Song at Dawn: 1150 in Provence (The Troubadours Quartet)

by Jean Gill

  ‘So be it. Now, tell me where this excellent wine is produced and how we convince my Lady to stay here instead of invading Narbonne, where embroidery and dress fashions will surely numb my brain. And for God’s sake, no Crusader’s tales, if you wish me to stay awake.’

  Radels laughed and needed no more encouragement to vaunt the gustatory pleasures of his domain. Long after he’d agreed that the wine was a perfect combination with the strange salty taste of a blue cheese from the caves of Roquefort, which Radels insisted was a local treasure, Dragonetz excused himself and joined the increasingly free movement round the Hall, as, the meal over, people sought particular conversations. Making brief obeisance to Aliénor, Dragonetz told her, ‘I shall make your wishes known to the girl, my Lady, then please excuse me. I would check the camp before taking whatever sleep this night gives me.’ She waved and smiled her approval, as relaxed as if they were alone, both of them knowing that every gesture was marked and analysed.

  Estela couldn’t be unaware of Dragonetz’ approach. He was unhurried and polite but somehow there was never anyone in his way, and the conversation beside her stopped as smoothly as he did.

  ‘My Lady,’ he greeted her. She flushed. ‘May I?’ He waited for her assent and then took a place that became magically vacant on the bench beside her. Almost gently, he continued, ‘That’s better. I see no reason for you to crick your neck looking up at me. The Lady Aliénor wishes me to tutor you in music. We will reach Narbonne the day after next and can begin then but if you wish to ride with me tomorrow, we can make arrangements. You ride?’

  ‘Yes.’

  His voice was even gentler and lower. ‘Al-Hisba al-Andalus.’ She looked at him, startled, then realised that he was no longer speaking to her but to the Moor, although he barely turned towards him.

  ‘Sire,’ the man responded.

  ‘You know who I am?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It seems I have bought you.’ The man’s face remained expressionless, his sharp cheekbones, hooked nose and firm lips slashes of deep gold in the flickering torchlight. ‘There is only one problem,’ Dragonetz continued. ‘I don’t have your consent.’

  ‘You don’t need it.’ The reply was a fact, stated like any other.

  ‘But I do, you see.’ Dragonetz kept his voice low, smiled and looked at Estela. Anyone watching would think his conversation with her. She was mesmerised, like a deer startled in the woods. ‘I will not have you, unwilling.’ His eyes were still on Estela and she shivered, the small hairs on the back of her neck prickling.

  ‘If I say no, I will be punished.’ Even Estela knew what that meant and that this choice was no choice, like her own she thought. Between the Devil and the deep sea.

  But the Devil spoke again. ‘If you say no, I shall tell them I miscalculated, that I cannot afford a new man as well as another little matter that I have in hand - no blame on you.’

  The whites of the Moor’s eyes shone and met the unreadable black in the other man’s. ‘If it is Allah’s will, so be it.’

  ‘Be ready to leave tomorrow morning after Tierce. Al-Hisba al-Andalus,’ he mused, ‘the man from Andalusia. What is your given name?’

  ‘That, you have not bought, my Lord.’ Estela held her breath. There could only be one reaction to such insolence.

  Dragonetz breathed out hard. Then he laughed. ‘Be there, tomorrow,’ he said, his eyes still on Estela as he stood abruptly, moved further down the table and spoke to some of the men attached to the Commanderie, tenants and small land-owners.

  By the time Estela worked out what she should have said, Dragonetz had left the Hall. As had the Moor.

  Chapter 3.

  Estela had slept badly again. Her straw mattress was comfortable enough and Guillelma’s snoring was mere background noise, as were the grunts and shifting of the two other women sharing the wagon space. The fact that she had dozed off and on during the day would not normally have prevented her catching up on much-needed sleep, especially now she seemed safe from pursuit. No, the problems were in her own head, thoughts chasing each other like frantic mice when the cat is loosed among them. You wanted to be a troubadour. You dreamed of learning from the best. Why do you feel like a smacked child? Because he treated you like a nothing? Used you as cover? Like a jongleur throwing a ball in the air with one hand while magicking a rose from the other. Throwing you in the air and magicking the Moor. What was that all about anyway? And yet, he trusted you to watch and say nothing. And you have the chance to perform at court. But what if your voice and fingers let you down? What if you’re not good enough? Why did he look at you like that? The complicity disturbed her as much as the intensity of a steady, black-eyed gaze, meant only to misdirect. She had been cheated. But of what?

