by Jean Gill
‘For our mother’s sake,’ she began and his face burned white with hatred.
‘Don’t dirty our mother’s name from your whore’s mouth! Spare your poisonous breath. Costansa told me every lie you’d tell. That you’d pretend you never stole her jewels, you’d say that she hid them, that she accused you so our father would whip you, that she wanted you out of our lives. She knew that you’d blame her for every evil thing you’ve done.’
Estela snapped. ‘Including swiving her husband’s son?!’ she hurled at him and saw she’d hit home. Simo woke at the shouting, crying with baby-fears. ‘There, there,’ she shushed him, wanting to change hip for carrying him but not daring to put the dagger out of reach.
Miquel rallied, suddenly sounding young as his years, and Estela remembered them climbing the big apple tree together, playing ‘who could go the furthest’ along an ever thinner branch, to reach the furthest fruit. ‘I don’t have to justify the love between Costansa and me. Someone like you could never understand. What she puts up with from that man.’ He shook his head, shaking spittle with the movement.
So much anger! Look out father, Estela thought, and then the question she didn’t want answered spoke itself, a cold statement of fact. ‘You killed the stable hand,’ she heard herself saying.
‘Hurt, did it? Seeing your lover like that, your little love toys covered in blood. No more playing.’
‘You are mad. Possessed.’ Another cold statement of fact.
His smile was worse than his sneers. ‘Costansa told me you’d do that too. That you’d try to shake my confidence in my own mind. Won’t work, big sister.
I’ve enjoyed our talk but I’m not stupid. Your servant has had the time to fetch your man and no doubt the cripple can find someone with two hands to help him out, so I’ll not finish the job here, where my way out might be blocked. That wouldn’t be very clever, would it.
I want you to sweat. I want you to wake in the night knowing that I’m out there, that I’m coming for you, that people will always let me in to see you because I’m your brother.
And don’t rely on your watch-dog. Dogs die so easily. Who knows when a bit of poisoned meat will be Nici’s final treat?’ He gave a spectral grin, opening the door behind him, about to leave.
Thank God, thank God.
But not without a parting shot. ‘And when I choose, I shall kill you both.’ He pointed his sword at her chest. ‘You.’ He twirled his sword in a flourish, while Estela’s grip tightened on the dagger, but he never moved closer. ‘And the bastard.’ He assumed an attacking pose with the point towards Simo.
Outraged, Nici barked and sprang but the distance between them allowed Miquel enough time to escape, vanishing with the light as he heaved the great door to. Nici stormed round the perimeter of the chamber, rearing on hind legs and barking his rage while Estela expressed her feelings in one anguished war cry as she threw the dagger to stick good and true in the oak where Miquel’s heart had been seconds earlier.
When the door started to open again, she thought she’d been tricked and rushed to retrieve her weapon, joggling an irritated baby into full screaming complaint.
Daylight streamed in again and Estela fell into the solid arms, one-handed or not, of Gilles, who had always been there, always, from when she was a baby. Nici rushed past her, barking and sniffing, searching.
The tears came, anger and relief, as she told him, ‘In the apple tree. He used to cheat. He always went first so he could cut the branch when he thought I wasn’t looking and then I would fall before I got as far as he had. I fell twice, then I knew what he was doing. I’m not falling again! He cheats!’
‘Where’s the whoreson?’ Raoulf demanded, drawing an ironic laugh from Estela.
‘You mustn’t speak ill of our mother,’ she told him, light-headed with shock. ‘Legitimate, I assure you, and I’m equally certain he’s long gone.’ Nevertheless, Raoulf took all but two of the armed men with him to search the environs, leaving Gilles and the wet-nurse with Estela.
Prima had extricated her squalling son from Estela’s arm the moment she’d arrived with the men, and she was soothing him in a corner, unlacing her bodice for his preferred comfort. ‘With the Comtessa’s women’ she answered Estela’s unspoken question.
