Song Hereafter

by Jean Gill

  ‘Still,’ he warned her, ‘very still.’

  The point swept down but she felt nothing as her gown split neatly in two, cascading to the tiles around her, leaving her naked in a billow of rose silk, tipped gold in the candle-light. She bent towards her abandoned clothes. The sword pierced the pile that had been her cotton underskirt. She paused.

  ‘Minx,’ he told her. ‘I heard it clank and you can leave it where it is.’

  She could pick up the dagger later. She turned to face a sword she knew by name, stepped lightly over the folds of fabric and berated her visitor.

  ‘That was my best gown!’ she told Dragonetz. ‘And I’ll have to stitch my dagger into another underskirt. You know I hate sewing!’

  He sheathed Talharcant and smiled, unfastening his swordbelt. ‘No, it wasn’t. You wore that one to work in the dispensary at Les Baux. The green silk is your best gown. Brings out the colour of your eyes better than the pink. You told me so. And a lady doesn’t keep a dagger in her underskirt.’ Though his mouth smiled, his eyes were dark and his breathing betrayed him.

  ‘What weapons does a lady keep?’ She asked him, allowing the candlelight to play over her curves.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ she told him simply, moving into his arms, unfastening his outer garments, unbuttoning those underneath, while his mouth made free of her body.

  ‘Show me how much,’ he whispered and Estela realized with pounding heart that the night had just begun.

  Chapter 4

  Sometimes, there is only here and now. Joy and jouissance; love and fusion, days or weeks without distinction. And in between times alone together, there was a toddler’s laughter and a dog earnestly washing his master’s ear.

  ‘Enough, Nici!’ Dragonetz pushed away the big white dog, who dug in his heels and did not budge, determined to clean away all trace of absentee insubordination. Musca climbed onto his father’s lap to catch his share of the tickling tongue and Nici redoubled his work. Swinging his wriggling armful of son high above the dog’s reach, Dragonetz wondered whether he needed to go on pilgrimage at all. The past could be left there and his salvation be here and now, with his family. Estela smiled at him and came into the circle of his arms. Nici’s joy was complete and his tail formed another circle, a plume of white pleasure.

  ‘So,’ Dragonetz kissed the top of his lady’s head and asked her, ‘how fares the best troubadour in the court of Barcelone.’

  Estela freed herself and pulled up a stool, smoothing Nici absent-mindedly as she entertained Dragonetz with court gossip. Musca started sucking his thumb, then fell asleep in his father’s arms while his parents talked.

  As they relaxed, Estela left amusing anecdotes for more honest and personal reflections. ‘I miss the quality of musicians we knew in Les Baux,’ Estela admitted.

  ‘Of course.’ His smugness made her laugh.

  ‘Not just you! Troubadour music is still new here and the musicians at court struggle with anything but cansos in their own language. They can play the lute well, in their fashion, but they sneer at my oud because it has no fret. They sneer at anything that is not their own tradition and they know nothing of Arabic and Jewish instrumentation. They pluck at their strings with their over-sharpened quills as if contact with their fingers would sully their Christian hands! When we came here I expected to learn from the richness of a city. To know more friendships like Malik’s. Instead we all live in different quarters, different worlds.’

  Her words chilled their hearth with heresy. ‘Estela! I hope you don’t speak like this to anybody else! You mustn’t confuse respect for others with acceptance of their beliefs!’

  She shook her head fiercely. ‘Don’t worry. I know exactly what is expected of me. Petronilla makes sure of that and, as one of her ladies, I never miss confession!’

  This bitterness was new and worrying. Dragonetz put the thought aside, for later consideration. ‘You know that many troubadours use only quills. And, even if they appreciate our techniques, you know how hard it is to learn new ways, to admit that you have something new to learn.’

  ‘I know.’ Estela bit her lip. ‘But it’s in the way they look at me. As if I’m a remarkable trained monkey. As if my technique is some kind of magic spell you cast on me. I’m sure they think you wrote my songs. And, if only they let me, I could show them how to cut their quills so there’s no click on the down-stroke.’

