least reply. ‘We don’t know. One of my men found the boy like this.’ He hesitated. ‘I think I might have seen him in a tavern last night.’ Arnaut hadn’t stayed at the banquet? ‘He was trying to sell some jewel, presumably...’ He didn’t have to finish his sentence. They both knew where the jewel was now and that robbery had not been the motive for this killing. ‘If he spoke truly, he had the jewel from some wench so no doubt this is payment from her parents.’ Estela raised her head then, watching his face, seeing no irony, understanding that he didn’t know, after all. And if it wasn’t Peire he was referring to, then who? Her stomach looped. ‘The jewel and manner of his death suggest he paid for an act of lechery with his betters.’ Arnaut shrugged. ‘My Lady, it is unpleasant and I wish you had not gone against me. But he was just a stable-hand. You must put it out of your mind and not let it spoil your day.’ Hesitantly, he held out his arm to her and she took it, shaking out her skirts as she stood.
‘I think a man’s death in such a manner deserves my thoughts for one spoilt day,’ she said quietly. ‘Any man’s.’
‘Worse happened in the Crusade, both to our men and done by them.’ His eyes glanced off hers. ‘As Dragonetz could tell you.’ The name was a double-edged blade between them and Estela let it lie. ‘This is no place for a lady. Two of my men will see you safely back to the Palace.’ Estela made no objection as he gave his instructions. ‘And inform Dragonetz,’ Arnaut added to her bodyguards.
Estela opened her mouth to speak but the grizzled soldier with even less teeth than hair spoke first. ‘Sire, he left word for you this morning. He is abroad for a week on a mission from the Queen.’ Estela’s mouth was firmly closed but her eyes gave away that she knew. Arnaut’s lips tightened. ‘See that my Lady is tended to,’ he said curtly and turned to deal with the remains in the stable.
Chapter 19.
The dog lay in his usual place against the door, more than happy to do so during daylight hours and even more contented to have his mistress pressed against him, crouching against his belly, between his outstretched front and back legs. If she were silent and shivering on one of the hottest days of the year, it was only one more human oddity and need not prevent him sleeping. With one ear open, just in case.
Estela felt behind her back the rhythm of Nici’s breathing, the rhythm of life itself, calm and regular. Like this they had lain in a ditch together but then she had been asleep too. She wondered whether she would ever sleep again, she who had wished to lose her innocence. Nothing made any sense.
She had no reason to connect Peire’s murder with herself, or any threat to her, but the jewel in its bloody bed made a connection, along with what had happened previously in the stable. What she had made happen. And that only one other person knew about. I should have killed him ran through her brain. She forced herself into a lonely catechism. Had Dragonetz acted on his words? She knew - who better - the maelstrom under the ice. If Arnaut could become a stranger, could assess a man’s bloody remains with a professional eye as ‘just a stable-hand’, then surely his leader was at least equally a warrior, able to dispatch life when he chose. Estela had seen him do so. Did he love her enough to kill for her? She knew beyond doubt the answer. But kill in such a way? Of this she was equally certain, but of the opposite response. No, a thousand times no. And this time her head and her heart were in accord. Even if he had been the kind of man who would do such a thing - and her every instinct screamed against this - he would hardly have killed Peire and left the only link between her and the boy for all the world to see. The jewel had hardly got there by accident.
If not Dragonetz, who? Why? Was it linked with her or was she just assuming guilt for other reasons? If Arnaut chased his wild geese of offended parents might he find the thread that led to her? She supposed it all depended what Peire had said in the tavern and who had listened. But Arnaut had been there, had listened and had no idea how close he was to the wench of Peire’s bragging. Her young body was already reasserting control, the shaking had nearly stopped, when Nici gave a low growl and footsteps stopped outside the door.
