Song Hereafter

by Jean Gill

  Despite all the activity, the January chill was noticeable, so Dragonetz happily joined in a drinking song and the drink that went with it. This gave an opportunity for him to further brief El Rey Lobo’s military leaders regarding their own men: those who’d shown intelligence and ingenuity; those who’d worked well together; those who’d protected others; the brave and also the bullies.

  ‘The weakness in a wall is where it will be breached,’ Dragonetz told them, and they understood that he wasn’t speaking only of stones.

  WELL SATISFIED WITH his day’s work, Dragonetz met up with Malik on the battlements and watched the sun-set flushing rose the grey mountains and arid plains; limning with gold the spiked succulents that dotted the route up to the fortress. In daytime, the winter landscape was leached of all colour, except for a dusting of occasional snow on the highest peaks. This moment of grace before evening was a promise of better days. Dragonetz hoped so. He was more than ready to go home.

  ‘Luxury!’ he declared. ‘Two nights on straw pallets instead of a cloak on the ground with the wind hurling through the tent flaps.’

  Beside him, Malik sighed. ‘I am ready to go home,’ he admitted, speaking Dragonetz’ thoughts aloud, as happened so often when they rode together. ‘I am getting older, my friend. These campaigns test my luck more every time.’

  Dragonetz bit back the instinctive reassurance. Was it true? Was Malik getting too old for this?

  ‘At least we can relax now,’ he told his friend.

  How wrong he was, he didn’t find out until after the evening meal. Until Ramon came to tell them both about the non-negotiable demand in El Rey Lobo’s terms.

  ‘It shall be as my Lord wishes,’ Malik bowed his head in submission but could not hide the tightening of his jaw, knuckles whitening in his clasped hands.

  ‘Your Lord very much does not wish!’

  Dragonetz stated the obvious. ‘We must agree terms with El Rey Lobo. He holds our boundaries safe against the Almohads and he can’t do that without warriors – experienced fighters. It is a fair demand.’

  ‘Indeed, I take it as a great compliment to Malik,’ Ramon stated bleakly. ‘If I thought there was another way... I have bartered Aragon and Barcelone to bare bones all afternoon and he has not wavered. He will take the money – and Malik to command one of his armies.’ Ramon’s face offered no hope.

  ‘Did you suggest me instead?’ asked Dragonetz.

  Malik’s, ‘No!’ was instinctive.

  Ramon at least smiled, however wearily. ‘You were mentioned at the start. El Rey Lobo made it clear that I was welcome to such a... creative general. I believe his words were, ‘How do you control this man without removing one of his hands?’

  Dragonetz laughed. ‘I take that as a great compliment! Believe me, his men now have a better notion of how siege engines work than do most armies! But there is always another way. He shall not have Malik.’

  ‘We have no choice in all courtesy. As you say, it is a reasonable demand. I could ask that he return to us in a year.’ Ramon’s tone betrayed his doubts that such a request would be considered.

  Dragonetz had some idea how much ‘just one year’ riding with El Lobo would cost Malik’s health, if he survived. El Rey Lobo was young enough to believe he was immortal; Malik knew he wasn’t.

  ‘Have you signed?’ asked Dragonetz, and the walls held their breath. Ramon Berenguer would never go back on his word.

  ‘Of course not!’ The Prince’s eyes flashed at the insult. ‘I would not sign without Malik’s consent.’

  ‘And I give it, my Lord.’ Malik bent to kiss Ramon’s ring, and his Liege laid a hand on the turbaned head.

  ‘I knew you would.’ Ramon turned to Dragonetz. ‘Unless my most creative commander can think of something?’

  The silence spread from the foundations of the stone walls into each man’s core. Dragonetz followed each line of thought to a dead end, blocked by honour, time or resources. Each line of thought but one.

  Finally, no laughter in his voice, he said, ‘I have a proposition. El Rey Lobo must want something more than he wants Malik, enough to ask for that instead. He couldn’t see what you offered, didn’t feel the burn of desire. We must make him feel that.’

  Ramon frowned. ‘We have no women with us that would make such an impact and no time to send for some. El Rey Lobo has no shortage of beauties already. We’d need somebody of unusual talent to make him lose his senses in such a way.’ Ramon was not a man who understood the losing of senses but Malik did and he looked in horror at Dragonetz.

