by Jean Gill
‘My Lord,’ al-Hisba too was breathing heavily as he bowed and left. Ahead of him, Estela’s train swept a graceful wake. Dragonetz reluctantly brought his thoughts back to his companion and caught her too following the girl’s exit, with a calculating look that quickly returned to meet his, when she sensed his attention.
‘Pretty girl,’ she commented.
‘A dark lady.’ His voice was expressionless.
Her hand flicked up to stroke a newly blonde curl and she smiled, clearly taking the comment as critical. ‘Very dark,’ she agreed, ‘as are her origins. No doubt we shall find out more about her before people tire of their new plaything.’
‘What shall I sing for you?’
‘Sing to me of love, Lord Dragonetz. Of love…and then we will talk of politics.’ She leaned towards him, invitingly. And so Dragonetz sang of love.
Chapter 6.
Exhausted at first by the novelty of everything that was expected of her, Estela quickly slipped into the ways of the Palace. Much of her day was spent among Aliénor’s women, a flutter of gaudy birds who chattered with Estela and each other, so alike that she muddled Alis and Elena, Philippa and Adorlée. Every time Estela plucked up courage to talk to one of these creatures of sugar-icing, she stammered her way into a world of hair-pieces and sleeve-tassels, where servants were ‘impossible’, chambers ‘provincial’ and the husbands, who were clearly imminent, a source of giggles and speculation. Estela did try.
Alis - or Elena - told her about ‘the best hand cream’ but as soon as Estela tried to ascertain which herbs gave the cleansing properties and which scented the product, Alis - or Elena - gave her a strange look, said ‘It’s just nice’ and distanced herself as quickly as possible from Estela. No wonder that Aliénor herself found Paris limiting if these were her companions. And no wonder that she sought out men like Dragonetz and women like Ermengarda! Of Aliénor herself, Estela saw little and she might as well have been invisible as far as the Queen was concerned, pre-occupied with more important matters. Estela wondered whether any of these women knew of Aliénor’s pregnancy? She found it hard to believe that they would hide such knowledge if they possessed it! Unlike herself. She had not mentioned their eavesdropping to Dragonetz nor he to her but it was an unspoken bond between them. He must know that until the pregnancy was public, Estela held dangerous and valuable knowledge. He must know it was crazy to trust her. And yet.
Estela passed the time observing all she could, deeper than hair braids and ribbons. Her respect for Lady Sancha grew - or rather diminished on the level of hairdo and ribbons, which revealed their full potential for garish artifice in Sancha’s experimentation. It was on a deeper level that Estela's respect grew. While apparently at one with the bevy of Ladies, at ease in exactly the sort of conversation where Estela floundered, Sancha managed to gather more interesting information at the same time.
Estela heard the way a conversation with Sancha would include the health of Alis - or Elena’s - ‘Uncle Roger’ and the progress of his building work, ‘Uncle Roger’ who just happened to be Roger Trencavel, ruler of Carcassonne, and ailing, but whose city walls were nearly completed to form the strongest defence in Occitania. Or in a conversation with someone else, Sancha would comment artlessly on the pretty pink stone walls they had seen in Toulouse and discover that Alis - or Elena - had spent her childhood there as a ward to Faydida of Uzés, wife of Alphonse Jourdain, father of the current ruler.
Gradually, Estela realised that all of these women were highly connected and that from news of their aunts and uncles, cousins and siblings, an intelligent woman could piece together more important news than any pigeon could carry. Lacking the skill to play the same game, Estela took to listening-in to any conversations Lady Sancha was involved in, and she was soon capable of sifting chit-chat from pieces in the puzzle of politics.
As she began to distinguish Alis from Elena by virtue of their connections and usefulness rather than by their own personalities, Estela also started taking more notice of a young girl who was always with the women. Too self-conscious at first herself to realise that someone else was feeling awkward and left out, Estela now sought out the girl and encouraged her to talk. Apparently Bèatriz was from the mountains north of Provence, sent by her parents to be educated at the court of Narbonne. While Ermengarda was occupied with Aliénor, she had entrusted Bèatriz to the Ladies.
‘Where I am being educated most wonderfully,’ concluded Bèatriz, only a trace of a twinkle in her demure expression. Her face was a perfect oval, too large for her twelve year old body but Estela thought that there was promise of beauty here, seen to more advantage away from Ermengarda’s golden elegance and Aliénor’s fire.
‘I am to return this autumn to my marriage,’ she informed Estela, who listened to information about one more imminent husband, a local lord about whom the girl knew little else but trusted her parent’s judgement. What she modestly held back, but Lady Sancha was happy to tell Estela, was that Bèatriz was heiress in her own right to one of the richest lands in the Vercors mountains, bordering the Holy Roman Empire and a draw to many greedy, neighbouring eyes. It was not needlework and household management that she had been sent to Narbonne to learn from Ermengarda.
