by Jean Gill
This case raised some of the finer distinctions between fiefs, freedmen and bondsmen but the conclusion was inevitable. Slavery of Christians was against the laws of Provence and God; no matter that one of the men was Jewish, he would forfeit his life by Christian law. The men’s pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears. They were sentenced to be placed in cages overhanging the cliff, there to die of thirst and starvation as an example to others.
When removed from the hall to the dungeons, they were still shouting of the unfairness that their partner in crime was free and wealthy in al-Andalus. It sounded like a tavern tale mused Dragonetz, of a Jew, a Christian and an infidel. The best stories were always true.
He knew of one very profitable business in Marselha run by a Jew, a Christian and a Moor so that they could open during all Holy days as each of them respected different ones. The inter-faith laws on property and finance could be applied very flexibly where there was a solid business partnership.
The next suit had no such wide-ranging implications. A baker accused of fraud was allowed his supporting witness, who said nothing for or against the alleged crime but waxed lyrical about the quality of the loaves produced. Every man present began to think on his next meal, salivating as the list of bread products grew longer and more literary. Etiennette grew impatient at ‘manna from heaven, yellowed with saffron’ but ended the paeon abruptly at ‘rolls rosy with rosepetal like a virgin’s cheeks’.
‘God’s blood,’ swore Etiennette, ‘if I hear one more dough-related metaphor, I shall have your sweetbreads butchered!’ The silence following this remark was impressive. ‘Now, tell me what this man’s crime is, other than bringing the most boring poet to our court that I have heard since Brother Lan sought to improve us at Lent!’
The accusers, a band of four, two women and two men, looked at each other anxiously, each afraid to speak first, then they all began at once.
‘We took our dough…’
‘… down to Baker Cam like every Tuesday…’
‘… boy under the table!’
‘We’ve been cheated!’
‘One at a time!’ roared Etiennette, red-faced. From a more controlled version of the story, Dragonetz gathered that the villagers had taken their dough as usual to the bakery, where it was placed on the moulding board for a final shaping by the baker.
A servant-boy had been hidden by the pretty yellow curtain round the table (‘I don’t need to know what flowers were on the curtain!’ interjected the long-suffering Lady des Baux). The boy had pulled pieces of dough from each loaf, through a trap-door in the moulding board, to make extra loaves for his master at the villagers’ expense.
‘The servant-boy?’ enquired Etiennette.
‘Run away.’
‘But we got this, my Lady. Bring it in, Mord,’ he called to someone at the back of the hall and like runners carrying a palanquin, four more villagers rushed into the hall carrying the offending table.
‘Yellow,’ observed one of the witnesses smugly, pointing out the curtain. When the drape was whisked dramatically aside and the trapdoor opened, the route between top of table and a boy’s greedy hands was clear.
The baker tried feebly, ‘That’s not my table…’ but a glare stopped him making any further protest.
Etiennette made play of discussing crime and punishment with Hugues, then pronounced, ‘For selling underweight bread, Baker Cam will be carried through the town on a hurdle. Lace one of his measly loaves round his neck so all shall know that he’s a cheat.’
Subdued at the prospect of a day tied to a horse-drawn cart and being pelted at will by jeering onlookers, the baker was led out, to be replaced by the next plaintiff.
Although his body maintained its military discipline in pose, Dragonetz’ thoughts drifted away. When Halfpenny reached Arle, it would be the ideal opportunity to test a pigeon from the loft he’d established in Les Baux. He now had communication lines between Trinquetaille, Les Baux and his own villa in the Marselha region. Each time a man Dragonetz trusted was dispatched to an ally’s castle, he could send pigeons; to carry messages to Les Baux and to breed homers for that Lord. Gradually the network would expand, under the watchful eye of the man in charge of Hugues’ loft.
The pigeon-keeper had been quick to learn; competent in the politics of messagery and far more skilled than Dragonetz in pigeon husbandry. He’d been an apprentice falconer, recommended by the Master of Hounds as one who knew his hounds and his hawks. It was a relief to train him up and hand over the responsibility. Although Dragonetz had been entertained by his project at first, the daily realities of animal care and breeding had lost their appeal and he’d spent enough time on pigeons. Now he was more interested in using the communications he’d set up.
