by Jean Gill
Aliénor’s usually mobile face didn’t change. Not a flicker of shock, not even surprise at the betrayal Dragonetz was revealing. Her words were slow, measured as if she and Dragonetz were living at a different pace. Where Aliénor lived, time no longer mattered. The tightness in his chest increased as Dragonetz listened to Aliénor’s words. ‘You can see the Lady Alis. She is in her bedchamber. And I believe you are right about her trafficking. For Toulouse, I suppose?’
‘Yes. She spent a long time there before she joined our company. Rumour has it that she was his paramour and expected marriage, that he
treated her unkindly. I don’t know why I didn’t see it sooner!’
Aliénor shrugged, smoothing the folds of damask over her ever-growing belly. ‘Her uncle was ever strong against Toulouse, her father requested a place for her among our Ladies and we must always draw such people close about us. I learned much that was useful from her. But it seems Toulouse drew her closer and her father’s allegiance was not as his brother’s.’
‘He is a weaker man than Roger was, more grateful for the legacy of thick walls his brother has left him than for the legacy of defying Toulouse. I think there is more to it, some hold that Toulouse has over Trencavel and his daughter. That’s why I want to talk to her.’ And to find out exactly why Toulouse wanted him, personally, dead, not just because he was Aliénor’s Commander.
‘That won’t help you.’ Still that same slow tone. ‘She’s dead. She killed herself yesterday. She’s laid out in her chamber before burial tomorrow morning. So we have what amounts to an admission of guilt but you won’t get any more answers.’
Dragonetz felt time slow for him too. ‘I will see her all the same,’ he decided.
‘Be warned. Lady Sancha and Lady Estela are keeping vigil. They believe it is their doing. That they pushed a fragile mind over the edge with their questioning. They met with her yesterday, forced her to admit to petty misdemeanours against Estela and they think she feared they would catch up with her for the bigger crimes. She left them, went to her Chamber and stabbed herself. They have taken it very badly. Tread gently.’
Teeth set, Dragonetz steeled his weary body and brain to its task. There was no reason to look at a corpse, no reason to face another death that was his responsibility. If Sancha and Estela had not been tracking the infamous spy for him, they would never have taken things so far. He could go and bathe, change his clothes, emerge after the burial. His feet followed the page boy who led him to the open door of a bedchamber. He paused on the threshold, looking in.
Pale blonde hair, brushed to silk, flowed over a brocade cushion and onto the bed linen underneath the fine blue stuff of Alis’ gown, a new gown showing no tears, just a reddening around her breast from the wound beneath. She had been prepared tenderly for viewing, her face coloured with pink on cheeks and lips belying the chalk-white skin. In eternal repose, her face was childish, too thin for the curves of infancy but exuding innocence, enhanced by the blue robe, a white angel in Mary’s colours.
Dragonetz entered the room. In the silence that seemed to spread from the corpse herself, sat Estela and Sancha, hands clasped, each deep in her own thoughts. Neither stood when they saw Dragonetz but their eyes gave him subdued welcome. Death makes criminals of the living, life itself a crime, and all its pleasures guilty. Especially such a death. Dragonetz crossed himself and quietly broke the silence.
‘I have spoken with Aliénor. I found a connection between Toulouse and Lady Alis.’ Somehow it seemed respectful to call her by her full title. ‘It seems that her conscience was too heavy.’ Where had he heard that recently, and not of Lady Alis? ‘You can’t blame yourselves.’
Estela turned huge red eyes on her lover. ‘We don’t,’ she told him.
Confused, he waited and it was Sancha who explained. ‘A servant found her and brought word to Ermengarda and Aliénor. The Queen defied the demands that she be thrown into an unmarked grave straight away and decreed that she was still a Lady and her friends had the right to mourn her, whatever the Church laws on suicide. The Archbishop is blazing but Aliénor won twenty-four hours. We asked to prepare her body, thinking we owed her that. Estela got fresh clothes, took off the old ones. They were already sticking to her body where the blood had pooled, on her chest and on her back.’
