by K. M. Grant
Across the river, at the top of one of the paths cut into the forest, Raimon perched in a tree and waited for Parsifal’s whistle. When it came, he braced himself, then dropped. There was a brief struggle, after which Parsifal apologized to the victims and advised them to return to their homes. Their clothes and their horses would be put to good use. When they began to quarrel with this courteous thief, he and Raimon drew their swords. They fled.
“God go with both them and us,” Parsifal said fervently as he pulled on a multicolored tunic and helped Raimon to do the same.
And so they all waited, and the chateau waited too.
At last a slow dusk began to fall and the smoke from the kitchen chimneys thickened. Now a great rumbling was heard, and after the rumbling, a cheering. Fifty barrels of ale and as many casks of wine were rolled from their place of storage and up a makeshift ramp into the great hall. They were cracked open and now the entertainments in the courtyards began. Though it was not yet dark, with reckless extravagance new candles and freshly made torches were lit and the small boys designated to tend them scurried about clutching baskets of flint and steel and the all-important buckets of sand and water in case of accident. Though Yolanda had specifically asked that there should be no bonfire—how could they, when its roar and rush would be torture to the prisoners—her request had been ignored and within minutes a huge pile of straw and old wood was spewing sparks and ashes into the twilight.
In the other courtyards, as the night deepened, smaller fires were also lit so that eventually, from the valley, the chateau seemed peppered with small volcanoes and in between the fires, like capering devils, men and women juggled and spun wooden platters, performed somersaults, and did handstands on each others’ shoulders. It was certainly a spectacle.
The imaginator set up his tent in the herb garden and soon had a steady stream of clients as first the servants and then the knights lined up. Some came out frowning, others forcing themselves to laugh. The French knights wished they had never been tempted, for the imaginator whispered of miserable death and eternal damnation. Hugh, in a tunic of unostentatious but expensive blue silk, emerged silent and thoughtful. Though the imaginator was heavily veiled, he had a familiar look about him. He searched for Yolanda but couldn’t find her. Instead he found Aimery closeted with his father discussing last-minute details. He called Aimery out, and for the first time, Hugh had a look of impatience about him.
Yolanda, lingering in her room and expecting Aimery’s furious summons at any moment, was staring at herself in a beaten up silver plate. She had nothing new to wear and without Beatrice it was no fun painting her eyes, brushing chalk on her cheeks, or rubbing rose madder onto her lips. She toyed with the comb Hugh had given her, remembering what Raimon said about her hair. Brushing it still felt like a betrayal. One minute boiling and the next clammy with nerves, she had no idea what the evening would bring. She could not think beyond it. Slowly she started with the comb and after she’d done her own hair, did Brees’s as well.
At last Aimery banged on her door, but instead of being furious at her tardiness, he was hovering with a sheepish look on his face. When he saw her hair, he visibly relaxed. In his arms lay a long, sleek sheath.
“It’s a dress, Yola. It came from Toulouse. If our mother had been alive, she’d have made you one, I know, but she’s not and I know how you feel about having a party at the moment, but it is your fourteenth birthday and you are my sister, so—” He handed it to her. They stood together. “Come on, you must be quick,” he said. “The feast is starting. We’re both going to be late. Get it on and we’ll go down together. Father’s waiting.”
She grabbed the sheath and, a moment later, reappeared, shutting Brees in behind her. Dogs were banned tonight, to make more room. He whined briefly, then settled down to scratch. He missed his dirt.
Aimery held up a torch to see her and made small, admiring noises, for the dress tumbled in clever silver folds that gave his sister’s elusive beauty an unwarranted sophistication, and her hair, loose and unadorned, added the perfection of simplicity. They walked down the steps together, neither knowing what to say to the other. When she appeared in the hall to a shower of compliments and gifts, Aimery was proud, and when he handed her over to Berengar, already standing on the dais, he was unsurprised to find tears on his father’s cheeks.