  ‘No, my friend.’ Dragonetz put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘No woman will suffer because of you. I love you dearly but we can’t be sure a woman would work magic, even if we found one who might. Only one woman would touch me so, and if El Lobo thinks I am too difficult to control, I suspect Estela would not be his choice of woman! No, jesting aside, what else would make El Rey Lobo fall in love at first sight?’

  ‘No!’ Malik guessed his intent.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Dragonetz, and he outlined his plan. The other two men made objections, found flaws, were rebuffed, and eventually all agreed that the plan might just work. Ramon’s shoulders lifted, Malik’s drooped, and Dragonetz went to the stables.

  Nobody else was in earshot of Sadeek’s stall and the destrier snorted as his master spoke soft words of love to him in Arabic. This princely gift of friendship from Malik had been his partner through hell and Holy Land. Their teamwork had won praise from the Saracen leader Nur-ad-Din and brought the skills of Moorish horsemen in Damascus to Provençal warriors in Les Baux.

  Tethered on arid winter plains by his master’s tent or ruminating in a stall, Sadeek had been Dragonetz’ only confidante in affairs of the heart since he’d left Estela and baby Musca in Barcelone. You could lean against a horse’s flank, feel the quiver of life, without fear of drawing harm to your companion. Yet here he was, contemplating exactly that.

  For months, he and Sadeek had followed Ramon’s route, seeking oaths of allegiance; securing the borders against the Saracen invaders; securing Aragon and Barcelone against the enemy within, back-stabbers and wranglers. A knight and his steed. Could a man even be called a knight without his horse? Unhorsed was another word for dishonoured.

  There had been many days’ travel between vassals, between the demonstrations of force, and oaths of allegiance. Waking at dawn to the bleached browns of endless Iberian plains, Dragonetz would seek the unholy trinity that freed his restless mind and gave him respite from black thoughts; man, horse and hawk. The rapid ki-ki-ki of his goshawk, Vertat, hunting. Classical Persian poetry ran through his mind.

  ‘Bestow on me a hawk with sweeping wings,

  plumes stroked clean by icy winds.

  No man prouder than I

  on our dawn rides

  when my hand outflies the wind,

  unleashes my dominion on the untamed.’

  Death-dealing by hawk was a calming ritual, cleaner by far than his day’s work sometimes proved to be and flying Vertat had been a daily release for man, horse and hawk.

  When Ramon’s army left Barcelone, there had been sideways glances at his new commander, envy of the black destrier and puzzlement at the orange-eyed goshawk, perched on Dragonetz’ shoulder. But no man placed under Dragonetz’ command objected to rabbits grilled on camp-fires or the Christmas treat of lamb. Especially as the latter came from lands less welcoming to Barcelone than the season warranted.

  When his Liege or his Liege’s vassals dictated otherwise, the young falconer Bran carried out his duties with love but he was not Dragonetz and his mount was no Sadeek. After a few days apart, Vertat would complain, chitter in pique, play hard to recall, like a jealous lover, and Dragonetz would have to woo her back. He sought her favourite terrain and Sadeek carried the double burden as fast and smooth as flight itself. Dragonetz swore that Sadeek favoured one side when riding without the hawk and that Vertat crooned appreciation of the stallion’s gait.


  The stable kept its secrets as Dragonetz whispered his apologies to Sadeek, explained what must be done and why, then he went to wake Bran, the young falconer. Bran also needed to know what was to be done and, as man not beast, he could – and must – make his own choice.

  Chapter 2

  There being nothing more to say in private, the Wolf King treated his guests to the full spectacle of his court. Ramon Berenguer was granted the privilege of a carved wooden chair on the king’s right hand. The two rulers faced the ceaseless tide of supplicants, messengers and merchants. Like an ill-matched queen and consort thought Dragonetz from his stance behind Barcelone, hand resting lightly on his pommel. Equally impassive, Malik stood guard beside Dragonetz, scimitar gleaming through his robes.

  Permission for Barcelone’s commanders to keep their swords was a measure of El Rey Lobo’s confidence that they would reach an agreement; confidence backed up by two dozen men-at-arms, forming a semi-circle around their king with a polite gap for the Christian visitors. Dragonetz and Ramon were the only people in the hall not wearing robes and the only men with hair loose and on show.