‘Estela,’ came the husky voice of Sancha. ‘Let me in. I have al-Hisba with me. Arnaut thinks you might need something for the shock.’ Estela pulled to her feet, smoothed out her crumpled clothes and ran a licked hand across her face, which was presumably smeared with make-up but would have to do as it was. ‘Friends,’ she instructed the great beast, who rolled enough out of the way to allow the door open and who kept a lazy eye on those who came in.
Estela sat on the bed and her visitors pulled up stools. She didn’t want to talk about what she’d seen. ‘Dragonetz is retracing his steps to find out if he has missed any clues to the assassin’s identity.’ Now that she had been told officially by Arnaut’s man, there was no harm in discussing it.
‘He sent word,’ al-Hisba nodded as he brought out his medicine pack and flask of water. A good physician, he ignored the attempt at distraction and firmly grasped the nettle. ‘Arnaut told us what happened and he regrets that you were there. He says he forgot the weakness of your sex in discussing the situation with you and that you need one of my potions to calm you.’
Any truth in this only stoked Estela’s indignation. Perhaps she did want to talk after all. ‘I’m used to seeing bulls and horses gelded and finding their sweetbreads on my plate but I’m not used to seeing a dead man carrying his own lights in front of the chopped remains of where they used to be! And he used to have blue eyes you know? Blue! And you know what was left of them?’
‘Estela!’ Al-Hisba cut across her. ‘There is at least one lady present!’ Sancha was definitely paler than she had been and Estela thought with a pang of remorse of what she must have been through Oltra mar. Perhaps suffering didn’t always toughen you up.
‘I’m sorry, but anyone would have felt a bit sick at the time. Arnaut was wrong and I don’t want anyone fussing over me. I’m fine now. In fact I’ve been thinking and I’m starting to wonder whether there is some link between this death and the assassination attempts.’
‘A stable-hand?’ They both looked sceptically at her. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t know,’ she owned. ‘I just have this feeling. Arnaut was in the same tavern as this boy last night.’ May God forgive her for pretending she didn’t even know his name. ‘Maybe someone mistook the stable-hand for Arnaut, or for someone else, if he was carrying a fine jewel.’ She warmed to her theme. ‘I’m sure that’s it. Someone thought he was one of ours.’
‘Wearing a leather apron and smelling of horses?’
&
nbsp; ‘He wouldn’t be the only one of Dragonetz’ men to smell of horses,’ she retorted.
‘Maybe you’re right,’ Sancha conceded. ‘But there’s nothing we can do for now and we can’t contact Dragonetz till he’s back here next week so we might as well forget about it for the moment. I have a message from the Queen for you; she hopes that you will be well enough to attend the Court of Love tomorrow.’
‘Of course I will.’ A wave of exhaustion suddenly chilled Estela.
‘There is water here.’ Al-Hisba offered her the flask and she took a deep draught and then another. ‘What have you given me?’ she asked him. ‘Not white poppy, I hope.’
He smiled. ‘No, my Lady. That would be far too strong for you, dangerous even. It is just valerian, hops, St John’s Wort.’
‘To prevent the melancholy induced by certain sleep-inducing herbs,’ Estela added mechanically. ‘If it’s really just gentle somnifores it won’t take effect for a couple of hours.’
‘I added a little something.’ al-Hisba’s white teeth gleamed, dancing like laundry in the river as Estela lay back on the bed and drifted downstream. ‘Not sleepy,’ were the last words Estela said.
The Hall Ermengarda always used for public audiences had extra benches along the sides to accommodate the knights and ladies there for the show. As always, Ermengarda’s carved throne was on the High Dais facing the doorway from the far end. For this occasion, two chairs with almost equally ornate backs and arms flanked the Throne of Narbonne. Two? Estela wondered, from her bench seat amongst Aliénor’s Ladies, She had watched Ermengarda’s judgements often enough as part of her duties to know that the supplicants waited in the ante-chamber, the lucky ones on a bench, the majority standing in a patient line against the wall, waiting for hours to see their ruler and often being turned away for lack of time, only to start queuing again the next day. Usually the judgements were on questions of land, bonds, alleged thefts and neighbours’ disputes, as tedious to Estela - and probably Ermengarda - as they were crucial to the supplicants themselves. In her naiveté when new to the court, Estela had wondered why Ermengarda fought the Archbishop to keep such a say in such trivial matters but she quickly realised that, aside from establishing her authority, when Pardons were given they drew a steady income into the Palace coffers - and away from the Archbishop’s.