Yolanda was dazzled. Never had she seen so many candles, although it was bitter how few faces she recognized in a hall supposedly full of friends. The Occitan knights were clustered together by the fire as if under siege, all their swords piled in a corner, as was customary. The only person who had kept his was Aimery. The knights acknowledged Yolanda, but many of the servants would not meet her eye. Nevertheless, without a sound, she took her place of honor, her father on one side and expecting Aimery on the other. But it was Hugh who was her neighbor.
“Sit, sit,” said Berengar.
At once, two troubadours Yolanda did not know and who did not know her, leaped with a great flourish out of two empty water barrels and sang with sly smiles. Their music was fine, finer than anything Gui or Guerau could have produced, and the lyrics more clever. But though both birthday songs were greeted with wild applause, they were, in fact, quite empty, for they sang of a girl who was not Yolanda. It was, however, very easy to choose a winner. She just stuck out a finger and pointed.
After that, it became for her a party in a story. She was there but not there, eating but not eating, drinking but not drinking, speaking but not speaking, just as you do in dreams. Her real self was with Raimon. She knew he was nearby. She did not have to see him to be certain of that. She spoke too quickly and laughed too loudly, shining like a brittle star. Only occasionally did the weight of her anxiety overwhelm her and then she drooped like an overblown rose.
Hugh leaned over. “Drink some of this,” he said, pressing a goblet to her lips. Warm and spiced, the wine coated both her throat and her consciousness with its syrupy balm. She took three swallows, then three more before a drop of the wine fell down the front of her dress where it sat, a small red bead among the silver. Though Hugh quickly flicked it away, it left a tiny pink stain.
Course upon course arrived and the hall grew hotter and hotter as the company grew more rowdy. The servants did not fill individual goblets anymore. They just left the men to dip their tankards in enormous jugs set on the floor beside the trestles, drain them, and dip them again. Yolanda’s tongue was sticky and her head fuzzy. Hugh was too solicitous, the food too rich, the air too thick. The masked jugglers made her dizzy. The hall’s painted ceiling and the tapestries, garish now after being specially scrubbed for the occasion, closed in on her. She pushed back her chair.
“Let’s dance,” she cried. “Come, Father, I want to dance first with you.”
Aimery clapped his hands. “The birthday dance!” he cried. “We must all watch the birthday dance!”
Nobody took much notice but the troubadours struck up anyway and father and daughter moved together. Yolanda leaned her cheek against her father’s shoulder. It seemed so long since they had even spoken. He was shrunken in his festival clothes and she had to guide him through the steps.
“All will be well, won’t it?” She didn’t know what she wanted him to say, and when he squeezed her fingers, she was not reassured. They danced until the music stopped and then they parted.
Aimery, now full of liquor, called the hall to better attention. It was time. “All of you, come on, silence, silence.” He banged his goblet on the table. There was some sort of hush. It was enough. Aimery cleared his throat. “Before we all join in the dancing and enjoy more of the outside entertainments, which, I can promise you, will not disappoint, I want to propose a toast. And as this is a very special day, and a very special toast, I want everybody gathered in here, and I mean everybody. We must do this properly. So get the squires and the grooms, the cooks and all the household. Go to the mews and bring in the falconers. Get the huntsmen and the armorers. I want even the dogboys.” Hi
s speech was slurred but the servants obeyed him. He raised a jug to Hugh.
Yolanda, highly uneasy at the looks between the two men, got up, but then sat down. If the courtyards were empty, Raimon really did have a chance. She held herself very still.
It took some time for everybody to assemble and the hall had never been so full. There was scarcely room to breathe. Nevertheless, Aimery waited until he was satisfied that everybody was present before planting his feet wide. Now he spoke, sending his words clearly into every corner of the room.
“I have two toasts to make. The first, naturally, is to my sister, Yolanda. It’s her birthday, and for that we wish her joy.” He took a long drink and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “The second toast, my friends, is to something even more important. The less drunk among you”—laughter at this—“may have noticed the dress Yolanda is wearing. This is no common dress. It’s a dress that tells a story. Can you guess what that story is?”