  She heard the call to prayer at prime, imagined the knights in silent progression to their Chapel. What would it be like to be part of an Order, follow the Rule, obey without question? For a moment, she imagined the relief of letting go, giving up responsibility for her life, responsibility for life itself, to something higher. Poverty and chastity seemed to be her doom anyway so why not in a convent? The grey of pre-dawn outlined the shapes in the wagon, women and baggage. There had to be something more than this! A verse ran through Estela’s head as Guillelma stirred.

  ‘Aissi-m te amors franc

  Qu’alor mon cor no-s vire...

  ‘Love holds my heart so clear and true

  That I see no-one else but you...’

  Would she ever know love like that, true and hers alone, or was that just for songs? She sighed. At least she had the songs - until of course Dragonetz destroyed that too. Not that she contemplated ducking his invitation. She was experienced enough to know that the only sure way of failing was not to try, and an invitation from Dragonetz was a summons she knew she had to face. The first rays of the sun found their way under the improvised curtains and Estela joined Guillelma in the morning routines, as all around her soldiers struggled into chainmail hauberks and coifs, while servants carried pots and stoked the cooking fires, and horses were led to the stream before saddling up.

  When the last cooking fire had been stamped out, the last knife and water-bottle stored in a provisions wagon, and when Guillelma had assured Estela a hundred times that the mandora was safely locked in with Aliénor’s jeweled accessories, the company was ready to break camp. The moment Aliénor and her Ladies finally appeared, still paying the necessary compliments as they said farewell to their hosts, Dragonetz signaled the vanguard and another day on the road began. Aliénor chose to travel by palanquin this time, with one of her Ladies, and the others followed her example in wagons rather more luxurious than the one in which Estela had spent the night.

  A breeze freshened Estela’s cheeks and she forgot to protect her skin from the sun, enjoying the exercise as she walked with Guillelma and the other women, at the back of the procession. The vineyards gave way to copses and more undulating countryside, and in the rhythm of the march, Estela lost track of time. Once again it was the way the general chat stopped that alerted her to Dragonetz’ presence before he was physically before her, this time on a black destrier rather than the palfrey of the previous day, and leading a placid grey mare.

  ‘My lady,’ he bent his head to her, then jumped out of the saddle. ‘Would you care to join me? Guillelma?’ He passed the reins of both horses to Guillelma, the destrier shying nervously at the new situation. ‘Shush, my Seda,’ he soothed the horse, and explained to Estela, ‘he’s been attached to a wagon too long and needs his master.’ Dragonetz bent and cupped his hands.

  Without thinking, Estela placed a booted foot onto the offered step, as she had always done, and hoisted herself sideways onto the saddle. Guillelma passed her the grey’s reins and she took them easily in her right hand, still looking at the stallion. ‘He’s beautiful, just like silk.’ Seda was high and finely boned, a black shimmer. Of course, a palfrey ambled comfortably for a long journey whereas Seda was built for a tourney and too highly
strung for riding mile after mile. It would be like using the silk of the destrier’s name to wash dishes. Presumably, Dragonetz thought he would need his destrier at journey’s end. Or didn’t want to leave him behind. Such a horse was worth more than most men’s land.

  Dragonetz stroked the horse’s neck, downwards, along the rippling muscle. ‘He is beautiful,’ he agreed, as he swung himself into the saddle and carved a path through to the front. The mare didn’t need pressure on her side to follow the big black placidly. Estela let her mount have her head. ‘Tou’, Dragonetz called back over his shoulder when Estela asked her horse’s name and was told, ‘Tou.’ Gentle.

  ‘Well, Tou,’ Estela murmured, ‘looks like it’s you and me now.’

  They threaded their way to the head of the main procession, a vanguard of five soldiers just within sight, checking out the road ahead. They had already given safe passage to some merchants and their wagons and exchanged news briefly with a troop of Ermengarda’s patrol en route to Carcassonne. Estela felt a lurch of disappointment that the Moor was also there, waiting for them, on a horse much like her own. It seemed she had hoped for some undivided attention as much as she feared it and the anti-climax thudded dully when Dragonetz said courteously, ‘Al-Hisba al-Andalus is willing to share his learning with you. Please excuse me.’ With that he wheeled and was gone back into the body of the company. She could hear his voice, efficient when checking on his men, light with laughter as he spoke to Aliénor or her women, and then nothing.