Today’s judgements would be very different however and the Hall itself bore witness to that change. Red satin cloths swathed the walls in huge loops pinned with extravagant cloth of gold rosettes. However impressive the roses on the wall might be, they were rendered ordinary by the red path-way from entrance to High Dais. The velvety carpet was indeed rose, or rather rose petals, in every shade of red, fire and sunset, passion and blood, crimson, vermilion, scarlet and maroon, orange and terracotta. Never, not even in the baths scented with eastern essences and oils, had such a heady fragrance dizzied the Palace of Narbonne
The very walls, old stone a metre thick, were so saturated with rose that they breathed out sweetness. As if the strewn roses were not riches enough, the path was bordered with shrub-roses, each in a large tub, in the style of al-Andalus. Alternating red and white bushes, love and purity, human and divine, the flat single flowers in silken clusters were closer cousins to the briars than were the large petals underfoot. Truly it was the Season of the Rose, and this its finest hour. ‘Essence of rose against heartache,’ Estela murmured her herbal to herself, the difficulty of course being the quantity of roses needed for just a tiny amount of oil. ‘For happiness and love.’ Surely there were enough roses here to put it to the test.
Then the music began, not this time the flourish of trumpets for a triumphal entry but rather the strands of psalter, the instrument of saints and angels, accompanied by the rebec, flute and viol. Harping on the same string as the symbolism of the roses, the mingling of human and divine. Like woodland nymphs, floating on their floral carpet, Ermengarda, Aliénor and - of course, the third throne - Bèatriz, entered the Hall. The young Comtesse de Dia came first, in Mary-blue, a vision of spirituality, followed by the white rose and the red rose incarnated. Aliénor was incandescent in deepest red and Emengarda beside her ethereal in white and gold, all three glittering with jewels that matched their robes, sapphires, rubies and pearls. Behind them, an escort of three youths, the flower of chivalry indeed, strutted their sword-belts and their slashed white tunics, revealed the silk of their Ladies’ colours underneath.
Each stood beside a throne as the Queens of today’s court took their places. Perhaps it was no bad thing that Dragonetz was absent. Estela imagined him in his accustomed place at Aliénor’s side and a new feeling curdled her veins. Would he have glanced round the Hall, seeking her, perhaps smiled as he found her own gaze fixed on him, the current between them secret and strong as that driving the cams in his beloved paper mill? The curly-haired knight who was in fact at Aliénor’s side gave a wide smile in Estela’s direction and she could have sworn he winked.
‘What do you expect if you stare like that at the man, today of all days,’ remarked Sancha beside her, her voice light with laughter.
Estela was mortified. ‘I was day-dreaming,’ she excused herself.
‘I shall enjoy hearing you explain that to him,’ Sancha continued to tease.
Estela risked another look but hastily dropped her glance again when she found that the man’s gaze was still fixed on her. ‘Who is he?’ she asked, having studied him long enough to observe a crop of honey-coloured curls, shorter than was fashionable, and framing a mischievous face, sparkling with laughter and intelligence.
Sancha sighed. ‘Eventually, you’ll learn how to use those ears for more than making music. All three escorts are by Ermengarda’s invitation and I don’t think it’s a coincidence that men of such calibre - or their sponsors - just happen to be passing through Narbonne today. The Viscomtesse attracts troubadours like a honeypot lures flies. Your gallant beside Aliénor is Peire Rogier.’
‘I’ve heard of him! From the Auvergne? New on the scene last year with some clever internal dialogues about love.’ She quoted,
‘que joys m'a noirit pauc e gran;
e ses luy non seria res,’
‘joy has so shaped me that
without it I am nothing’
He’s the perfect poet for today!’
