Plaint for Provence

Home > Other > Plaint for Provence > Page 27
Plaint for Provence Page 27

by Jean Gill


  ‘Imagine how they are going to feel,’ Estela rebuked her friend, noting that Sancha was wearing rather hideous blue and red stripes. ‘I’m betting on three breathing casualties and two pricked by swords.’

  ‘You have no sensibility.’

  ‘No, none at all,’ Estela responded cheerfully. ‘And you have no allegiance.’

  Sancha gave a helpless shrug. ‘What would you have me do? My Liege is red and my lover is blue. Look, Vinse is wearing my ribbons!’ And sure enough, one of the anonymous knights in the procession from the castle had ribbons tied round his arm.’

  ‘They’re all wearing ribbons,’ pointed out Estela drily as the knights passed them, playing to the audience with half-bows and prancing horse-steps.

  ‘Yes but those are mine,’ insisted Sancha, blowing a kiss in the general direction of her gaze, then colouring and looking at the ground. ‘That was too bold for a lady, wasn’t it?’

  Maria pushed her way past them to the front of the stand, leaning out to catch a red rose tossed to her by a knight who passed close enough to see the gleam of sweat on his horse as a neat side-step twisted rider and horse back towards the centre. Flowers. Estela’s daily gift of flowers had stopped a few days earlier, causing her to wonder why. Should she have done more to acknowledge them?

  She’d worn one each day but Dragonetz had said nothing. In fact, he’d seemed more trouble-ridden when he’d seen her, not comforted. Of course he was busy with his men, being a Commander, but it would have been nice to have a token, like Maria had been given. A romantic gesture. She sighed. Foolish, girlish thoughts.

  Last of the riders wearing blue came one on the blackest of pure-bred horses. Sadeek. Estela’s heart flipped at one curt nod of the helm, in her direction, one little dance of hooves, for her, then Dragonetz followed his men to their warm-up exercises. This was what he did, was who he was and she was overwhelmed anew that such a man loved her.

  She and Dragonetz were a partnership, as much as he and his men, whereas Maria and her mystery knight were at the start of a love affair, all heat and no substance. Von Bingen would have prescribed a steam bath with cooling herbs to work against the madness known as being in love.

  Estela had wondered who Maria’s knight might be but she still couldn’t tell. Blue, so one of Dragonetz’ men. Maybe Raoulf? But she’d have recognized the bulk of Dragonetz’ lieutenant even in armour. She glanced around the plateau and yes, there he was, unmistakeable in his battered armour. She even imagined strands of his unkempt black beard poking through his visor. No, Raoulf had not left Prima for a pretend virgin. That was hardly his style anyway. His approach was that of a rough soldier who took his pleasure lightly, left easily and supported the bastards he’d fathered, without worrying about their future.

  Estela flinched from the word ‘bastard’ and sought out Maria’s knight on the battleground. Barcelone was easy to identify, his helmet sporting a gold nose-piece and eye-slit; his mount smaller than all but the jennets of his nephew and Malik. The young Comte was easy enough to identify, carrying the leader’s standard with its silver dragon on an azure field. All credit to his training in horsemanship, he managed his task with aplomb. The third small, nippy horse must belong to Malik, who would have been unmistakeable anyway with his spiked Moorish helm and sabre.

  Still trying to distinguish the other individuals within the team, reciting an aide-memoire, a mix of riders and mounts: ‘black legs, pointy helm, skinny roan, left-arm-ribbon…’ Estela was distracted by the Lady des Baux jumping to her feet and clapping. The three younger sons who’d been banned from taking part were even more enthusiastic, as their older brother led out his men.

  Each of Hugues’ team wore a red tabard emblazoned with the white sixteen-point star and Estela had to admit they looked magnificent. How the sewing-women had made such attire in the time available was a miracle worthy of Bautasar!

  ‘Bravo, Les Baux,’ she murmured, then looked around to check nobody had heard her who could report back to Dragonetz. Sancha looked back at her, smug.

  They watched the red tabards weaving among the riders with blue ribbons, like an army of metal-carapaced beetles, sun glinting on their freshly-oiled armour.

  ‘If I had a blazon,’ Estela mused, ‘it would have to be a star, for ‘Estela de Matin’, the morning star. Eight points, I think, and a silver star on a gold field.’