  ‘It’s my fault. You’ve been alone too long with so much that’s new and different. I can understand you feeling sensitive. Nobody will look askance at you when I’m there and I’ll make them think twice about what they do when I’m not!’ His resolve strengthened. He would do all in his power to protect her.

  Far from looking reassured, Estela was frowning at the stone floor. ‘Do you remember Peire Rogier from the Auvergne?’ she asked.

  ‘Who sang in Narbonne, at the court of love? I wasn’t there but you told me about him.’

  ‘He passed through on his way south.’ Her face lightened. ‘We played together and I think that performance was truly appreciated. He brought new songs with him. There is one by Bernart de Ventadorn that everyone is singing.’

  Her face glowed when she spoke of music.

  ‘Sing it for me,’ he ordered, and she didn’t have to be asked twice. Even without oud accompaniment the song was haunting from the start. He could see the lark as the melody rose, feel the lover’s fall from grace, his disenchantment with all women.

  ‘Teach me!’ he told her and they sang together. He lost himself in her eyes, faltering over the words, earning a fiery rebuke, forced to repeat the lines till he had them.

  ‘Miralhs, pus me mirei en te,

  m’an mort li sospir de preon,

  c’aissi.m perdei com perdet se

  lo bels Narcisus en la fon.’

  ‘Since I looked in you, Mirror, and saw myself,

  such sights have slain me.

  I am my own destruction like

  Narcissus, too beautiful in springtime.’

  ‘That will do,’ Estela told him.

  ‘Peire Rogier is a hard taskmaster!’ Dragonetz complained. ‘But it is a lovely song.’

  ‘Peire has such talent and it was good for me to feel that rapport again.’

  ‘Rapport?’ Dragonetz allowed his lip to curl, an eyebrow raised. ‘Should I run him through?’

  ‘No indeed!’ Estela chose to take the threat seriously. Perhaps she was right to do so. ‘That’s the first time I’ve enjoyed singing with a friend since...’ her eyes filled and she couldn’t speak.

  De Rançon. Dragonetz could not speak either.

  Her golden eyes, misty with tears, were raised to his, pleading. ‘I know you miss him too but why won’t you talk to me? When Arnaut died, we cried in each other’s arms but since Geoffroi died, you’ve held it all inside. I don’t understand why, what I’m doing wrong.’ Her voice broke again. ‘Is it because I kissed him once? I told you what happened.’

  Musca stirred but didn’t wake. Dragonetz adjusted the cradle his arms made round the sleeping boy and murmured, ‘You’ve done nothing wrong, Estela. Of course, de Rançon’s death is a painful memory, for us both, and I just want to leave the past behind.’

  Bile rose in Dragonetz’ throat. So I never have to tell you that your friend was a liar and a murderer. He said, ‘Tell me about Petronilla.’

  Estela dashed the tears from her eyes. Obeyed. ‘She is eaten with worry over Pedro and she has reason. The boy is sickly. Luckily, he’s too young to know he is the hope of Aragon and Barcelone, but Petronilla has carried that hope since she was a baby, and her own health is suffering. Only another baby will ease her mind. More than one, to make the kingdom safe. I am glad on several counts to see Ramon Berenguer back home! Babies do not beget themselves!’

  She coloured, glancing at their only child on Dragonetz’ lap, and rushed on, making light. ‘If prayers and donations could make babies, Petronilla would have a bevy! She keeps showing me jewels that she has purchase
d and, at first, I was pleased with these signs of vanity. If a woman takes no care of her personal appearance it is but a short step to imbalance of humours and chronic melancholy.

  But no! The coronet with pearls, the emerald pendant and the gilded Book of Hours are all destined for the Madonna of Zaragoza. Petronilla’s votive offerings include whole outfits for the Madonna – even an ermine-trimmed cloak – that will be presented to the Bishop when we change quarters for the summer and ride to the Palace of Joy. Petronilla is convinced that her prayers and gifts to the Madonna will bring her what she desires. I hope that it does! Meanwhile, we suffer in the gloom of a queen who has not fulfilled her duty, and of a mother who has an ailing child.’

  ‘Is he in your care?’ asked Dragonetz.

  ‘No, the Lord be thanked! Petronilla wanted one of the old court physicians to attend the boy and I have no wish to fail in healing the prince.’