The knights stamped their feet. Yolanda could hardly understand. Aimery pulled her to her feet.
“My lords, you’ve guessed right. The story is a romance. The dress was the proposal and the wearing of the dress the acceptance. My sister, Yolanda, is betrothed to—”
The stamps from some of the knights turned to roars and drowned out the name. It didn’t matter. Hugh was standing, acknowledging and smiling. The knights of the Amouroix were less enthusiastic. Romance was all very well, but marriage between an Occitanian and a Frenchman was a contract. Some frowned. Aimery just opened his eyes very wide.
Yolanda did not look at Hugh or the knights. She was looking down at the folds of silver that fell so neatly to the floor. It was just a dress, surely. But she had put it on so quickly. What had she not seen? She gripped a candle and pulled up the spangled train and then her face was ashen.
“No,” she said loudly, “no.” The dress was indeed a romance for, if you looked closely, in its glittery tracings were united the fist of des Arcis and the bear’s head of the Amouroix interspersed with the letters H and Y coiled so tightly together it was impossible to say where one letter ended and the other began. Thus was Castleneuf, publicly and irretrievably, to hitch its wagon to the des Arcis star, and every person in the hall knew it.
Now Yolanda turned to Hugh. “You tricked me.”
He was very calm. “There was no trick on my part. The dress could not have been clearer.” She made as if to run from him, but he seized her arm and there was something more than romance in his eyes. He spoke quickly and quietly.
“Keep the hall full, Yolanda. This is the best chance there’ll be.” He gave her a little shake. “Smile. Smile and sing. Nobody will leave if you sing.”
It was not possible to misunderstand him. His arm was now a support, not a restraint. She opened her mouth but nothing came out. People began to rise. Hugh shook her again.
“Dance then,” he said. “Dance for their lives.”
She hesitated for a moment. He nodded. Then she was on the table. Her steps were automatic at first, but then, as Hugh began to clap, more sure. She gathered herself up and he held out his hand and helped her to leap from the dais and through the crowd, from barrel to trestle to barrel, and then he let go so she could hold out her hands to the guests, for each to take his turn. Now nobody thought of leaving and the brows of those knights who had frowned grew less furrowed, for Yolanda’s face was alight with something they could not quite grasp and they all lined up to lift her and whirl her around. The music joined with the dance and the pace increased. Faster and faster the troubadours strummed until Yolanda was being thrown from arm to arm, table to table, barrel to barrel, like a piece of gossamer blown on a rough wind, and in every throw, every whirl she saw not her momentary partner’s face but the face of a prisoner tasting freedom. Only when she was so dizzy she could dance no more did Hugh catch her up and carry her back to her chair, where she sat collapsed, her hair a riot and the train of the dress no longer a smooth teardrop but a frost of tatters from clumsy feet.
The guests were clapping, the French knights thrilled and amazed at this unexpected magic, and the household knights noisily proud of their count’s daughter, so it took a little while for everyone to begin to trickle out, still applauding, still drinking, full and happy in the heightened atmosphere and ready to enjoy the further excitements that Aimery had promised. It took even more time for their chatter to turn into a surprised silence. The courtyard below the great hall was completely empty, the gate into it swinging. The entertainers had vanished. The guests were suddenly suspicious, suddenly very conscious of the lack of swords. Some turned back toward the hall, trying to remember exactly where the weapons were. Those who could not get back up the steps crammed together in defensive bunches. Others still in full celebratory mood laughed. This, they cried, was a ruse to add theatricality to some miraculous surprise. Aimery had promised them a spectacular party and this was a prelude to another spectacle. Aimery, at the top of the steps, shouted that this was indeed the case. There had been a small delay, that was all. He encouraged them to go back into the hall and carry on drinking. His father would open more barrels. The troubadours had a new epic with which to delight them.