  ‘Gold is good,’ approved Sancha. ‘For the morning and for a bright future. But you need to learn the right terms.’ That was the sort of thing Sancha would know. ‘Background first. So yours would be ‘Or, for gold, on a star argent.’ I think you should make it quarterly gold and azure, to link your blazon with Dragonetz.’

  Estela contemplated this but found it less exciting than having her own blazon. ‘No,’ she decided. ‘It would be only gold. What would you have as a blazon?’ Sancha was looking towards her blue-ribboned knight as she opened her mouth to speak and Estela insisted, ‘For yourself, for what you are, not to proclaim your affections.’

  Sancha closed her mouth again and thought. The knights were quite obviously hurling pre-tourney insults at the opposing team as they passed each other. The words were lost in the dust and warm breeze but, from experience, Estela had a good idea that they featured ‘your mother, your sister and your lady’ with reference to whores, dogs and sexual activities.

  At least opposing Christian sides would understand each other’s insults. In the Holy Land, Estela had been bemused at seeing the traditional Christian insults of the Saracens. What men like Malik made of gestures that suggested they wore beards and were literate, she could not imagine. The Moors did indeed wear beards and many could read, but it was unlikely that being reminded of this would reduce their confidence in a battle. But those were the benefits of travel, Estela supposed. Heathens turned into human beings and allies could sometimes seem very silly.

  Still, men would be men, and Estela had visited enough taverns to know that insults could raise a man’s blood in a manner likely to enhance fighting strength. Judging by the quantity if not the quality of insults, the men’s blood was simmering nicely and Dragonetz could be relied on to bring it to boiling point at the right moment. Van Bingen had remedies for that too. Estela sighed. Her skills might well be called on afterwards but there was no chance of prevention so she might just as well enjoy the show. And it was going to be quite a show.

  Barcelone and Dragonetz in one-to-one combat was the climax everybody had been waiting for, including, Estela suspected, the two protagonists. She could hear cautious bets being laid around her in the stand, with nobody certain of the outcome. Apart from her. General he might be but, sainted or not, Ramon would be no match for Dragonetz, and if Barcelone had caught even a glimpse of the devilment in his opponent’s black eyes, he would know that.

  ‘Argent on a fess sable - that’s a black stripe - one needle between three pansies azure, declared Sancha finally.

  ‘Most apt,’ was Estela’s judgement. ‘One of your talents, certainly, and blue is the colour for truth. The pansy because you want to show thoughts? Friendship?’

  ‘No. Just because I think they’re pretty.’

  Estela sighed. Ladies. Perhaps it was just as well only men had blazons. The fashion was growing and even those who already had symbols were changing them for ones they liked better.

  On the field, the colours were separating, blue ribbons retreating to the centre, around their standard, red tabards forming an outer circle. Estela suddenly noticed, ‘They have no standard-bearer!’

  ‘They don’t need one if they’re all wearing blazoned tabards. Nice tactic. Takes away the vulnerability of the standard-bearer…’

  ‘… and gives them an extra man!’

  ‘It will even things up. The blues had an extra man,’ Sancha pointed out, revealing the sharpness that Estela loved. The demure exterior hid many talents. When they’d first met, Sancha had been one of Dragonetz’ court spies.

  ‘But Malik’s sworn to protect the y
oung Comte! So we are a man down before we begin. I don’t like this one bit.’

  The blues had formed a cluster round their standard-bearer and his guard, each of the men facing outwards, waiting. The reds found their places in a great wheel around them, each man stopping to face his tourney partner, as if along the spoke of a wheel. With one man in red, riding free.

  With a growing premonition of disaster, Estela watched the wheel turn clockwise, move as one to a different partner.

  ‘Why would they do that?’ she asked.

  ‘To unsettle the blues. They thought they knew who they’d be fighting. Now they have somebody different. And no time to re-think whatever strategy they had planned.’

  The trumpet sounded and the first bout commenced, the two riders building up speed from a standing start to clash lances in the middle. Both were unseated and they’d barely staggered to their feet and drawn swords when the trumpet sounded again. The next pair charged, kicking up dust, lances high. One of the loose horses reared in fright, about to bolt, but a stable-hand caught its reins in time and ran it to safety, while one of his brave fellows rescued the other mount.