The need to know Musca was safe was swiftly replaced with an overwhelming desire to see him, to hold him in her arms, to know he was safe and to keep him safe. The two armed men followed her as she stormed through the passage to the women’s quarters. Would anywhere ever be safe again?
Chapter 5
Dragonetz knew who the girl was and she had a name, Yalda. She also had a father. When she’d told him she was the daughter of Bar Philipos, he should have told her to go. He should have disciplined his mind against the easy response of his body to warm skin, but what was the point when he’d already explored her body with a thorough wildness new even to him.
Perhaps it was the months of chastity, perhaps captivity itself, but he’d responded like a parched man to water, even when he knew she was not Estela, even when he opened his eyes to see all the differences; the long black hair coarser to the touch, like a horse’s mane, the skin darker, less even olive-brown; limbs rounder and shorter, muscular thighs gripping his hips; breasts smaller with dark swollen aureoles and tips.
Even cataloguing the differences aroused him and, although he knew this was no kind of love at all, he took what was offered. Before he even touched her, she showed him that her place of Venus was opening to him already, a rose in dew, and the dark kohl-rimmed eyes mocked him even as they invited - dark eyes not golden ones - but he took her anyway.
When he found out who she was, it was already too late.
‘Does your father know?’ he asked.
‘He would kill me.’ Her eyes widened and her sweat smelled of fear, unmistakeable as the sexual musk it replaced. That she was afraid of her father seemed indisputable yet there was something hidden.
‘How can he not know?’ Dragonetz persisted.
‘I know the guards and their families. I know how to reward them.’ She lowered her eyes demurely and Dragonetz chose to believe she meant monetary rewards.
‘Why? Why are you coming to me?’
Then she looked straight at him, eyes flashing with that hint of mockery, and something darker, that he couldn’t identify, something that challenged and aroused him again. ‘I wanted to know what my sister, Aini, thought worth dying for.’ Dragonetz knew he was being dared to cross boundaries but it was too late for him to care, too late for him to back away and pretend they had never met, never tasted each other’s sweat.
‘And?’ the devil in him replied, pulling her on top of him as he adjusted the cushions for a new experiment.
‘I don’t remember,’ she murmured. ‘Remind me.’
Dragonetz studied the board. He would never beat Bar Philipos until his familiarity with the pieces and rules was automatic. He had quickly grown used to the plain board, without the chequered squares customary in his homeland. He had played with different sets in the past, from the carved wooden figures of his childhood to the crystal courtiers in Aliénor’s Palace, so he was adapting to the strange ivory shapes in front of him.
He knew the principles of shatranj from al-Hisba, who’d told him that the old Persian game was still played in al-Andalus rather than its modern derivations such as the Occitan jòc d’escacs. From the same source, he knew that depiction of recognizable human or animal beings was unacceptable to Allah, hence these stylised Damascene chunks for shah and rukh, instead of the crowned king and castle.
What Dragonetz could not get used to was the complete absence of queens. Brought up to play escacs, his strategies were all full of holes, missing the most powerful figure on the Occitan board. He could challenge Bar Philipos but he was far from offering an equal game, still very much a learner.
The Syrian moved his white faras, the knight, in its devious side-stepping attack, threatening Dragonetz’ green-stained shah without
offering a direct check. Increasingly, Dragonetz found it difficult to distinguish between moves made purely to teach him all the elements of the game and those made in genuine combat. The better he became, the more skill Bar Philipos unleashed against him.
The knight’s move made Dragonetz frown. It left black with no legal response. Then it dawned on him that this was exactly the situation Bar Philipos had told him about, the previous day. ‘Strangled stalemate,’ he observed.
The Syrian nodded, waiting.
‘So I can exchange places between the shah and any other piece. If that’s not possible, I lose.’
Another nod.
Dragonetz looked at his options, then flung back his head and laughed, appreciating the play. As a learner, he played it through, just to imprint the moves in his visual memory but it was a foregone conclusion. Whatever exchange he made only prolonged the game a few moves more. Bar Philipos had every outcome covered. The game was his.