  Into the silence, the Moor spoke, first in some other language, then in Occitan.

  ‘What is past cannot be changed

  Remorse brings only sorrow

  And nothing can be re-arranged

  So waste not your tomorrow.’

  The words hit Estela straight and true. It was as if he had read her inmost thoughts and given her advice all in one little quatrain. Intrigued, despite herself, Estela searched her repertoire of songs. She thought she knew them all, certainly all that were widely known. Finally, while al-Hisba al-Andalus rode in patient silence, Estela admitted defeat. ‘Who is it?’

  Al-Hisba al-Andalus, smiled. ‘Omar Khayyam, Omar the Tent-maker, the great Persian poet.’

  ‘But I’ve never heard of him!’

  ‘You mean you have heard of all the other Persian poets? And the rhythms of al-Andalus when we sing?’

  ‘Should I have?’ Her outward defiance hid Estela’s sudden sense of own ignorance, a sensation discovered in the last two days and previously unknown. She who had always been proud of her learning! The world was bigger than she thought. She could either sulk and pretend the little cage in which she lived contained all that she wanted or she could go through the open door and fly, however badly at first.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘everything about al-Andalus.’

  ‘Everything might need another journey, my Lady, but let me explain to you that hundreds of years ago, when my people came from Oltra mar, as you call it, to al-Andalus, or Andalusia as you might know it, we brought our books, our poets, our engineers, our doctors, our astronomers, our engineers and our music. Where would you like me to begin?’ he teased her.

  ‘Books?’ asked Estela.

  ‘You have heard of the Great Library of Cordoba?’

  ‘I know what a library is,’ Estela was quick to reply, ‘why, there is a library in Avignon with two thousand books.’ She waited for him to be impressed and was pleased with his long pause.

  Finally, ‘My Lady,’ he said, ‘The Great Library at Cordoba had four hundred thousand books.’

  It was her turn to be silent. ‘I can’t imagine such a big number,’ she said.

  ‘It is the difference between the sheep in those fields,’ and indeed there were flocks of leggy, woolly beasts in the surrounding pastures, ‘and the stars in the sky.’

  ‘Have you seen all those books?’

  ‘Cordoba itself was destroyed but other libraries remain - Toledo, Seville,’

  ‘I would love to see so many books! I can read,’ declared Estela, knowing full well that this was a rare skill, rarer still among women.

  ‘In Arabic, my Lady?’ was the gentle query in response.

  ‘Does Lord Dragonetz know Arabic?’ she retorted. If she were hoping to rescue her self-esteem, the attempt was doomed.

  ‘Yes, my Lady. To read the ancients, on medicine, on astronomy, on music, Arabic is necessary.’

  ‘Music.’ Estela turned firmly to the topic where she at least knew a little and therefore she reasoned, could also learn most. ‘I am sure my Lord Dragonetz has told you that I sing and play mandora.’

  ‘A mandora, al-Oud,’ al-Hisba al-Andalus confirmed.’

  ‘That’s what he said!’ exclaimed Estela, remembering the moment when her instrument had been revealed to Dragonetz and Aliénor.

  ‘My Lord is well-travelled. Yes, what you call a mandora started life as our Oud. Eight strings?’ he queried and Estela was only too happy to launch herself into a discussion of the tuning, chord variations and rhythms that she achieved with her playing.

  So lost was she in the new possibilities that al-Hisba al-Andalus opened up that when Dragonetz returned, she was actually disappointed. She needn’t have worried. Far from spoiling the discussion, Dragonetz extended it to lyrics and poetic forms, until Estela felt her brains overheating to explosion. As if he had sensed this, Dragonetz switched the conversation to channelling water and building mills. As she took no part in this increasingly technical exchange, Estela allowed her thoughts to wander pleasantly, lulled by views of sheep and woods, sun and blue skies. For a better view, she held Tou back a moment and moved to the outside of the two men, her back to them as she breathed in the morning.

