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

by Jean Gill

  ‘If we could have tied him to the crossbow attempt, he would have also broken the Church’s ban on the use of bolts against Christians.’

  Ermengarda nodded. ‘That too will be held over him. He is, after all, my brother-in-law so I must proceed against him with caution. It is hard to believe that I welcomed his appointment!’ She ruminated further, then, ‘I have a feeling that the murderers are Jewish,’ she declared.

  Now she had lost him. ‘Jewish?’ he queried.

  ‘It will be impossible to recognize them after the inevitable results of questioning but their confessions and our reports will show that they are the Jews behind all the recent, regrettable acts against the good Christian citizens of Narbonne. And their fellow-Jews will of course cast out these vile saboteurs, and will be only too pleased that we make an example of them from the gibbets on the Hill at Ad Fiurcas. What is left of them that is. And our good Jewish citizens of Narbonne will likewise be able to continue their lives in peaceful trading and discourse, the cause of the malady having been rooted out.’ So the Christian community would have its Jewish scapegoats, the Jewish community would be protected, peace would be re-established and a band of mercenaries would die an unpleasant death, with of course the full blessing of their very Christian employer.

  Dragonetz looked at her in total unfeigned admiration. This was why she was Viscomtesse of Narbonne. ‘Words fail me,’ he told her, truthfully.

  She gave one of her rare smiles. ‘I shall take that as a compliment. And would you please present my respects to Raavad and inform him that he must break all the details of the sad news to the Jewish community, to ensure that there is a suitable reaction to the death of five of its members who have sadly let down their race.’

  A thought struck Dragonetz. ‘And the families of the five criminals?’

  ‘They have done no wrong and any such family we discover will be generously enabled to start anew life elsewhere.’

  ‘My Lady.’ Dragonetz bowed low and took his leave.

  In the dark study of the philosopher and businessman known as Raavad, Dragonetz found he was expected. As with any two men of affairs, they exchanged pleasantries first, then Dragonetz passed on the message from Ermengarda, which was quickly grasped, with a quiet, ‘Please thank the Lady Ermengarda,’ in return. Then they got to the crux of the visit. Before Dragonetz could make his proposals however, Raavad drew out some sheets of parchment, covered in a flowing hand, and passed them over to Dragonetz.

  ‘A friend of yours deposited this with me at the same time as you took out your loan. He instructed me to give it to you on just such an occasion. I will leave you to digest the contents in peace.’

  Dragonetz’ eyes had already skipped to the signature, Malik-al-Judhami of the Banu Hud. He had no problem in reading the beautiful Arabic and if his eyes blurred from time to time, it was not from problems with the language or script.

  Friend of my mind,

  It was my intention to accompany the first traveller from Douzens who asked for such a servant, as a way of leaving the Brothers without arousing suspicion. They have no cause to complain of the years I served them but as you now know, I am no bondsman. My grandfather was king of Zaragoza and I hope one day to return that country to its former greatness. You would have loved the libraries and the gardens, the architecture and of course the paper mills. We are in a bad time between the Christians of Aragon, who take more of our rights every day, and the Muslim Almohads, who have no concept of right, and are even worse than the Almoravids before them.

  My people in al-Andalus have suffered the consequences of your Christian Crusades and I needed to find out what was planned and whether the last victory had diminished your enthusiasm to invade Oltra mar. We both know that this is far from the case and with a heavy heart I have now learned all that I can and must return to my people and protect them within my means. I also know, dear friend, that not every Christian feels pride for deeds in the Holy Land.

  When you gave me the right to say no to taking your bond, you laid a burden of honour on me. When you were attacked, I saved your life but felt the burden even more for I knew there would be further attempts. When you talked to me of music and irrigation, I saw a fertile field and I held the seeds in my hand. How could I throw them to the winds? In my Lady Estela too there is a rare spirit and talent. It pleases me to watch your music-making and there is something in your harmonies together that makes me long for my own beloved and our children, left these five years to face this uncertain world without me. But I will stay to seed the field and I hope we will have a marvellous crop before the storm. Unlike you, I know the storm must come because the Archbishop has already found me, tested whether I will kill you - I will not - and tested whether I will destroy the paper mill that is not even five planks of wood yet! I will, friend of my mind, I will destroy the paper mill because I can think of no other way to protect your life from these Christian curs. They will stop at nothing. I will do my best to give us the harvest before then.