  Barcelone wore a simple gold circlet and the velvet doublet, trimmed with civet fur, that he’d brought on the journey to show respect to the more prestigious of his hosts. Nobody would have guessed from the Comte’s appearance that he’d been living as rough as his men during most of their months travelling and camping. When lodging in abbeys and strongholds, he’d caught up on sleep as well as oaths of loyalty. His only concession to practicality was the beard he’d allowed to grow – neatly trimmed but black and oiled as any Saracen’s.

  Dragonetz resisted the urge to check his own chin for stubble, reflecting that the only other people beardless in the Hall would be women, boys or eunuchs. He had no idea whether El Rey Lobo maintained this eastern court custom or not, and he thought it wiser not to ask. The less Malik heard about El Rey Lobo’s social customs, the easier it would be for him to play his role. After all, if Dragonetz was wrong, Malik would be part of this court into which he fitted so easily by appearance; dark-skinned and turbaned.

  Not all the men wore turbans. Perhaps as many as one in ten wore the cone-shaped caps that declared them Jewish. Apart from the headgear, the petitioners dressed alike in the wide, flowing Arab robes called jubbas; green, orange and rose butterflies.

  The same old disputes that Dragonetz had heard in Christian courts were brought before the ruler; land disputes and claims of theft; forgery and murder. Though different gods were called to bear witness, the human offences were the same. There was a long silence during a particularly difficult case of what Ramon would have called ‘beard-pulling’, the petty injuries between noblemen.

  El Rey Lobo was once more lost in thought, weighing judgement, considering his verdict. Having listened for months to Barcelone’s passionate views on the law, Dragonetz was not surprised when Ramon Berenguer leaned closer to El Rey Lobo and murmured, ‘This is why I have drawn up the Usatges. To make judgments quick and consistent, across our kingdoms, so that all men know that justice will be done.’

  El Rey Lobo frowned at this slight on his efficiency in judgement. ‘I doubt your Usatges show the same consideration of non-Christians as our laws do of a Dhimmi.’

  Ramon side-stepped neatly. ‘In your Kingdom, your faith leads your rule as mine does in my realm, but my laws in themselves apply reason and consistency in judgement and sentence. They have saved me much time as I no longer deliberate each case as though there had never been another like it.’

  El Rey Lobo was still frowning but then his brow cleared, as if he’d reached some decision. Dragonetz felt Malik responding too, suddenly alert, sensing danger. But all that happened was another petitioner stepping forward and the two men relaxed a little. Too soon.

  ‘We have heard much of the justice shown in Aragon and Barcelone,’ announced El Rey Lobo, the boom of his voice echoing around the stone walls. No irony showed in his tone but if some were intended, Dragonetz could sympathise. The hospitality of Ramon’s tent had often included long discussions of fit punishments for common crimes.

  ‘We are honoured to have their Prince with us today,’ continued the Wolf King, ‘and he will be your judge. Let all men hear the justice he offers to share with his subjects and allies so that his judgment can be judged.’ A subtler man would have left this unsaid. El Rey Lobo was not a subtle man. He laughed at his own joke, as did most in the Hall, whether they’d heard it or not, whether they’d understood it or not. The petitioners did not laugh.

  One man at the back of the Hall laughed too long and changed the noise to a snorting cough that died away in the silence. El Rey Lobo and everyone else in the Hall looked at the Comte de Barcelone and waited. Dragonetz relaxed. Meting out justice was Ramon Berenguer’s second nature.

  ‘The test of my Usatges is not whether I can deliver judgement by their guidance but whether all those with authority can do likewise.’ Calm, strong, the voice carried to the back of the Hall, where nobody laughed.

  This was unexpected. Dragonetz’ stomach clenched when his own name was mentioned but there was nothing he could do to prevent what must follow. His mind raced ahead as Barcelone declared, ‘Lord Commander Dragonetz los Pros, will state the Usatges that fit the situation presented.’

  Ramon nodded at the petitioners and rested an elbow casually on the arm of his chair, head propped on hand as if entertained by a jongleur’s display of coloured balls. ‘Then we will use them and any other laws relevant, to explain our judgement.’