They played it through anyway. With another jagged move of his knight, the Syrian pinned Dragonetz’ shah in check-mate, saying, ‘You had a book in your saddle-bags.’
‘Had?’ Dragonetz looked at his dead shah, playing once more for time.
‘I thought it safer to put it where it could not be stolen. It is of great value, as I’m sure you know. Too great to stay with you, or with me. It is a book that destroys people, and chooses others. I would like to see it move onwards.’
‘Then give it back to me and let me complete my journey.’
Bar Philipos shrugged, apologetic. ‘That is not possible. It would be a disaster. When you know more, you will agree and thank me.’
‘Then tell me more and let me be the judge!’ Dragonetz struggled to control the rush of anger, aware that he was being measured, his weaknesses noted, while Bar Philipos’ hands unerringly re-set the board.
‘I think it unlikely that you will become Dragonetz Oath-breaker until you know the full consequences of carrying out your oath. How can you make your moves without knowing the game? I will show you the game first and when you truly know our rules, then you will see your moves differently. This will take time.
Already you have changed. In acknowledgement of this, the door is now open to you. The guards outside are no longer there to keep you in. They are your bodyguard and will follow you wherever you go. Don’t try to shake them off or I will be forced to lock the door again. If you are still alive.
You should cover your head and move like the wind on the water, of no interest to those who watch. You will not be armed but my men will be quicker than you could ever be if there is trouble. They know the streets here.
You may take your horse, you may gallop wherever you will, but know that the book is with me and you must return to it. You must return here, for food, for sleep, for your oath.
First, a re-match.’ He picked up two pieces, one in each hand, and held held the lowly baidaks behind his back to swop and re-swop them, then he held out his closed fists towards Dragonetz. ‘Choose,’ he ordered.
‘I will learn and I will win.’ Dragonetz spoke between gritted teeth as he took the white pawn from the open palm.
‘Then learn this,’ replied the Syrian, opening his other palm to reveal an identical white pawn. Dragonetz glanced at the board again to see all black’s pieces on the board already. His jaw set, he made his opening move, ignoring the gesture with which Bar Philipos threw the extra piece onto the floor, where it rolled back and forth until finally coming to rest.
Dragonetz’ head felt clearer than it had for weeks, or was it months? He had no doubt felt so clogged from being confined to one chamber, with its permanent scent of roses. Wrapping the scarf around his head, an end trailing loose, in the manner of the man he followed, he stepped over the threshold to the outside world with only one thought in his mind and one destination, nothing to do with the book whatsoever.
The guard moved too slowly for Dragonetz’ impatient feet and the minutes they took to reach the stables seemed hours. The whicker of welcome reached him before Dragonetz saw the glossy black nose hanging over the stable door, eyes liquid soft, ears pricked forward in welcome. He rushed to the stallion, murmuring to him in Occitan, caressing with words before hands continued the sweet process of reunion.
‘Have they treated you well, my beauty, Sadeek, my true friend?’ he asked softly, earning a coquettish toss of the head and the shake of a silken mane. Dragonetz unbarred the closed half-door of the stable, and went in to his horse. With the habit of years, he checked hooves for stones, feet for tender spots and legs for cuts or swellings. He ran finger and thumb along the spine, pressing to find any sensitivity. One hand lightly on Sadeek’s withers, talking to him throughout, he felt the underbelly, for worn skin, for the start of sores from girth or saddle. Ears, nostrils and eyes were clear and clean. Above the young teeth were healthy pink gums and a pinch of skin quickly regained shape. No signs of dehydration. Flanks showed a hint of ribs, no more, so Sadeek had been fed and exercised, to judge by his overall condition. Dragonetz stroked the big cheek, crooned, ‘All’s well, my boy. All’s well,’ and he felt his own heartbeat slip back to normal, only then realising how anxious he’d been.
‘Where’s my saddle?’ he asked his two shadows and the growing number of stable-hands gathering round.
‘Better that you use ours,’ replied one of the guards, looking significantly at Dragonetz’ robes. ‘It’s safer if you’re just another local, exercising his master’s mount.’