  ‘No!’ Sancha shrieked and gripped Estela’s arm. ‘He’s going to get hurt!’ Her knight, in the second bout, had been unseated and flew in an undignified arc to land firmly on the parched ground. ‘I can’t look.’

  ‘And you’re in favour of Les Baux going to war,’ Estela pointed out to her friend, sotto voce. ‘You can look now. I think there are some rules and being unseated is a loss. Your knight is leaving the field.’

  ‘Thank God,’ was Sancha’s verdict, somewhat lacking in team spirit.

  As the pairs launched in turn, round the clock, Estela had already guessed that Dragonetz would be last but, as she fixed the players in her mind - ‘skinny roan, left-hander’ - she suddenly realised what Hugues had done. ‘He switched!’ she said, outraged.

  ‘Who switched? Switched what?’

  The fourth pair didn’t wait for the trumpet, the fifth pair started at the fourth trumpet call, then the next two pairs charged simultaneously. What with the dust and noise, horses charging and clashing weapons, the spectators could only infer what was going on from occasional sightings of a red flash, a loose horse or some blue ribbons. All formation had turned to chaos, with riders and men on foot chasing each other through clouds of dust.

  ‘Hugues.’ Estela was indignant but there was no mistaking the solid Barcelone general on his horse, roaming free, intervening in the fight only to haul out a reluctant loser - on either side - and send him on the march to the ever-growing number of prisoners’ in the Horse-master’s care. Ramon was pulling out loose horses too, whirling them away from men enraged by the fight, long lost to reason. ‘Hugues replaced Ramon, to fight Dragonetz!’

  Sancha laughed. ‘Was Barcelone too scared to take him on?’

  They watched Ramon riding into the thickest clouds of dust, judging a combat over whether the men in it thought so or not, dispatching justice and saving lives.

  ‘No.’ Estela could see the pattern Ramon made, as he rode, an inner wheel. ‘He’s protecting his nephew without shaming him! He won’t let the fighting get too close to the standard-bearer and if a man’s beaten, but won’t surrender, he’s declaring the fight over. No, it’s not Ramon that worries me. It’s Hugues taking Dragonetz!’

  ‘If Ramon had little chance against Dragonetz, Hugues has less!’

  ‘But you don’t know…’ Estela began. You don’t know how much hate Hugues is carrying and neither does Dragonetz. De Rançon, where are you now? Dragonetz needs you.

  Chapter 29

  Chalcedony (calcedonius) develops when it is past eventide, when the sun is almost gone and the air is still a bit warm… That stone turns infirmities away from a human being and gives him a mind which is very strong against wrath. He will be so tranquil in his ways that almost no one will be able to find a way to provoke him to wrath which is justified or harm him unjustly.

  Physica, Stones

  Disregarding the ever more frantic bugle, Dragonetz turned his head and peered through his eye-slit, analysing what he could see through the dust clouds. Sadeek snorted and pawed the ground, sleek muscle quivering with anticipation.

  ‘Assuau mon amor, easy my love, easy,’ he murmured, but neither he nor his horse were reassured. All turn-taking had been abandoned and Dragonetz readied himself, eyes fixed on the spot where Barcelone had been motionless, waiting till the others had all launched themselves into action. He and Ramon would unseat each other in the joust, spar, make some impressive moves without hurting each other and then enact a suitable finale. When they could see each other through dust, and men hacking at each other.

  A red tabard was forcing a blue waistcoat across Dragonetz’ jousting path but there was no point shouting at them. Even if they heard, they wouldn’t take any notice. That just about summed up both teams, Dragonetz thought gloomily. Perfect simulation of battle; men who’d completely forgotten why they were there but tried to kill each other anyway.

  In the distance, a blue waistcoat was walking to the prisoner’s stand and a couple of horses were being rounded up by the stable hands. The pair fighting moved out of Dragonetz’ line of sight and he brightened. The knight facing him across the terrain raised his lance slightly and lowered it again, a courtesy that Dragonetz had no time to appreciate as his partner spurred his horse into action. Not Barcelone registered in Dragonetz’ mind as he automatically tucked the lance firmly under his armpit and let Sadeek fly. Hugues. Keep to the plan and see what happens.