It was his daily habit to mentally review each of his activities, analysing progress and disappointments, incorporating changes and new plans. The men’s training? Good in that their skills had improved immeasurably and Barcelone’s input could only benefit them. However, the cohesion and loyalty to Hugues was diminished by their admiration for others; first Dragonetz himself, however hard he’d tried to show Hugues at his best; then Barcelone, whose experience and presence left their mark on men. Etiennette was not helping; her strength only made her son look weak and she didn’t even notice the effect. What else could he do to make Hugues look good? To fuse a bond between him and his men?
The sooner they could hold the tourney, the better. Dragonetz remembered a demonstration, himself and his Muslim guards scything silk scarves, wheeling on desert sands. Blood and death. No, he wanted to avoid blood and death. But men liked risk, his split self persisted, arguing the case. Danger created bonds. A little danger. The pretence of war might lance the boil of hot tempers turning putrid. The heat didn’t help, the lack of breath and a storm brewing, that never came.
As for a leader bonding with his men: for the sake of Hugues’ men and Provence, he’d neglected his own lieutenant, Raoulf and his own men. Maybe he could put that right at the same time. He’d also neglected his old friend, Lady Sancha, although at least they were of the same mind, which could not be said of himself and Malik. He sighed as his guilt accumulated. Estela and Musca were last on his mental list. He could trust her to understand why, to know that if Provence went to war again, their lives were endangered too.
There were some risks men did not like. But what if Estela felt neglected? She had reacted strangely when he told her of Etiennette’s proposal. Probably afraid he would go to Arle, which he certainly didn’t have time for, however much he’d have enjoyed making money. He dismissed the thought. Women had such moods, such moments. He dismissed the guilt. A leader had no use for guilt outside the confessional. If penance must be done, so be it, but making any decision was better than making none at all.
With that comforting conclusion, Dragonetz’ attention was jerked back to the hall. An angry white monster carved through the crowd to stand growling, hackles up, beside his mistress. Estela had her fist curled round a handful of Nici’s neckfur, whether soothing him or restraining him, Dragonetz couldn’t tell, but even from this distance, he could see how the colour had drained from her face.
His sword half-unsheathed, he moved towards her but she caught his eye and shook her head. She stood ramrod straight and still as a carved saint, Nici tensed by her side, as a new party of nobles made their way towards Etiennette and Hugues. Any plaintiffs slow to make way for the newcomers were knocked aside.
Dragonetz had seen many of the local lords and castellans coming to give their oaths of allegiance to Barcelone - and to the Lady of Les Baux, not necessarily in that order - so it was no surprise when the man dropped to his knees in front of Etiennette and his lady curtseyed. The Castellan of Montbrun, for so he was, looked much older than his wife, with a grizzled beard and hardened features, scored deeply with bitterness. It was as if any trace of ageing had been transferred to his face from his lady’s, which was smooth pearl with a cupid’s kiss for lips. Wayward tendrils escaped from
her jewelled hairnet and glittered sunshine blonde.
She satisfied Dragonetz’ curiosity by meeting his eyes as she rose from the most graceful of curtseys and her lips parted in a spontaneous smile that lit up her eyes. Fascinated, Dragonetz held her gaze, responding to its blue, round-eyed innocence. Her colouring was unusual in Provence but her fragile beauty would have attracted attention in any company. The instinct to protect her was so strong that Dragonetz felt guilty, remembering his first meeting with Estela and the way she had affected him. This was very different but, even so…
Before he could speak and break the spell, the Lady of Montbrun had acknowledged his attention with a little nod and turned away from duty to her liege and was focused on someone elsewhere in the hall. As she swished away, Dragonetz was treated to a back view of long neck, slim shoulders beneath silk that revealed rather than concealed every movement of her delicate frame and a hint of neat ankle above the tiny red boots. He licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. Montbrun? He should know the name but could not recall the context.