Dragonetz was quick. ‘On her back,’ confirmed Estela. ‘I already wondered why a woman in despair would buy new hair ribbons.’ She opened her hands to show scarlet satin ribbons. ‘She didn’t have these when she met with us so she must have stopped to purchase them before returning to the Palace.’ She shrugged. ‘And the dress she died in was green. She wasn’t planning to wear the ribbons with that dress. I washed the blood from her and knew for sure. There was a deep wound in her back as well as the one in her chest. She didn’t have a dagger either when we met her.’
‘We searched,’ agreed Sancha briefly.
‘I think she was stabbed from behind, with either a sword or a dagger, then someone made it look like she’d killed herself, stabbing her chest and placing the dagger in her hands.’
‘Why?’ Dragonetz mused aloud, accepting instantly the facts Estela had given him.
‘Who?’ Sancha responded. ‘We are worse off than before we realised what Alis had done!’
‘She has paid.’
‘You haven’t told Aliénor that it was murder?’ Dragonetz asked.
‘We have talked about it for hours. You didn’t hear the exchange between Aliénor and the Archbishop! It seems that Alis made confession with one of his Priests after she left us and although he cannot break the secret of the confessional, he has said that she was agitated and depressed, that he is not surprised by her carrying out an act against God, despite his counsels.’
‘So she confessed, on the verge of suicide, then bought hair ribbons!’
‘The Archbishop has declared it suicide.’
‘But the wound in her back is a fact!’
‘A fact that would pit Aliénor against the Archbishop,’ observed Sancha. ‘Aliénor is returning to Paris, where she is the irritating wife of the King, not the loved Duchesse d’Aquitaine, where Suger and Clairvaux will pounce on any opportunity to diminish what little power she can wield there. Add the Papal Nuncio to her enemies? I think not. She has already braved his fury to gain a day for goodbyes, a day’s respect.’
‘And then tomorrow, the ditch lies open for her.’ Estela’s eyes filled again. ‘She envied me even my ditch. And now that is all she will have.’
Dragonetz knew the church laws regarding suicide. Everyone did. An earth hole outside the city wall, with at best a wooden marker declaring the inmate unclean, doomed to damnation. ‘Her father?’ he asked.
‘Word went yesterday.’ They must have crossed on the road, Dragonetz realised. ‘But the Archbishop is adamant that this charade as he calls it, finishes tomorrow morning, regardless of whether her people come or not. And he will not let them take her body for fear they give a Christian burial.’
‘You should hear him! I think he has sermons for months on demons disguised as women, on God’s mercy misdirected - he’s enjoying himself!’
‘Then there’s nothing we can do?’ Dragonetz was surprised to hear his own words and to know their desperate sad truth.
‘We can pray for her,’ said Sancha. ‘And then we can find out who did this.’ In silence, Dragonetz took his place beside them, for another long vigil, and if his eyelids drooped and he slipped into sleep, his dreams kept fitting company for a corpse.
No-one was surprised at the absence of Lady Alis’ family the following morning when a scattering of Aliénor’s followers witnessed the girl’s body dumped like a rabid dog. To be there was guilt by association with one of the worst crimes against God, taking your own life. It was expected that Alis’ name be erased from the book of Trencavel and from all conversations in Carcassonne, as if she had never existed.
This did not prevent a wagon stopping outside the walls of Narbonne that night, well af
ter curfew, by the fresh mound of earth. Two men with shovels dug up the body and the man directing them jumped off his horse, swaddled the dead girl in white linen, like a baby, and lifted her into the covered vehicle. A well-paid guard called no alarum from the Watch-tower but observed the cart being driven back along the road it had come, away from Narbonne and back to Carcassonne.
Raimon Trencavel swore through his tears that he was finished playing the beetle under the feet of great Lords. Toulouse would not crush another of his children in this game of Kingdoms, nor would Barcelone back him into a corner. He would out-think them as long as he could but if it came to it, he would say no and die a man, never again what he had been in that torture chamber where he had said nothing, while a sweet girl’s life hung with her body. He had made the wrong decision. Trencavel dashed the tears from his eyes as he rode through the night, slowed by the burden dragging always behind him.
