Song Hereafter

by Jean Gill

  She didn’t look back, just rushed across the courtyard, ignoring the confusion around her. She had to stoop to get through the door, be careful on the stone steps but she knew every treacherous dimple and barely paused as she went down below daylight.

  There was always fire. Even Miquel could not avoid flames. In the torchlight, the leather part of the mask was black demon. His half face flickered with their father’s features, then, even more terribly, with their mother’s. Then his face was half a boy’s again. A boy holding a sword, pointing it at an old iron box. Crooked in his other arm was a baby, sleeping.

  ‘I knew you’d come,’ he said, quietly, not waking the baby. ‘This is it, the box I told you about. Let me show you.’

  ‘Yes, show me,’ she said, moving carefully, slowly now, so as not to startle him into sudden action. ‘Shall I hold the baby while you open the box?’ She reached out her arms.

  Miquel was holding the baby out towards her when somebody moaned in the darkness and he snatched the baby back, his expression darkening. ‘Ignore her,’ he said. ‘She always came between us.’

  Estela moved towards the candle-holder, in a niche in the wall. She lifted it, saw Miquel flinch from the flame. ‘I’m just looking around,’ she reassured him. She moved around him with the candle, keeping a distance but heading towards the wall from where the groan had come.

  The candle briefly lit up some rags that raised skeletal hands over deadened eyes, reminding Estela of somebody she’d once known. Then she jumped backwards as Miquel moved between her and the captive – for so she assumed this person to be.

  ‘You believed she was dead, didn’t you!’ He was triumphant, more like the malicious creature who’d tried to murder her son. And yet he crowed like he had at seven when he’d tricked her out of climbing higher in the apple tree than he could.

  ‘I believed everything you said, Miquel. I trusted you.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t because you trusted me. You wanted her dead, so you believed me when I said she was. It would have been so nice for you if she was dead. So easy. She taught me that.’ He kicked, the bundle of rags. Another groan.

  ‘Costansa,’ he sang out, like a child playing hide and seek, ‘guess who’s here to see you? It’s Estela! Say hello to Estela. Nicely.’

  ‘Hello Estela,’ said a voice without colour, beyond pain.

  Estela’s insides twisted. She had not wished this on her stepmother. She had not!

  ‘Look after my baby.’ The voice was barely a whisper, gasping for each breath.

  Costansa’s words made Miquel snarl.

  ‘We’ll both look after your baby,’ he told her, sneering. ‘But this is what Estela wants for you!’

  As Estela screamed ‘No!’ Miquel thrust his sword into what was left of the woman.

  Estela took the chance to grab the squalling baby from his precarious position in Miquel’s left arm. But within seconds her brother had control of his sword again, was pointing it at her, or rather at the baby she clutched against her bosom. The nursling sought his usual comfort, making soft popping noises with his mouth as he nudged her bodice and found only the hard edges of Estela’s brooch. Frustrated, he began to wail again.

  She jostled the baby, saying foolishly, ‘There, there,’ as if she could sing a lullaby and put the world right. She folded the baby into her arms, covering his head and as much of his body as she could, so that Miquel’s sword would hit her first if he lunged.

  Miquel’s pupils were enlarged, his eyes crazed as he waved the sword at her breast, edging his way to stand between her and the steps, between her and any chance of escape. She shut her eyes, not sure what he would do next. She didn’t dare move in case he reacted with the sword and she knew she would flinch. All men flinch when a dagger comes at them. Or a sword, she added. She didn’t want to die a coward. Screaming like a baby.

  The box was behind her. She’d have to wait, talk to him, hope that Miquel would make a move that didn’t kill her.

  ‘You need to see,’ Miquel complained, ‘see what’s in the box, so we don’t leave these monsters in the world.’

  Her eyes flicked open only to realise that she must truly be dead and that heaven – or hell – was more complicated than she could ever have dreamed.

  Malik was running down the steps, his scimitar unsheathed, shouting words in Arabic that Estela had only read in medical textbooks.