‘Yes, from Clermont in the Auvergne,’ Sancha confirmed. ‘He left the canonical life as it didn’t suit him.’
‘I can imagine!’ Estela had not been immune to the heat in the look that came her way. ‘Looks like his hair’s still growing out.’ She was now free to indulge her curiosity as Peire’s attention had moved to the youth beside Ermengarda, in an exchange that made the women laugh as much as the men.
‘They know each other,’ Estela observed.
‘All three,’ confirmed Sancha. ‘Beside Ermengarda is young Guiraut de Bornelh, protégé of the Viscomte de Limoge, already making his mark and learning fast from Peire.’
‘Why didn’t I know they were here? Why wasn’t I with them?’ burst from Estela’s lips, with no thought this time for their looks, as a second rush of the deadly green sin flooded her like wormwood.
‘You perform like an angel but these - these,’ Sancha nodded towards the glittering youths, ‘are troubadours.’
Estela’s hands clenched and she swore to herself, by everything from her dead mother to her hope of having children, that she would finish her secret compositions and join this élite.
‘Then,’ continued Sancha, ‘beside Bèatriz, is the youngest of the three, Raimbaut d’Aurenja. Youngest but in no way lagging behind.’ Even Estela knew the background of the heir to Aurenja, who must be about the same age as the girl he accompanied, carrying the same weight - a future kingdom - with the same grace. Born to it, trained for it and ready for the day he would gather his own court about him in the Chateau de Courthézon, near the ancient Roman-founded town of Aurenja, just as Ermengarda did here in Narbonne. At the cusp of manhood, his chin and upper lip lightly
shadowed, his court manners were perfection and yet he seemed lithe and dark as some forest creature, always escaping.
Of the three men, all younger than her Dragonetz, it was Raimbaud who reminded her of her lover and opened her eyes to what might otherwise have passed her by. Estela had seen Bèatriz flushed with excitement over her music, over a pet marmoset, over a special occasion but this time it was not merely the occasion that lent the serious face unconscious beauty. Her deep brown eyes, enlarged with no need of belladonna, drifted politely over others as they spoke but returned like a dog on a string to her young escort, who clearly took the duties of the day very seriously.
What is love? Is it jouissance, the fireworks after the sparks? The tempering and melting after the sword meets the anvil? The song of songs? A private look in a public place? And - the question of questions - is it forever? All this and more, Estela wondered, her restless imagination chasing its own tail, trying to ignore complications. How did Sancha fit in? Or not. How had her own mother loved? Or not. Apart from loving her children, of course. Was it ‘of course?’
She started as Ermengarda’s cool, carrying voice seemed like her own thoughts spoken aloud. All three of the day’s Queens were standing, Aliénor tallest and her gown let out once more, flowing large about the hope of France; Bèatriz still girlish despite the ever-hardening veneer of courtly behaviour, and a stockier build already than the figure beside her. However slim she might be, no-one would ever ignore the presence of the Viscomtesse of Narbonne, her kingdom knitted to her very bone when she was four years old. How could Estela be jealous of the time this vision had claimed Dragonetz as hers? She might as well be jealous of a ray of sun that touched his skin and passed on.
‘What is love?’ Without any effort, Ermengarda’s every word reached the back of the Hall. ‘And how should we best live by its precepts, governing our relations with courtesy, choosing aright when we have difficult choices to make? As God’s representatives on earth, we, your rulers, are channels for divine judgement, and by His Grace we offer our judgements today on matters of the heart, in this Court of Love, where we all seek the true path, among thorns as well as roses, knowing that one day we must all answer to the divine judgement. Let conscience meanwhile be our guide and let the laws of love, as decreed here today, guide our conscience. May love rule this day!’ As she opened the Hearing with these words, the three gallants flung themselves to their knees in front of their Ladies, offering one perfect red rose to each one.