Now that she knew Dragonetz was staying in Narbonne, Estela could watch the preparation for Aliénor’s departure with equanimity. Their reunion the night of Alis’ burial had started with exhausted sleep in each other’ arms and woken them to healing pleasures. Luckily daytime brought physical constraints and time to talk, to hear about Douzens and tell of Peire’s murder and Gilles.
‘You don’t know what it’s like to be responsible for something so terrible,’ she told him.
‘I do know,’ he replied and wrapped her in his arms, giving her love’s absolution. Alis had been right to hate her. She did wrong and her punishment was this man in her life, this miracle. It was unjust.
Somewhere between kisses and sleep, Dragonetz remembered something, some mystery about al-Hisba that he wanted to follow up. ‘He’s been staying out at the mill,’ Estela told him. ‘He said he would be unavailable for music for a few days.’ As it was all too much trouble to leave the Palace and go to the mill, Dragonetz put it out of mind for the moment. For the extremely consuming moment. Somewhere between kisses and sleep, Estela remembered how oddly Arnaut had been behaving and wondered whether she should mention it to Dragonetz, but she decided it would be embarrassing for her friend and better left to heal itself. There was talk of Toulouse and plots but they had no new ideas and nothing happened.
Both Estela and Dragonetz were in the Great Hall, among Ermengarda’s courtiers, for the formal farewell to Aliénor and her company. With surprisingly little awkwardness, Aliénor had informed her troops that Dragonetz was staying in Narbonne and instructed Arnaut to continue in charge until her new Commander arrived to take over. Her one petty act of revenge for his desertion was to withhold the name of his replacement from Dragonetz, who stood impassive at Estela’s side, ready to officially start his new life as a Narbonnais landowner. He no longer tried to hide his relationship with Estela nor did he flaunt it. The simple rightness of their partnership flowed between them though they never touched in public. Quickly understanding what Estela had not told him during their picnic, Gilles had been very quiet after Dragonetz’ return but still dogged Estela’s footsteps, retreating to the servants’ quarters only when completely sure his mistress was in good care. Nici definitely qualified as good care but it took a few days, and several inquests in the servants’ quarters over a jug too many of wine, before Gilles finally gave his judgement on Dragonetz: ‘Well-tempered. No doubt you think he’s pretty too.’ Estela had just smiled but there was relief in it. She owed Gilles too much to fall out over her lover but woe betide anyone who tried to part them now. That included Arnaut, who still kept his distance and showed no sign of making so much as a polite goodbye speech to her. Ignoring the guilty ache, she told herself it was for the best. He would be on the road soon, heading for Paris.
It was therefore with a feeling of security that Estela watched the new Commander stride into the Great Hall, tall in his own right, bulky with greaves and breastplate, greying hair and black eyes, swarthy skin and a scowl, all visible beneath his mail coif. Bowing to Aliénor and Ermengarda as best his armour allowed, he begged their excuses for a personal moment and stomped directly towards Estela, removing his gauntlets as he walked. He didn’t walk round people, he walked through them and stopped in front of Estela. She felt the swoosh of air as a mailed glove smashed across Dragonetz’ mouth, leaving a trail of blood. He wiped his mouth, rigid and silent, as he had been throughout.
‘Not even man enough to take the challenge,’ the stranger sneered. ‘Not even a little Dragon but a puppy who squeals ‘enough’ and abandons his liege lord to play with - what is the boy playing with this time?’ He glared at Estela ‘This the latest whore is it? One in a long line,’ he told her, ‘and not the last, believe me.’
Estela flushed and waited for the eruption from her knight, which
didn’t come. Pale but controlled, he finally spoke. ‘My Lady Estela, allow me to present my esteemed father, Dragon de Ruffec. I gather my mother has been nagging him about my refusal to marry. This is his way of expressing himself.’ This time Dragonetz caught the hand swinging again for his mouth and held it firmly, in mid-air, sinews bulging in both men’s arms. The older man was breathing heavily, as red as Dragonetz was pale. ‘Father, may I present to you the celebrated musician of the court of Narbonne, my Lady Estela de Matin, protégée of Queen Aliénor. Sire,’ he pointed out politely, as if their hands were not locked in struggle, ‘it is considered discourteous in this court to strike a father - or a woman.’