He himself pushed through the crowd and ran with only Alain beside him from courtyard to courtyard. Each was empty of everything but the remnants of the fire, for when Raimon had unlocked the cellars and the prisoners had bundled out, everybody had fled. Nobody wanted to be a witness to this. Witnesses, too, could end up in the dock.
The stragglers were at the main gate. Aimery could see them being urged along by Raimon. Alain thought he would shout and call for guards as soon as he saw them but instead Aimery slowed to a walk.
How fate spins on a moment. Had Parsifal been in the courtyard rather than down at the bridge seeing to Sanchez and Pierre; had the prisoners moved a little quicker; had Aimery kept his mouth shut; so much might have been different. But Parsifal was not there, the prisoners were hesitant and slow, suspecting a trap, and Aimery could not resist calling out, “Very brave, for a weaver,” just as Raimon was about to slip out of the gate himself. The boy stopped, hesitated, and then, disastrously, turned.
“What did you say?”
“I said, ‘Very brave, for a weaver.’” He made no move to stop Raimon from leaving. “Go on now, back to your loom. You’ve got what you came for.”
“You knew?”
“You made a bad imaginator. You don’t think you could have gotten the prisoners out if I’d decided to stop you, do you?”
Raimon stared at him.
“You’ve Hugh des Arcis to thank for all of this,” said Aimery smoothly. “He doesn’t want my sister and his future wife”—he enjoyed saying that—“upset. So when he recognized you, he asked that you should be given a chance. I must say, you’ve done very well. When Girald comes back and finds the cellars empty, I shall blame the whole thing on my father. There. Now everybody’s happy.”
“I want to see Yolanda.” Raimon had his sword in both hands. “She’s coming with me.”
“No, I think not. She’s betrothed to Hugh now. Come on, Raimon, you can’t have everything.”
“Send your squire for her and let her choose.”
Aimery was growing impatient. “There’s no question of choosing. She’s moved into a different world.”
“I want to see her.”
Aimery spoke as if to an idiot. “What you want is of no interest at all to me. Yolanda is going to marry Hugh des Arcis for her own good and for the good of the Amouroix. Exactly what don’t you understand?”
Raimon raised his sword. “You’re betraying the Occitan.”
Aimery raised his. “I’m doing it for the Occitan. If other places are wise, they’ll think along the same lines.”
“You’re doing it for you.”
Aimery began to edge forward. “If you don’t go now, Raimon, I’ll kill you, and this time I’ll make sure I do it properly.”
“You’ll have to kill me if you want
me to give up either of the things I love.”
“Oh, love,” said Aimery contemptuously. “What has love got to do with anything at all?”
There was a brief silence and then, because there was nothing else to say, they were fighting, both in deadly earnest. They were better matched to start with, than they had been at the bear hunt, but a few lessons from Parsifal did not make Raimon a difficult opponent for a knight of Aimery’s greater weight and experience. There was no river this time, nothing to give Raimon any advantage at all, and Aimery pushed hard. He would not be thwarted again. He wrong-footed Raimon, bore down, kicked out, and dislodged his sword, then altered his own grip and lifted his arms for the final thrust. He hesitated only because he could not decide immediately whether to crush head or neck, and in that moment, the uneven hoofbeats of weary horses were heard piling in at the gate. For a second, Raimon thought it might be Parsifal. It was not.
There were three men, all swaying with exhaustion, and their own horses, together with the two they were leading, dripped sweat onto the cobbles. Only one man spoke and when he had finished, he dropped the reins of the riderless mounts, turned his horse around, and all three men rode away. The encounter took less than a minute but Aimery’s shock at what they told him paralyzed him for a moment. Underneath the poised sword, Raimon could not imagine what Aimery would do now.
Nor could Aimery. He again made ready for the thrust, then changed his mind, made Raimon get up and take the reins of the abandoned horses before hurrying them all into the cave in which the wine kegs for the party had been stored. He had to get Alain to hit the horses to make them move again, and once in the cave they stood, their heads between their knees and their knees buckling. With the rope that had bound the barrels together, he tied Raimon tightly beside them.