  A solid hit took Hugues from his horse and, stirrupless, Dragonetz let himself be carried off too. The thwack had been good enough to look convincing to the spectators - and to Hugues. Les Baux honour must be protected at all costs or the day was a failure. Landing without harm and recovering fast, Dragonetz thumped Sadeek on the rump with his gauntlet, ordering him ‘Home!’

  The riderless horse showed no fear but side-stepped anything that shone, shouted or waved a weapon. Black silk streamed in the wind as he moved from a walk to a gallop. Dragonetz didn’t need to watch to know that Sadeek had gone straight to the Horse-Master, receiving a well-earned peppermint from his master’s stock. After all, they’d been practising this very exercise since the moment Dragonetz came to Les Baux and the Horse-Master accused him of bragging about his horse. No doubt there would soon be a huge demand for peppermints in the world of horse-training, and another boost for trade with the supplier Oltra Mar.

  Hugues staggered to his knees and Dragonetz was glad his smile couldn’t be seen as he remembered Raoulf’s words. Still, whatever the wound to his pride or his derrière, the young man didn’t lack pluck. His new blazon was very attractive, on his shield as well as his tabard. Clearly, he had exercised his right as leader to fight against the leader of the opposing team. Dragonetz would make sure that the Lord of Les Baux would earn respect for that.

  Dragonetz shifted his right hand further up his sword blade and flexed, ready to close in and push Hugues safely back to the ground, where they could wrestle a bit for show. The moment he met the other man’s eyes, he realised that the plan would have to change. This was no partner but a serious opponent.

  Murder in his eyes, sword mirroring Dragonetz’ hold but with the point aimed at the eye visor, not at the chest, Hugues advanced, his footing sure now.

  ‘Hugues?’

  The reply was muffled behind the padded mail chin section of the hauberk but Dragonetz caught the gist. ‘You shall not be my father!’

  Cursing himself for an unobservant fool, Dragonetz caught the blade with his flat and punched Hugues backwards with his fist, a mere delaying tactic that allowed him to say, ‘I have no intention of being your father! Or of replacing him. In any way!’

  Rage overtaking battle-sense, Hugues landed useless blows on his opponent’s armoured back, one for each word, and Dragonetz just let him. ‘My - mother - asked - you - to - marry - her! I heard you both!’

 
There was no way to be honest and tactful, least of all while being beaten with a sword, even if it was no more dangerous than being lashed by hailstones.

  Dragonetz caught Hugues’ sword against his shield then grabbed it, forced Hugues into eye-to-eye contact. ‘I told her no. Now look to your men and we will continue our bout when you remember how to conduct yourself.’ Spoken like a father, he thought grimly, as he dropped Hugues’ sword, backed through a cloud of dust, turned and ran in what he thought was an outward direction, away from most of the fighting so he could get out of the dust and see what was happening. Whatever Barcelone was doing, he and Malik would keep the blue standard-bearer safe from harm. But what about the rest of the men? And where in God’s name was that snake, de Rançon?

  There was no vantage point on the flat terrain but once he’d walked far enough out towards the northern cliffs, Dragonetz could see the spectators’ pavilion and stands to his right, the red and blue of prisoners mingling with the recaptured horses. There must be some way of protecting a man’s face in battle without him having to turn his head like an owl, he thought, irritated. Maybe something that swung open and closed, hinged like a door. No doubt the armourers would tell him that was impossible!

  Turning his head and limited vision back towards the melée, he saw a man on horse - Barcelone - circling west, intervening in a duel where the winner had not stopped - or the loser had not surrendered. Men with battle-lust! Whatever had been said, no doubt involving a mace applied to the head, a blue knight was heading round the outside of the fighting, to the prisoner’s stand. Dragonetz could see Hugues walking past men, checking who they were, running on, seeking him.

  Then all Dragonetz could see was dust as he took a boot to the back of his knee and dropped, smashing face-first into dry earth. Idiot! He rolled, spitting out a mouthful of dust that merely dribbled down inside his mail aventail. He didn’t think his nose was broken. If he were lucky, he’d find out later. Jumping to his feet and ducking sideways, he took in the main facts before trying to work out who’d attacked him from behind.

 

‹ Prev