The complicity between Estela and Bèatriz entered a new phase when the topic of music was raised.
‘You sing and play mandora, don’t you?’ Bèatriz asked in her direct way, cutting off Adorlée’s explanation of the benefits of linen underwear.
Outranked, and therefore too well-bred to show her irritation, Adorlée smoothly continued in the new conversational direction, ‘Yes, she does and I’ve heard it’s very nice.’
Ignoring Adorlée completely, Bèatriz told Estela, ‘I sing too. And I compose songs. I shall be a troubairitz.’
Before Adorlée could earn the attention that she deserved for the patronising ‘Very nice’ that was on her lips, Estela jumped in with, ‘Why don’t we play together. That would pass the time -’ she glanced at Adorlée and smiled sweetly - ‘nicely. I’m sure we could find some alcove where we wouldn’t disturb the other Ladies.’
There was no mistaking the enthusiasm in Bèatriz’s response and it was quickly settled between them that they would make music together the following day. If Estela thought she would have an easy task playing teacher, she quickly realised her mistake. The benefits of a courtly education were soon clear but they were no mere veneer and within minutes Estela told Bèatriz, ‘You have a gift.’ Estela played for Bèatriz while she sang and very soon there were Ladies cooing their appreciation. For once, neither Estela nor Bèatriz objected to the word ‘nice’, and as the Ladies grew accustomed to the music-making and returned to their previous activities, there was a chance for Estela to pass on some of what she herself was learning daily, and the lessons leavened the tedium of ‘women’s matters’ for both of them.
The evening meal in the Great Hall also enriched Estela’s day, with a chance to guess at the goings-on amongst the great and the good seated at the High Table. Perhaps not so many of the good, Estela suspected, although she saw the white robes of a Cistercian Abbé and the black of a priest, appear and disappear among the dinner guests on different occasions. Perhaps a hundred people were seated at the trestle tables round the Hall, dozens of servants scurried from the Hall to the kitchens and back with flagons and dishes, the huge fireplace blazed with the last flames of a spring night and the curs tussled over crumbs and left-overs, tossed to them in quiet corners. The braver dogs crawled between the legs of the diners and at one point Estela recognized a large white acquaintance.
‘Useless,’ she greeted him as he crammed his body under the table like sausage meat into skin, bumping the table up as he settled underneath, to shouts of annoyance from Estela’s neighbours. ‘You don’t fit in, do you,’ she murmured, ‘but you just keep on trying.’ She slipped a lamb-bone under the table, felt a wet tongue run over the place where her indoor slipper left her foot bare, and then felt the silent radiation of companionship s
ent by a dog gnawing contentedly at his master’s feet.
‘Nici,’ she named him in Occitan, ‘Big idiot,’ and she felt the beat of a thumped tail, the song of the happy dog, as Nici accepted the verbal caress. She slid her feet onto his great flank and rubbed in circles, feeling less alone. It became a routine to let the huge patou go under the table and settle there, to give him morsels and know his pleasure. It could hardly be surreptitious with such a big dog and among those who looked their disapproval was al-Hisba. ‘You shouldn’t encourage him,’ he told her. ‘He’s a pest with his begging.’
She shrugged. ‘Animals might or might not have souls but they certainly have stomachs. He is easily pleased.’
‘He’s just a dog.’
‘A horse is just a horse and a man is just a man,’ Estela retorted, rinsing her greasy fingers in the bowl of water provided, wiping her mouth with her wet hand and repeating the process.
‘A horse, my Lady, is a thousand years of service to man and a pureblood is both beautiful and valuable. That,’ he looked at the offending beast, who gave a hesitant tail-wag, just in case, ‘is just a dog.’ Al-Hisba bowed and found a place elsewhere, free of under-table beggers.
Wherever he might roam during the day, Nici was always there in the evenings with the Palace pack and Estela saw no harm in letting him keep her company. She started to seek an end position on the bench to make it easier and avoid upsetting other people, either mentally or physically, and Nici was surprisingly agile when he realised it would increase his food rations. Apart from people-watching and dog-company there was little other entertainment during dinner. So far it had been low key, some pretty songs by pleasant voices and competent musicians, but it was as if both Ermengarda and Aliénor were holding back their best for a big occasion. Estela dreamed of being part of it, planning every move in her imagination as she mentally assessed the Hall, the lighting, the acoustics, and the seating arrangements.
What Estela really lived for was the two hours a day that she spent on music. Sometimes Dragonetz would be absent and she would quiz al-Hisba about al-Andalus. In between chords and discords, she learned about gardens; hanging planters that spilled flowers like unrolled bales of patterned silk; trees planted in multi-coloured pebbles, in paving more intricately patterned than the stained glass of a church window; raised beds that shot flowers heavenwards like strange birds; tilled earth gardens, watered by pumps, pipes and channels, that produced succulent fruit and vegetables she had never heard of, figs and oranges, aubergines and almond nuts. Estela found that her knowledge of herbs and spices, like her knowledge of music, had huge gaps and she made mental notes on the medicinal properties of garlic, saffron, ginger and cumin. Al-Hisba responded enthusiastically to her questions on herbal remedies and even complimented her on her knowledge, which warmed her as much as a smile from Dragonetz while she sang.