  Miquel turned and ran his sword through the Moor, efficiently, dropping him to the floor.

  Somebody’s voice was screaming. Estela thought it might be hers, if dead people screamed. If she weren’t dead, she should be terrified but the shock wouldn’t allow any other feelings. She didn’t have time to wonder if Miquel was going to kill her next before a white fury stormed down the steps.

  With the rage he’d been bred for, Nici hurled himself onto Miquel, raked him with his claws, rolled him, buried his teeth in the throat of the predator who threatened his mistress and shook him till his lifeless corpse thumped against the floor.

  ‘Nici, stop!’ she ordered him but he couldn’t. He finished the work he’d started when this enemy threatened his little Musca. Estela shut her eyes but she could still hear.

  Then she felt him rub against her, soft fur, his tongue licking the baby, worried at the crying. She shifted the baby to one arm so she could stroke Nici, trying not to see the blood. ‘Good boy,’ she told him, through shaking teeth.

  People were coming down the steps; Dragonetz, Gilles, Raoulf. Not Musca, thank God. Somebody took the baby from her. The wailing went out of the cellar, fainter until it stopped.

  She crawled over to Malik, not trusting her knees to stand. She cradled Malik’s head in her lap, not knowing why he was alive, but knowing that he was dying, knowing he’d given his life to save her.

  ‘Inshallah,’ he murmured but he struggled to say something more. She bent her lips close. ‘Te’borny,’ he whispered, and he was not talking to her.

  Dragonetz crouched down.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said.

  Dragonetz gently closed Malik’s eyes. ‘Come,’ he said, his voice breaking. ‘Musca wants to see his Mama.’

  LATER, WHEN EVERYONE thought she was resting, Estela returned to the cellar with a candle. The flickering shadows replayed Costansa, huddled against a wall, her death. Estela wants this Miquel had said, then he’d killed her stepmother. Was she responsible?

  Miquel fought her again, pleaded with her again, died again. Would he have killed her if Malik had not arrived? Would she have killed him? When he whirled to face Malik, she had the chance to stab her brother in the back. She’d been too slow, hesitated and Malik had died.

  She knew her brother to be a good swordsman but he’d had the light playing to his advantage too. When she walked down the steps again, she’d blinked, waited till her eyes were accustomed to the light, as Malik must have done. He’d hid his weakness behind his flashing blade and oaths but in that moment, the younger man had killed him.

  She remembered her lessons with Maredudd. What a fool she’d been, playing with a sword. Miquel had taught her the purpose of a weapon. Then he’d died at the teeth of her true weapon, one beyond her control, too dangerous now to be allowed to live. The sounds of Miquel’s death worried at her again but the hardest truth was that she could not wish it otherwise.

  The metal locks to the iron box were open and she set the candle-holder on the dusty floor beside it, then she sat down. Dirt was the least of the day’s worries.

  She pulled out a scarf, different colours but the same weave as the one she’d left in the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Pillar, with the same initials intertwined. And there was a scroll. What words could possibly do so much damage? She hesitated, then she unscrolled the missive. A love letter, in Arabic, was the answer.

  Dear heart,

  When our people settled in your islands, I thought all Christians were enemies, light of skin and fickle in faith. When I came upon you, hiding in the cave, you touched something
in me that had not yet learned to live. When my people left, I did not go with them.

  For you, I took on a new name, and I saw that our faiths were not so different, so I took your words for my beliefs. Our initials intertwine like our faiths, like us. I want to leave these words with my oud, to be passed on to our children, and to their children, so they know they were born from great love.

  They should know that their ancestor was not without honour in his African homeland, nor in Zaragoza, before he found his woman and stayed in Provence.

  The name in Arabic was also written in an Occitan form and she knew it. Her mother’s family name.

  She pieced the story together in her mind. A Moor had come from Africa, worked in Zaragoza, maybe as an architect of the palace itself, had maybe carved the work she had seen on the wall. Or one of his relatives had. He’d travelled with the armies that occupied the islands off the shores of Provence. He’d invaded the region round Les Baux, found a girl in a cave, perhaps the very cave where Estela had found the scarf with the initials.