  Insha’Allah.

  Malik-al-Judhami of the Banu Hud

  There was a long postscript, clearly written recently and in haste.

  In the next world, you and I will talk of all that separates us in this one. Arnaut waits for us there and I take heart that his last words showed more understanding of my actions than I deserve. He was a good man and a brave comrade.

  The harvest was good my friend, better than you can understand at this moment when you know you cannot fulfil your contract with Raavad in two months time and that your land will be forfeit. He and I have an arrangement which cannot be shaken. He will explain to you what is required and you have no choice. I place this burden on you from love. You must leave until the world moves on and there is a place for your dreams in it. Until then Narbonne is your death sentence. Believe me, if there was another way I would not constrain you.

  I beg of you that you accept the gift of friendship I leave for you.

  ‘Bring me a horse, a bow,

  a book, some poems

  A pen, a lute, dice, wine, a chess set too.’

  Until we meet again.

  Malik

  Unseeing, Dragonetz stared at the sheets, unable to make out their meaning. The quotation from the old poet was no more cryptic than the way in which everything he thought he had known was turned upside down. Al-Hisba was right about one thing. There was no way he could repay the 15% he owed on the Kalends of November and according to the contract he had signed, his land was forfeit and that left him bankrupt. He would not turn to his father for aid so he must at least listen to the proposal he was being pushed into.

  Raavad made him jump when he spoke. ‘I understand you will need time to take all this in but sadly,’ he opened his hands in that Jewish gesture of apology which laid the blame on God. He went to a large chest, rummaged among some robes and withdrew something wrapped in oiled sailcloth. ‘You cannot pay your mortgage dues,’ he stated. ‘The terms on the contract were very precise.’

  Dragonetz bit his lips. He remembered the terms very well and how confident he’d been of the repayment.

  ‘Your land will of course be forfeit. But as Malik - al-Hisba - has stated, he has come to an arrangement with me in advance, that I will pay you the exact sum that you borrowed from me to purchase the land, if you carry out an errand for me.’

  ‘You will pay me the worth of the land with a working paper mill, when I owe you the land in any case. It makes no sense. An errand.’ Dragonetz was ironic. It seemed that everyone but him was responsible not just for people but for a people.

  ‘Malik was generous. Also, it is a dangerous errand,’ Raavad admitted. ‘This,’ he opened the oilskin to show a book, ‘is no longer safe here. I need someone to take it to the Holy Land and deposit it with my brethren.

  ‘Oltra mar.’ Dragonetz laughed outright.

  ‘Jerusalem,’ Raavad clarifed. ‘It will be safe there.’

  Return to the scene of his greatest failures, his greatest
crimes and carry a precious Jewish book across enemy terrain into the Holy City. Was this a sick joke?

  ‘With the next Crusade gathering force and Nur ad-Din's army probably outside the city walls already, waiting their moment to take Jerusalem back!’

  ‘The book will not stay in Jerusalem but from there it is no longer your concern. Please, Dragonetz. If there was another way, we would take it’ That was another phrase Dragonetz had heard too often and it was not the book's safety that worried him.

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘There is always a choice,’ Raavad said gently. ‘But this is the only honourable one being offered.’ He placed the book carefully on the table and opened it, revealing old parchment pages, each with three columns of even script, footnotes, and neat annotations in the margins.

  Dragonetz studied the page, which looked upside down to his Christian eyes.. ‘You can at least tell me what this is, given that I am likely to die for it.’