  There was some feeling here between Petronilla and Estela that Dragonetz misliked, very different from the respect in which the young queen had held her midwife when he had last seen them together. How had he ever thought that home was a less complicated place than a campaign seeking allegiance from vassals?!

  Estela told him of her research, her notes, her ideas for a book. ‘Travellers need all kinds of information and nowhere is it compiled as a companion for the road.’

  Dragonetz told Estela of El Rey Lobo and the hawk. Her eyes understood his loss. He did not tell her of the woman taken in adultery.

  He made her laugh; she made him laugh. Yet the low beat of a tabor played beneath their duet, thumping ever louder in Dragonetz’ head. All is not well, this cannot go on; all is not well, this cannot go on!

  ESTELA KNELT IN THE chapel of Santa Maria del Mar, in the fishermen’s church She felt more comfortable opening her heart before the blue-robed figure of Maria than in front of the crucified Christ. Her confessor would never hear anything but what he expected from the sinful woman that the church continually told her she was. But she felt the Mother of God might understand.

  ‘How can it be wrong?’ she asked, as the votive candles flickered around her, pin-points of light and heat. ‘I feel that we are married, in the eyes of God and man. Our son is beautiful, healthy and happy. Is that really why Petronilla has turned against me? Not because I live in sin with my lover but because she has been punished and we have not? And yet I feel nothing but pity for her. Perhaps that pity is too hard for her to bear from a ‘fallen woman’, a ‘whore’, ‘mother of a bastard.’ She tried out all the names that had been used about her at Petronilla’s court. There was a certain pleasure in the taste of forbidden words on the tongue. How could she be a troubadour and not sing all the songs? The bawdy and the sacred, all of them.

  ‘It’s not just about me and Dragonetz,’ she told the serene plaster statue. ‘If there is never any shame in science, why am I supposed to hide my studies? Do you want me to count beads and say Novena each morning for twenty days for every time I sing, or read an article on problems with coitus? Petronilla would not have had her baby and lived, if I didn’t have the knowledge to help her. And the forbidden words to understand it! It is unjust!

  And now Musca, ‘the bastard fruit of adultery’, has been banned from court as if he’s contagious. I don’t know what I should do. I can’t tell Dragonetz what people say or there will be blood spilt. The only people who might understand are outside your grace and the Queen has warned me that I am becoming corrupted by frequenting heathens. Am I?

  Yet I’m supposed to confess to a man who sees holy office as a way to hear the detail of joys he has foregone. I hear the sounds he makes as he suggests the sins he wants to hear about. I’m sure I’m not the only woman who plays along with his little game to avoid worse but who would believe any of us? ‘The fevered imaginings of sinful women’ would be the judgement on us if we spoke up. He makes me feel dirty but Petronilla is too innocent to see the truth and I dare not earn even more of her displeasure. There are worse things in life for women so I suppose I should be thankful I have no more than a lustful priest’s noises to endure.’

  She paused. ‘And then there’s Dragonetz. Something is on his mind and he won’t tell me. Any mention of Geoffroi and his face sets hard. He says it’s not my fault but I don’t believe him. I know I should not have kissed Geoffroi but you know why I did. If you can forgive me perhaps Dragonetz can. I am willing to do penance for my real sins.’

  She paused again. But there was no point in confession if you hid the worst. ‘I thank you for Musca. He is a joy and I understand Petronilla’s pain. If Musca were as ill as Pedro, I would never sleep. And even if I had seventeen other children, I would feel the same. I know that it is my duty to provide as many children as I can for my Lord but the truth is... I don’t want to die bearing children. I have seen it enough times and I know it’s a woman’s lot if she’s not a nun – or lucky – or,’ she whispered the word, ‘careful.’ There, she’d said it.

  ‘I do want more children, but not too many, and not too quickly. Is this wrong? I want to be a good...’ she stumbled over the next word but it was the best fit, ‘wife and mother, and also to sing, to heal, to be Dragonetz’ true companion in everything. Is that wrong? What must I do? Please give me a sign!’