  How had the scarf found itself back there? Had the couple left treasure in the cave that was their special place? She could only guess at what had happened generations ago. Her mother had ended up here, with an iron box and an oud, and with her father.

  Estela had inherited the oud and what Miquel was trying to tell her was that they had bad blood, Moorish blood, which they’d passed on to the next generation.

  She sat very still, thinking, so still that she heard her companion breathing.

  ‘Dragonetz,’ she said. He was sitting on a step, watching her, waiting.

  ‘I washed Nici,’ he told her. ‘And he’s gone off, chasing something white and female, I think.’

  ‘There will be puppies,’ she stated, ‘and he’s a dangerous dog. He killed a man.’ Her voice wobbled. ‘He’s not safe any more. He might kill again. We should... make sure he can’t.’ There. She’d said it aloud, tried to be responsible, but it hurt beyond bearing, even after all the other hurts of the day.

  Then Dragonetz came down to her, sat on the floor beside her, took her hands in his. ‘I’ve killed a man,’ he said. ‘And I will kill again, if I have to.’

  She nodded, swallowed. ‘So we’ll keep him? And the puppies?’ she asked.

  ‘I think Montbrun needs dogs like Nici that can protect their own.’

  ‘Then let’s hope the bitch is better with sheep than Nici is!’

  He waited.

  ‘You looked in the box,’ she said.

  Of course he had.

  ‘You can annul our marriage,’ she said. ‘You didn’t know about my,’ she swallowed, ‘my background.’ Musca, she thought.

  He was still holding her hands. He told her, ‘All it means is that somebody, maybe your great great grandfather, was of Malik’s race and religion. I wish we could tell our friend the good news. We thought we had lost him and we had no time to mourn. Now we must make time. He was the best of us.’

  Then she started to cry.

  Dragonetz said, ‘The Welsh say it’s a disgrace to die in bed and an honour to die in battle. Maybe Malik-al-Judhami of the Banu Hud died as he would have wished. He was not meant to end his life in chair days.’

  ‘Without Layla.’ She told him then, about Malik’s last words.

  ‘We were lucky to have known such a man, to be loved by such a friend.’ He put one arm around her, picked up the letter, looked at the beautiful arabesques, and spoke of another couple. ‘This man was of noble birth, he converted to our faith and he loved your great great grandmother very much. He left you a beautiful oud and the rest is none of anybody else’s business.’

  She scrubbed at the wet patch she was making on his shoulder then settled her head there again.

  ‘What do you think we should do with Montbrun?’ he asked, as if making casual conversation.

  ‘It belongs to the baby,’ she realized.

  ‘What Ramon Berenguer would do would be to appoint a guardian, somebody trustworthy, and a good nurse to look after the baby.’

  ‘Gilles and Prima. I approve.’ She wanted the baby safe, looked after, but she balked at the idea of bringing up the baby born of her brother and his stepmother. ‘The baby deserves his chance of a good life, of his rights,’ she said, fingering her brooch, wondering about a baby with such a father.

  She gave a bitter laugh. ‘Miquel was tormented by the thought of Moorish blood and it’s his I’m worried about! Where did his madness come from?’

  ‘Who knows what Costansa did to his mind.’

  ‘She paid for it.’ Estela shuddered. Payment will be taken. The Gyptian’s words echoed. Payment for Estela’s knowledge of her ancestry. Only it had not been Estela who’d paid. Miquel. Costansa. And Malik. Now Montbrun would belong to a baby.

  Then she thought of the consequences for their own little family if Gilles and Prima stayed at Montbrun, bringing up the young heir. ‘Musca will miss Primo terribly.’

  ‘Yes.’ Dragonetz shrugged his shoulders. ‘He will no doubt throw tantrums all the way from here to Ruffec. That will afford you some distraction but I think you will have the upper hand by journey’s end. You can read to him from The Wise Traveller.’