‘The sooner Lord Montbrun takes his wife back home, the easier his life will be. Let’s hope he is lusty enough in bed to keep her out of others’ - or that he’s brought key and shackles. You would rather that were your marriage prospect, my Lord Dragonetz? I fancy your hesitation would be over.’ Lady Etiennette’s cynical words brought Dragonetz out of his reverie, guilty on all counts: not only for looking longer than he should, at a married woman, when he had sworn to be true to his own lover; but also for offending the Lady of Les Baux. He had to choose his words carefully.
‘My Lady,’ he said, for her ears only, hoping that Hugues had not heard or had not understood his mother. ‘Nothing and no-one could be a more beautiful bride than Provence herself. I swear to you I will do all in my power for your Provence, as if I were her husband.’
With that, Lady Etiennette had to be satisfied because all eyes were fixed on Lady Montbrun, who had stopped in front of Estela, her husband trailing behind her. The court hushed, sensing a confrontation brewing. Nici continued to growl and held still, quivering with barely suppressed rage. For the first time, Dragonetz heard Lady Montbrun speak and he shivered, his own hackles rising as he realised who this beauty was.
‘It seems we’ve found our little lyre.’ The word was drawn out into two syllables, the insult stressed. Costansa de Montbrun, Estela’s stepmother, stepped forward, braved Nici in one swift motion and grabbed Estela’s oud. She stepped backwards quickly enough to evade both snap and slap. Estela was rooted to the spot, her hand grasping a handful of fur tightly, as if she’d fall down without Nici’s strength.
Costansa’s words were dagger sharp, spoken as if to her husband and yet piercing every ear in the hall, leaving no doubt that she wanted all to hear her. ‘And our own dog too. We’ll take this,’ she shook the instrument like a rattle and Estela winced, ‘and our livestock back home with us when we go, won’t we, my Lord.’ That she spoke for both of them could be judged from the still, silent presence of her husband.
‘I believe you have one of our men here too? I’m sure we can find some use for even a one-handed servant. There are latrines to clean out. And you should learn that no-one steals what’s ours. I think the man has learned but you need another lesson. Shall we take her back with us, my Lord?’ There was no answer and none was expected as Costansa fired some more barbs. ‘I’m sure you could chastise her into a daughter but not one you would want. Perhaps we can leave the whore here, to count her rather attractive blessings.’ The sideways glance at Dragonetz left no-one doubting what she meant.
With no discernible change in his furrowed cheeks, Montbrun’s deep voice rang out. ‘She’s no daughter of mine. Aye, we could do with the man. He’s paid for his crime and owes us service. And we’ll have the dog she stole. Let’s hope breeding plays truer in the bitch we find for him than with your mother!’
Dragonetz’ hand was to his sword but he held back, knowing instinctively that Estela would not thank him for intervening. Etiennette placed a hand on his arm, reminding him that Talharcant was under her orders in this court and he stood, helpless, watching. Estela looked large and clumsy, sallow and coarse, beside the tiny figure spitting venom at her.
‘It’s a lute, an oud,’ she said, struggling to speak at all but still restraining her dog.
‘Lute, lyre…’ Costansa shrugged her perfect alabaster shoulders, enjoying the chance to insult Estela again. She leaned in close enough to say something that Dragonetz couldn’t hear and then she added, loudly. ‘You haven’t asked after your brother.’
‘How is my brother?’ asked Estela, like a prisoner on the rack who hopes the torture will end if he gives the words required from him. The last Dragonetz had heard, Estela’s murderous brother had been left unconscious by a hearthfire.
‘His face isn’t as pretty as yours, with half of it burnt away after your man left him for dead. It pains him. He doesn’t like to go out as much as he used to do. He feels a little… bitter. He’ll be pleased to see the cur again.’ How could such a pretty mouth deliver such a sadistic laugh? All sweetness turned to poison as Costansa spoke and yet the timbre was light and tinkling, musical, if you didn’t listen to the words.
‘Honey,’ stammered Estela, no doubt quoting one of her favourite authorities on medicine. ‘Flaxseed in water, dip a linen cloth in and place the cloth over the area of the burn. This draws out the burn.’ It was as if reciting the recipe returned her to adulthood from the frightened child she had seemed when first confronted.