‘As long as I can take my horse out, I don’t care if you saddle him with silk cushions, just get something here for me now!’ Sadeek and two other horses were saddled up efficiently, while Dragonetz breathed linseed oil, hay and leather, the universal scent of stables. The guards’ horses were Arabian mares, faster, lighter and shorter in the back than Sadeek, more like the forebears of Dragonetz’ crossbred Andalusian stallion, which was itself lighter than the traditional heavy-hooved war-horses of the seasoned Crusaders. It had taken only one pitched battle in the first year of the crusade for Dragonetz to realise the superiority of the Moorish light cavalry over the slow solidity of the Christians, so he knew what these little horses were capable of.
Belting his linen robe higher above his breeches, Dragonetz watched the stable-hand saddling his horse, then mounted and allowed one of the guards to shorten his stirrups. And shorten them further again. Although used to riding à la estradiota, Dragonetz had seen the Moorish style à la jineta often enough to know how to adapt. He was used to armour, straight legs and high protection of pommel and cantel so it was strange to be so open before and behind him, and to have bent knees in short stirrups. It added to his feeling of vulnerability, without arms or armour, but the freedom of movement was a revelation. Leathers around his breeches protected his calves but he could feel the horse’s movement in a way he’d never done before.
All three horses were high-gaited, not comfortable for walking for long and it was a relief to get out of the crowded city streets, where people scattered to the sides on hearing the curt orders of Bar Philipos’ guards, who cleared the route swiftly to the southern gate. Once outside the city walls, Dragonetz knew only too well where he was, and eased into a canter. Past the lush orchards, onto the grey plateau and open space, he allowed Sadeek his head. His two shadows whooped, dug in their light spurs and followed, losing ground but staying with him as the wind pounded them all into a mindless gallop.
How far he rode like this, Dragonetz had no idea but he cared too much for his horse to forget there would be a return journey or to allow his horse to sweat into fatigue. He stopped to rest and to allow the guards to catch up with him. He cupped a little water in his hands for Sadeek before swallowing his own draught from his leather flask. Not enough for either of them to risk cramps. Sadeek was more interested in the apple he was given, and which was also a measure against dehydration after such exercise. The day was mild so there was little risk of fever from cooling sweat. Dragonetz tethered the horse in the shade
of some huge grey rocks, to avoid too much mid-day sun. Bar Philipos’ men followed suit with their own mounts when they joined him, then respectfully chose a place apart to sit and rest.
‘My water is your water,’ Dragonetz told them, raising his leather waterskin, inviting them to join them. They hesitated, and he added, ‘I have nothing left but my horse and my word, and I treasure both equally. I’ve given my word not to harm you nor try to escape you. May my horse’s life be yours if I break my oath.’
Then the two men joined him, sitting cross-legged beside their prisoner, in awkward silence.
Used to soldiers and their ways, whatever their religion, Dragonetz eased the moment from a jolting walk to a smooth canter. ‘You ride well and I would know more of your style. How do you train your mares to dodge and turn in battle as they do? How do you avoid a lance with such a saddle, that offers but a bump in front of a man’s gut?’
Within the hour, Dragonetz knew his guards as Aakif and Shunnar, and they had offered to show him tricks on horseback the next day, when they would ride only a little way, to a training ground just outside the city. They all agreed that Sadeek could never be as fast as the mares but Dragonetz was adamant that the stallion’s intelligence and fire would make him win any competition the Moors wished to name. Somehow, they’d not only named a day for a friendly horseback tournay in lance, archery and swordsmanship, avoiding their respective holy days of Friday and Sunday, but they’d even laid bets on the outcome.
The silence that followed, while the men broke fast with crisp meat-filled pastries, was that of brothers-in-arms, watchful of each other’s back but needing no words. Replete, sitting in the wilderness with his erstwhile enemies, Dragonetz was free to follow his own thoughts on the uncomfortable track he felt necessary. To untangle his present, he needed to review the past. He was sure that somewhere in the events of three years ago lay the answer to what was going on now. It was time to face up to his past.