  It was too soon to smile but she appreciated his intention. She would be queen of her own domain, like Layla, like her mother. Her life would be a tribute to the women she’d loved. And Dragonetz would rule in his domain, outshine Ramon Berenguer, among his own people.

  It was time to leave this cellar, with its darkness and bloodstains. She must ask for it to be cleaned. There was a frightened household to organize. Miquel’s guards and servants all needed to know they were safe, to be given work to do. They all needed food and drink. She would see what was in the kitchen.

  Dragonetz raised her to her feet, held her close, whispered, ‘I remember the first time I saw you, standing beside a ditch with a big white dog beside you, and your oud wrapped in a bundle. We started with a song at dawn, and we will have song hereafter, I promise.’

  Epilogue

  In Aquitaine, the Lady of Ruffec held her son tight for a long, wordless moment. When she released him, she turned a level gaze, black-eyed like her son, on the woman who was apparently her daughter-in-law. Who met her gaze.

  Finally, she nodded. ‘You are a brave woman,’ was the verdict.

  Then she crouched down, spoke to the little boy hiding behind his mother’s skirt. ‘You owe me a cuddle, and I owe you a swordbelt that your father wore when he was as big as you.’ The word ‘swordbelt’ dealt with any hesitation and her grandson ran into her open arms.

  On 19th December 1154 Henri and Aliénor were crowned King and Queen of England. Aliénor started a new phase of her life as Eleanor, but her hereditary title stayed with her: Eleanor of Aquitaine.

  Cadell returned from pilgrimage with no desire to take up governance of Deheubarth and he retired to a monastery, giving the realm wholly to Lords Maredudd and Rhys.

  While King Henri postponed dealing with the thorn in his side that was Gwalia, the brothers ap Gruffydd continued to reclaim parts of their ancient kingdom. Henri never knew there was a goldmine in his realm and his bare coffers remained even more of a problem than were the Welsh.

  Mental Preparation for a Journey

  The wise traveller leaves a pair of stout boots always beside the door because he never knows when he might be called upon to travel or how quickly he must leave.

  There are always reasons not to leave home but the most propitious time for a journey is when you are asked to go on one. Without adventures, what stories will you have when you are old, to tell around the fire?

  May your spirit of adventure be found with your boots, in readiness.

  Finis

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  Contact

  Email me

  jean.gill@wanad
oo.fr

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  FOR EXCLUSIVE OFFERS, news and a FREE ebook of ‘One Sixth of a Gill’, please visit www.jeangill.com and sign up for my newsletter. This collection of shorts was a finalist in the Wishing Shelf and SpaSpa Awards

  A BOOK WITH ‘WOW’ FACTOR – Geoff Nelder, Aria

  A fantastic array of wonderful prose, from bee-keeping to Top Tips on Dogs! A FINALIST and highly recommended – The Wishing Shelf Awards

  A rare treat – J.G. Harlond, The Empress Emerald'

  An eclectic mix – quite unputdownable – B.A. Morton, 'Mrs Jones'

  Five-minute reads. Meet people you will never forget: the night photographer, the gynaecologist's wife, the rescue dog. Dip into whatever suits your mood, from comedy to murder; from fantastic stories to blog posts, by way of love poetry.

  Fully illustrated by the author in black and white; Jean Gill's original photographs are as thought-provoking as her writing. An out-of-body experience for adventurous readers. Or, of course, you can 'Live Safe'.

  Not for you

  the blind alley on a dark night,

  wolf-lope pacing you step for step

  as shadows flare on the walls.

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to:–

  my editor and friend, Lesley Geekie, who stayed calm through the second crusade and mis-spellings in five different languages.

  Claire, Karen, Kristin and Jane for their historical and literary input. I couldn’t do this without you.

  Professor Sara McDougall, medieval history specialist, John Jay College of Criminal Justice, NY

  for her expert input and enthusiastic discussion of bastardy and marriage in the 12th century, and of Petronilla’s status in particular.