The Baron’s hand dropped as Dragonetz released it. ‘I wasn’t going to hit her!’
‘Your charm with the fair sex is unparalleled.’ Dragonetz swept a mocking bow to his progenitor.
‘Just because I don’t have your fancy ways and nickname.’ Estela flinched, half expecting a fist to really come her way as Dragon made her a passable bow and stated in his gruff voice, ‘Misunderstanding.’
‘That’s an apology.’ Dragonetz translated.
‘For her, maybe. For you, I wish I’d used the back of my hand more when you were smaller and I wouldn’t have to put up with you now.’
‘And my mother is well, I take it?’ Dragonetz’ mouth was already beginning to swell and Estela wondered where her arnica balm was. People in the Hall had started talking again now it looked unlikely that breathing fire would progress to full dragon-fight and there was a growing restlessness near the Queen, who was after all waiting to take ceremonial leave of the Court of Narbonne.
As if suddenly aware of this, Dragon answered shortly, ‘I’d have told you otherwise, before I hit you. Ride away with me so we can talk.’ He read his son’s eyes. ‘I know. You’re staying here. I really mean it, just ride a short way with me.’
‘I’ll catch you up.’ Dragonetz agreed as his father returned to duty and with due ceremony, and somewhat jarring fanfares, escorted Aliénor from the Hall, with all her company. Tall enough to carry the extra breadth to her frame and barely show it, Aliénor shared a farewell embrace with her sister ruler, an embrace longer than was required by protocol. Estela had only a faint notion of the world Aliénor was going to, a Frankish country where women had no rights, where the men and the weather were equally cold. Whatever the weaknesses of this Queen, she had mettle and it was thanks to her judgement and her passion for music that Estela was alive and not dead in a ditch. There but for the grace of God. She shivered as a ghost with a name walked over her grave.
‘Sweet,’ Dragonetz was saying softly.
‘I know,’ she told him. ‘You’ll ride with them a way. You’ll come back?’ She searched his eyes.
‘Half a day. No more.’
‘You have an interesting relationship with your father,’ she observed.
‘He worries about me.’ He smiled. ‘My mother’s the tough one.’
‘I worry about you too,’ she told him.
‘Don’t,’ he told her. ‘You’re a match for my mother.’ He kissed her hand and disappeared, as adept as his father at making his way through a crowd but rather more subtle.
Chapter 22.
Pierre
d’Anduze shook his head at the effrontery of the man being escorted to his private ante-chamber. He had thought to intimidate him by having him led past the Christian treasures of the Archbishop’s Palace, the jewelled triptych and gilt paintings from Byzantium, the silver chalice large enough for two hundred to partake of the Blood of the Lord, the great brass incense shakers and marble plinths. The man showed no sign of being anywhere unusual. He trod his usual calm pace as if this world was an illusion and his current surroundings equal to the mud hut where no doubt he had been born.
It was true that the Palace building was not as impressive as its contents and the Archbishop promised himself that the Glory of God would be better served in the future. He was pleased with the statue of Charlemagne in the new cloisters, not least because this representation of Narbonne’s mythical founder bore a marked resemblance to d’Anduze himself. His architects were already offering him plans for the Great Archbishop’s Palace that would one day grace Narbonne thanks to the careful management of wealth which was d’Anduze’s talent.
And this robed servant approaching, insulting him with his covered head, was necessary to the careful management of wealth and the eradication of the devil’s work. He sighed. The tools were not always worthy of God’s work but he had to make do with what was available. The Commander of the Brothers Templar at Douzens had assured him that this man had given loyal service throughout his years there. He put aside the urge to cover his delicate nose from the smell of a brown skin and smiled benignly.
‘Be seated, al-Hisba.’
There was no answering smile and the Archbishop wasn’t in the mood to waste time on a nobody. ‘There is no need for lengthy discussion. We have spoken of it often enough and the Brothers Templar assured me of your good faith to do God’s work.’
‘I do indeed do God’s work,’ the turbaned moor answered gravely. Somehow, coming from his lips, the words didn’t sound reassuring.