  ‘It is the Keter Aram Sola,’ Raavad stated simply, then seeing that Dragonetz was none the wiser. ‘a very old Torah, our Bible, perhaps the oldest we have. These,’ he pointed with reverence to the squiggles in the margins, ‘are the work of Aaron Ben Asher and they represent years of work and study by a brilliant mind. They tell us not only how to read the Torah but how to sing it.’

  Dragonetz looked with new interest at the marks which must be a form of musical notation. How al-Hisba would have pored over this treasure. ‘This Codex,’ continued Raavad, ‘is the sacred guide to the Torah and must be preserved. It has been stolen, ransomed and given into my care. It has fed the learning of my people in Provence and I have great hope that something special has been born here, thanks to this book. But it is no longer safe in Narbonne, or even in Occitania. It is perhaps the only copy after the desecrations of the last decade in the Holy Land and it must go back there, all four hundred and ninety one pages still in one piece, to somewhere safe. ‘Blessed be he who preserves it and cursed be he who steals it, and cursed be he who sells it, and cursed be he who pawns it. It may not be sold and it may not be defiled.’

  Dragonetz bowed understanding and listened to the detailed instructions on who, how and where.

  ‘We will not be ungrateful for the service nor will we forget the cost to you,’ Raavad told him and the words rang déjà vu in Dragonetz’ mind. The Gyptian Fortune-Teller? No, not her, but the other one, the mystic Jew. Raavad had not been there but Makhir had. Was this the service Makhir had in mind?

  ‘Have you spoken of this to others?’

  ‘The nine,’ he acknowledged, ‘and to those who seek the truth. Knowledge is not for burying.’

  ‘Tell that to those who had my Paper mill razed to the ground!’

  ‘Which is why it must be you. You care about wisdom. You understand why we must pass on what we know. I told you the book is no longer safe here. I know there are rumours growing that I am the keeper of something precious. There are those who guess at it. You must go straight away. And give some other reason for going.’

  Dragonetz nodded. Then he was walking to the door, concealing the book in his jerkin. ‘Should you wish to contact Malik, I can reach him,’ Raavad told him. ‘And one other thing, Dragonetz. The gift of friendship is waiting for you in the stable. May Yahweh guide you and be with you.’

  What else would be waiting in the stable? That it was a horse only surprised Dragonetz when he thought of the effort of getting this horse to Narbonne. What amazed him however was the quality of the destrier before him, a black stallion, finely bred from Arab lines. It must have been shipped from al-Andalus and it had cost a fortune, no question.

  ‘Bring me a horse, a bow,

  a book, some poems,

  a pen, a lute, dice, wine, a chess set too.’

  ‘Sadeek,’ the stable-hand told him. ‘That’s what he’s called Sire. The man who left him for you said you’d like that.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dragonetz. ‘Sadeek.’ The Arabic for ‘true friend’. And now he must see someone he wanted to spend his life with and to whom he could offer only one night.

  ‘However long we have will never be enough,’ Estela told him, stroking his naked shoulders with her curtain of hair. The shadow of Arnaut and of their parting deepened their coming-together, mixing desperation with desire. At one point Dragonetz turned his face from her. ‘What?’ she asked him.

  ‘Ghosts,’ he replied and once more they chased away the ghosts with the dance of hands and lips and skin.

  ‘What if I come with you?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t think I don’t want you to! You know what I face Oltra mar. Do you think I could bear what might happen to you? You know what Sancha has seen. And I don’t think you’re safe here either. Go with Bèatriz when she returns to Dia. You’ll be out of reach of those in Montbrun or of his Eminence here in Narbonne and you can be the trobairitz you’ve always wanted to be. And I will find you there. I will find you wherever you go.’

  She knew he was right. ‘But when you come back,’ she couldn’t phrase it as ‘if’ even to herself, ‘we’ll be old, perhaps thirty, wrinkled and paunchy, our teeth falling out. How will you love me then?’