  El Rey Lobo laughed and Dragonetz would have at least smiled, if he had not been mentally revising thirty instances of crime and punishment. It would take a much wilier man than the Wolf King to dictate terms to Berenguer. Especially when Ramon could call on Dragonetz, that ‘too troublesome knight’ who was being asked to display why he might be worth his keep.

  Ramon flexed his gloved hand. Soft kid leather, Dragonetz noted. Purely for fashion. Rather larger than was fashionable though, as if something tougher was worn underneath. Ramon raised his hand in a gesture that was noticed only by his commanders and a servant in leather jerkin, who disappeared from the Hall. Ramon glanced at Dragonetz and raised an eyebrow. They understood each other.

  The Wolf King ordered the next petitioner to approach and state his case so the judgement of the Comte de Barcelone could be given. A bound woman was pushed to her knees in front of the dais and her turbaned companion began to speak. Dragonetz gave what could have been a silent prayer or a silent curse, depending on interpretation. Had fate or El Rey Lobo chosen that particular case?

  ‘My wife’s a whore,’ stated the man. ‘I want her stoned for adultery.’

  ‘On what grounds do you believe this to be so?’ Dragonetz asked.

  ‘Do I have to answer this foreigner?’ The man’s belligerent tone drew a quick response, not from El Rey Lobo but from a guard. The flat of a blade dropped the man to his knees beside his unhappy wife. Her hair was shorn and uncovered, her face was bruised down one side and the rope binding her had drawn blood.

  ‘Do I have to answer this foreigner, my king?’ encouraged the guard, his scimitar hovering sharp side above the man’s neck.

  Not completely suicidal, the man took the hint. ‘Beg pardon, my king. This woman is with child and I...’ his voice dropped to a whisper, ‘I have never made children on any woman.’

  The guards shushed as mocking laughter rippled around the Hall.

  Defiantly, the man added, ‘And everybody knows she is faithless. Everybody.’

  This just evoked more laughter. Which Dragonetz used, however lightly. Knowing that what he did was unfair. ‘And you have brought ‘everybody’ with you to bear witness?’ he jibed.

  ‘No,’ was mumbled.

  ‘If not everybody, perhaps one witness?’ Dragonetz’ mocking tone brought a ripple of laughter.

  More quietly again. ‘No.’

  Dragonetz’ conscience was rubbed raw by the doe-eyed plea in the woman’s
eyes before she dropped her gaze to the floor, where a few spots of blood gleamed on the stone flags. Another drip fell.

  ‘Untie her while she is tried,’ Dragonetz ordered. A guard looked to El Rey Lobo, received a curt nod, then did as bid. The husband opened his mouth and closed it again.

  So, the crimes for which Dragonetz should deliver punishment were disobedience, adultery and creating an illegitimate child. How ironic. Guilty as charged, admitted Dragonetz grimly to his inner judge. Even though Estela had only seen her husband for the brief ceremony of their wedding day, his mistress was nevertheless a married woman. However, he must distance himself from his sins if he were to judge others. So Ramon had taught him.

  He did not so much as glance at his Liege as he racked his memory for Usatges which could be applied without loss of body part as a sentence. Ramon would never duck his duty in sentencing but if Dragonetz could cite a kind judgment, the Prince might take that option.

  Whatever was said and done here must convince El Rey Lobo that the justice of Barcelone and Aragon was indeed justice. And the Wolf King’s measures would not be tempered with mercy.

  ‘Are you this man’s wife?’ Dragonetz began the interrogation.

  She raised her eyes to his, risked holding his gaze long enough to say, ‘Since I was twelve.’ Though her eyes were lowered again quickly, in proper submission, they spoke still. Of a body used and abused, of beatings, of a spirit not yet broken.

  ‘And what say you to the charge?’ he asked.

  ‘I am with child,’ she said. ‘I am this man’s wife so it must perforce be his child.’

  ‘See how she speaks!’ interrupted the man. ‘Impudent! Unchaste. Twisting words!’

  ‘And have you lain with another man?’

  ‘I have given my body only as Allah willed.’ When she looked at him as she spoke, Dragonetz knew beyond all doubt that she spoke truth and that she was an adulteress.

  His blood ran cold as he heard Estela in his head. As have I, my love. And this woman never gave her body to the brute beside her – she was taken. But laws were not devised to protect criminals, nor assuage the consciences of those who had no right to throw stones.