‘No, Nici,’ she told the great white mastiff. And the dog went quiet, looking up at her, clearly unhappy with her decision but willing to go along with it. Estela’s voice rang out louder and stronger. ‘I call on everyone here gathered to witness that this is my dog. Should this lord and lady wish to challenge my rights, let them ask me to loose the dog and judge who is master by the way he behaves.’
There was a silence
‘No?’ asked Estela, coldly. ‘You do not want me to loose your dog, for him to come to you?’
Costansa recovered her poise and retaliated. ‘The brute needs his jaw tied but that won’t stop him siring useful pups. You stole him and turned him into a monster. That doesn’t make him yours. We’ll see what the court says. My Lady,’ she addressed Etiennette. ‘We would like to present our case to recover our goods and have this thief suitably punished. It’s not the first time she’s stolen from her own family - after all we did for her!’
The Lady of Les Baux enjoyed taking her time to whisper with her son before pronouncing her decision. Dragonetz considered whether he could demand trial by combat and what impact on the future of Provence it would have if he killed a man for the sake of a dog - or if he were killed.
Fortunately for Provence, it looked as if Costansa would pay for flirting with Dragonetz. ‘I am sorry, my Lady but you can see we have a full hall today and I’m sure you are weary after your journey so we will arrange another day for your hearing, if you can’t find a private agreement before then.’ Her tone left no room for challenge and the prettiest lips in the hall straightened in frustration then delivered a parting shot.
‘He has an eye for the ladies, your knight, doesn’t he. You might be advised to look for a more secure position for a whore.’
Dragonetz shut his eyes, knowing from personal experience when Estela had been goaded beyond fear.
‘Like yours?’ demanded his black-haired fury. ‘It’s difficult sometimes to tell whether a woman is wife or whore when she does the same work!’
Dragonetz feared for the oud as Costansa waved it around while she struggled for a witty reply. Estela clearly had the same concern for her lute and, though her voice still shook, she was calm as she spoke to her father. ‘My Lord Father, this instrument was my mother’s, given to me in her name and in all conscience you cannot take it from me. Please, I beg you, for all that you once held dear, think on this, my sole legacy. I claim no other and never will. May God and t
he assembly here gathered be my witnesses.’
The solemnity of what she renounced echoed in the silence of the hall but still the grey, furrowed Castellan of Montbrun said nothing, a pillar of stone behind his animated wife, whose tinkling laugh shattered the moment.
‘Ever the performer, Roxie.’ Estela winced at her own Christian name as at a stone flung. Dragonetz had only known her under her troubadour name, her own choosing. ‘We will settle this by the law. Meanwhile, I suggest you chain that dog up where he can’t hurt anyone. We know how to deal with ill-disciplined curs. Come, my dear, I am weary. My Lady.’ She curtseyed to Etiennette and stalked out of the hall, followed by her grim lord. This time, Costansa did have the last word. Estela said nothing as the party left and no-one risked a kicking by being in their way. There was a collective sigh of relief before the next suitor claimed his place.
‘My Lady, my neighbour Venter has been fouling the river north of my farm and two of my goats have sickened and died from his spite.’ All was back to normal and Dragonetz endured a long succession of trivial plaints before he could offer support to his lady, who remained still and solitary - unless you counted the presence of a large white dog.
When the Lady of Les Baux finally called a halt to the session, Dragonetz rushed to Estela’s side and escorted her out of the Hall on his arm, glaring at anyone who risked staring at them. As soon as they were somewhere private, he asked, ‘What did she say?’
Estela dropped onto a window-seat and looked out at the plains merging blue in the distance to the haze of mountains and sky. ‘She said she carries the heir to Montbrun. She said, ‘Don’t get fond of your bastard. Toddlers die so easily, smothered by their pillows or choked on their food.’ That’s why I renounced my inheritance.’ Her voice shook. ‘I tried to buy Musca. I tried to buy our baby.’ The tears came, despite her efforts and Dragonetz folded her in his arms, heedless of reputation. ‘She will try to kill him and he will never be safe,’ she whispered. ‘What are we going to do?’