  ‘Like this,’ he told her. ‘Shut your eyes. It’s about touch not the tricks our eyes play.’ His hands made their deft moves on her body, proving his point. ‘While we can touch each other, our bodies can profit, whatever our eyes tell us. But that’s for when we’re old. My eyes are perfectly contented with what they see now.’ She opened her eyes to find the black gaze intense on her own, holding her, drawing her in till she no longer knew where she ended and he began.

  The dawn was starting to tinge the sky with unwelcome pink when he turned to her, serious. ‘I could be away years. I don’t expect you to be faithful to me. I don’t expect to be faithful to you with my body. But with my mind - I see no help for it.’

  Trying to master the lump in her throat by teasing him, she said, ‘And when you come back, if I don’t want to give up my new man for you?’

  ‘Then I will kill him,’ he told her, his eyes blazing and she believed him, in his arms, as the sun itself became visible, gilding the clouds.

  He knelt before her, kissed her hand in fealty and took off his signet ring, with his crest engraved in the heavy gold. ‘Keep this for me and if you should be in need, show that you are under the protection of Dragonetz los Pros, or send it to me and I will come to you no matter where I am or what I do.’ She slipped the ring on the chain given to her by Arnaut’s father, the chain that had once held her bangle on it.

  They clung to the last moments of night until neither could pretend any longer. It was time. They had sung it a thousand times together. Aubade. Dawn Song, in Dragonetz’ own words that had reached out to a girl growing up in Montbrun.

  He spoke them softly to her now.

  ‘My sweet, my own, what shall we do?

  Day is nigh and night is over

  We must be parted, my self missing

  All the day away from you.’

  Then he kissed her and left.

  Epilogue

  It was October and the leaves were starting to turn. The road north would be blocked by snow in a few weeks and the party had delayed as long as was prudent before bidding Narbonne farewell and taking the Via Domitia towards Dia in the Vercors mountains.

  Estela fiddled with the chain round her neck, feeling the ring swing against her breasts under her gown, and she responded absently to Bèatriz’ chat as she rode beside her, accompanied by Gilles, Raoulf and a large white dog that seemed to think it belonged with her. One man’s stump and the other’s bleak eyes accused her equally for their losses but all she could do was watch over them as they, in every word and gesture, watched over her.

  In her panniers, wrapped in cloths to stop the wires from breaking, was a gift that had been sent her from a foreign port, made on shipboard by a traveler stopping there on his way to Oltra mar. It was a marvelous invention that consisted of a blue jar and wired attachme
nts circling it. When filled with water, and placed in its stand, the jar kept time, performing three times daily, at tierce, set and vespers. Each wire circle would jump into motion as the water leaked through a small hole. On the first wire circles were the planets, on the second two little human figures, whose mouths opened and shut as the wires turned and on the third were musical instruments, recorder, lute and rebec, in fine detail. ‘Boethius,’ Estela had smiled through tears, accepting the present.

  The other precious gift hidden in her pannier was a perfect bound book, presented to her by the book-binder of Narbonne, whose work with parchment usually went to the scribes of the Archbishop and the Viscomtesse. This was, however, not a parchment book. It was a rare and beautiful book of paper, leatherbound with marbled endpapers imported specially from Venice. ‘From Malik-al-Judhami of the Banu Hud to his friend Estela de Matin,’ the bookbinder had told her. From the first moment she saw the book, Estela knew that this was where she would record her first song, The Song of Arnaut, which sang always in her heart.

  In the Cité Palace of Paris, which had been extensively redecorated in a doomed attempt to please its Queen, that same lady was screaming in a bedchamber, attended by her midwife and carefully chosen Ladies. Those present were disappointed when the midwife finally announced, ‘It’s a girl.’

  Aliénor was not disappointed. She was incandescent with rage. ‘Take it away,’ she ordered and the unfortunate baby was rushed out of sight. The Queen sent for her husband, who tried to take her hand and soothe her.

  ‘Never mind,’ he told her.

  ‘I want a divorce,’ she replied and turned her back on him. She had already decided who she would have for her next husband.