  She had no warning of the blow from behind that knocked her cleanly off her horse, accompanied with a shouted ‘al-Hisba!’ and a horse’s scream. She sensed Seda rearing up beside her and the shiver of panic through Tou as Estela flew out the saddle. There was some whizzing around her. Later, she would realise that her side-saddle position might have saved her life or at least prevented limbs tangling and breaking as she fell. Instinctively, she threw her hands out in front of her to stop the fall before her face hit the weathered gravel. The shock jarred up both arms, twisting her wrists and burning her palms as they scraped the rough ground and she crumpled momentarily, too close to frightened hooves. A last burst of energy rolled her to the verge. And there she lay, panting. Winded beyond speech, she tried to make sense of what was happening.

  The procession halted, horses restless with fear, people yelling ‘What’s happening’ and the snap of orders in response. A soldier was holding the reins of both al-Hisba’s horse and Tou, shushing them, but it wasn’t the sight of Tou that wrenched Estela’s guts. Al-Hisba al-Andalus and Dragonetz were bent over a black body convulsing in the dust and al-Hisba had unsheathed a long, curved blade. For a moment, Estela thought he was going to murder Dragonetz and then she understood. Al-Hisba put his hand to the stallion’s neck and Seda stilled, with no need of the sword at his throat. The metal bolt protruding from his head had finished what it started, the work of a crossbow.

  ‘Go with your God, wild friend,’ the Moor said, smoothing the arched neck, still gleaming with health even as Seda’s eyes dulled. Al-Hisba sheathed his weapon and shook his head at Dragonetz, who stood tall and silent, then turned on his men.

  ‘One? Ten? Three hundred? How many are out there in Jesu’s’ name! What in hell are Arnaut and his men doing? Picking daisies?’ His tone rivalled al-Hisba’s blade.

  A white-faced Raoulf was the only one who dared answer. ‘They chased into the scrub, my Lord. I’m waiting the signal.’ He hesitated. ‘What alerted you? You know what they’re going to find, don’t you?’

  Dragonetz smeared mud and blood across his forehead with an unheeding hand. ‘One person,’ he conceded, ‘so it’s likely they’ll survive the encounter. Until I deal with them.’ The silence chilled the very sunshine. ‘When the first bolt was shot,
I saw it glint. My guess is five or six bolts in about a minute. Perfectly possible for a reasonably competent arbalestier, hand-spanning to keep weight down. If there had been more shooters, there would have been more bolts. One arbalestier means one target...’

  Raoulf was already scanning the ground for more bolts. He looked up. ‘An assassination. Your assassination.’

  ‘That’s my guess,’ Dragonetz confirmed calmly.

  Two men picked up bolts and Raoulf piled up the third and fourth. ‘Five,’ he stated.

  Dragonetz nodded. ‘Let’s hope the daisy-pickers get their man, alive. I want to know who, I want to know why and I want another horse.’ He didn’t look once at Seda as he gave orders that the stallion’s body be shifted to one side. Someone brought him the same palfrey he had been riding the day before and waited.

  Estela had risen to her shaky feet, brushed down her tattered dress and was suddenly aware of the damage to her own body. It didn’t feel like she had escaped being kicked by a horse, more that selective kicking had been only one form of the battering she had undergone.

  By the time Dragonetz turned his attention to her, she had to concentrate to remain upright.

  ‘I am sorry for being so rough,’ he told her. ‘There was no choice.’

  ‘You saved my life.’ In saying it, the full realisation of what might have been came to her and she staggered, catching the arm he held out to support her.

  ‘I nearly cost you your life.’ There was a bleakness in his words that she didn’t understand. She took Tou’s reins and leaned against the horse, breaking the contact with Dragonetz.

  ‘You should lie down.’

  Even though the statement carried no hint of criticism, Estela felt stung by it, and rallied. ‘I shall be better for riding,’ she declared. ‘Perhaps you would help me up.’ He held her gaze in his for a long moment, unreadable. Then, without any further attempt to convince her otherwise, Dragonetz cupped his hands, and if he noticed her wince as she hit the saddle with rather less grace than usual, he gave no sign. He mounted his own palfrey and rode ahead, to meet the vanguard of six, who were returning from the woods, with something trailing on the ground, tied to one of the horses.