  A candle flickered. It was not a sign, not an answer. Estela sighed and rubbed her knees as she stood and crossed herself. Maybe the Virgin’s silence was the message. She should make her own decisions, choose her own path.

  When she joined the Queen and her Ladies, they went quiet then all spoke at once.

  One kinder than the others said, ‘Tell Lady de Matin the story and see what judgement she makes.’

  Reluctantly, one unfolded the moral tale for Estela’s consideration and she obliged with a verdict that would have disappointed her father confessor in its lack of sin. The insipid day continued on its course and, as it was Sunday, not even the prospect of song lay ahead. Like the goodwife in the tale, Estela wrapped a girdle of goodness around herself and pulled it tight. If she squeezed her goodness girdle any tighter she would surely burst into a million perfect pieces.

  LATE SPRING GREENED the new foliage and Barcelone stank. Dragonetz strode through the Mercada towards the city walls. He tried not to breathe as he passed the fish stalls but rotting fruit was almost as bad. No doubt thrifty housewives could make conserves from the stewed mess but it turned his stomach to see flies hatching from the discarded produce. Affluent stewards for the noble houses came early in the morning, chose their stalls with care and picked out the freshest goods. They also bought their fish straight from the nets, down at the harbour, not here.

  Suffering another breath of fish-scented air, Dragonetz missed Vertat and the open plains, the knife-cold wind and rush of a galloping horse.

  ‘Buy my oranges! Blood-red and juicy!’ ‘Buy my sardines! Caught this morning!’ The sellers’ cries assaulted his ears and if those sardines were fresh, he was the king of Cordoba.

  Someone bumped into him, murmuring automatically, ‘Beg pardon, my Lord.’ Just as automatically, Dragonetz used his misericorde dagger to stab the hand feeling for a pouch. A satisfying screech followed and the would-be cutpurse ran for his life. Dragonetz returned the knife to its usual place in his belt. It had seen more use than had his sword since he’d returned to the city. Of course, the man should be tried and sentenced to the appropriate maiming but if you followed up on every thief in the Mercada, you’d never do anything else.

  The day had already seen enough time wasted. Dragonetz kicked a cabbage out of his way. He’d hoped that the brothers in Santa Eulalie would have understood what he wanted. But he’d not been optimistic after visiting the Abbey of San Pau the previous day.

  Their choir was known throughout the realm and their voices blended perfectly in their chant. When Dragonetz told the Abbot of the heavenly music haunting him, the priest had nodded, encouraged Dragonetz to describe his vision in more detail. The moment he explained that he wanted the mo
nks to take different melodies, the Abbot’s face showed his confusion.

  ‘It can’t be done, my son,’ had been the gentle rebuttal. ‘And if it is, it will sound like cats on spring nights. A bestial sound, not fit for God’s ears.’

  Dragonetz knew how wonderful it would sound but he could not make others hear the music that played in his head. Telling the Abbot that his vision had come to him during a poppy dream would not help his case so, frustrated once again, he left the abbey and its singers to their chants.

  The route back into the city from the Abbey followed La Rambla, the winter stream that returned to sewage each summer. His search for the heavenly music brought him only the stench of humanity. It was a moot point whether the Mercada smelled worse than the Rambla but at least both were outside the city walls and away from where he lived.

  Surely there was somewhere on God’s earth that people sang in– he didn’t even know what to call it! Un-unison? Even Estela and Malik had difficulty understanding what he meant.

  He passed ragged children jumping on a straw heap with goat kids, all vying energetically for the peak. The young would always find a way to amuse themselves. He thought of Musca and his heart clenched into a fist. Surely, he could stay with his family and forget the past.

  Vertat, he thought. The bird named Truth. How ironic that he was missing Vertat.

  He had walked off most of his ill humour by the time he returned to the Carrer de Montcada, Ramon’s gift to the city, named for one of Barcelone’s foremost families. On this street stood Ramon’s gift to his Commander, a town-house kept sweet and clean by Estela’s care and direction. Dragonetz had no idea how she managed it, but, even when she was at court duties, the household never missed a beat. He had no idea how many servants they employed, but he saw the same ones in the same places each day, as in some dance measure where each trod the path that made up a pleasing pattern.