From the way al-Hisba spoke of it, al-Andalus sounded like paradise but when Estela asked him why he had left, he was much less keen to respond than to discuss the efficacy of thyme infusion for coughs. ‘Home is like spring-time, my Lady, full of a promise that stirs the blood, a promise that can only lead to disappointment.’ He was willing to tell her that that he had been contracted as homo proprius, bondsman, to a Lord in al-Andalus, under whom he had prospered as a land-owner and businessman. He then formed a very small part of the price for which the knights Templar relinquished their crazy legacy from King Alfonso and he had worked at Douzens for six years, advising the Brothers on their use of the land, introducing irrigation and horse dung. Al-Hisba was as happy to talk about water channels and what he called fertilisation as he was about herbs and medicine, but his expression closed down again, his eyes hooded, when she said, ‘You don’t talk of people, of your family.’ He was silent a long moment and she knew she had gone too far when he replied, ‘And neither, my Lady, do you.’ The moment passed and once more they lost themselves in discussion of rhythms as Estela put names to al-Makhera and al-Takil, and could play them both.
Estela no longer noticed the Moor’s scarf wound round his head, an asymmetric bandage with an end free to one side. She no longer noticed his loose robe and strange accent, his flat way of walking, his curved sword, his oiled beard. He was no longer a foreigner and no longer a stranger. She trusted him as her teacher and more, as her friend, so much so that she risked one more dangerous question. This time she was careful in her phrasing of it. ‘Al-Hisba, will there be a time when you will trust me with your given name?’ The answer came quickly, with a bright flash of teeth. ‘I believe there will be such a time, my Lady,’ and he made no reciprocal challenge to her. In truth, she often forgot she had ever had another name and it was certainly not one she wanted to reclaim.
Sometimes, it was al-Hisba who was absent on affairs and only Dragonetz was there. He seemed more distant when it was just the two of them, less likely to move her fingers into place across the frets, less likely to help her breathe correctly by placing his hand flat across the front panel of her robe and lifting the pressure to remind her when to breathe in. He was more likely to gaze out the window as if he had forgotten she was there and then she could observe him unheeded, the tight fit of his hose around muscled calves, the short tunic which flared full from his hip in the fashionable bliaut style, wide sleeves revealing broad bracelets and long, tapering fingers, hair falling free to his shoulders in black curls, impossibly lustrous.
She guessed at the habits he had picked up during the Crusades, among them bathing as often as he could. Al-Hisba had shocked her with his view on the general lack of hygiene of her people and had told her that one of the joys of Narbonne was its civilised bathing rooms, with several hot tubs for purification. Estela had suddenly felt grubby and added physical inferiority to her growing list. Dragonetz gave every sign of having made frequent use of the bath-tubs and yet he looked the picture of health. So much for her grandmother’s warnings! Estela wondered whether anything she had learned as a child was still true but she was too interested in all that was offered to her hungry mind to take refuge in the coward’s fear of the unknown. She added bath-tubs to her mental list of prescribed experiences.
On this particular afternoon, Dragonetz seemed abstracted and then, as if he’d made up his mind about something, he said, ‘Aliénor keeps asking me when you’ll be ready and I’m going to tell her she can show you off any time she likes. I want you to be prepared any evening now.’
Estela felt her stomach churn. She wanted this so much it hurt but what if she should disappoint? There had been some background music after meals but so far Dragonetz had not performed, nor any star of Ermengarda’s, although Estela had heard the gossip and knew that the Viscomtesse de Narbonne had a surprise entertainment planned for her guests. During every meal in the Great Hall, she had imagined a message from Aliénor, the walk from her place at table to her chosen spot, near the High Table, with some torchlight on her. She heard the flutter among the audience, the hush and the first strains of her mandora. She had planned a million times what she would sing, repeating Guillelma’s mantra, ‘Third time lucky.’ And now it was really going to happen. Her stomach dipped again.
‘Do you think I’m ready?’ she asked, with her whole heart hanging on his response. She had learned to read his face and his tone, not just the words he chose.
When he turned to her, his black eyes blazed with passion, ‘Estela,’ he began and her own name brushed her skin like the wild Mistrau wind, raising the soft down on her arms. Then something he saw in the hall behind her darkened his mood and he murmured, ‘Meet me at the stable in ten minutes,’ then he snapped, loudly, ‘You sing of death and lovers parting, as if it’s a jolly trot to a picnic, fast and merry. Don’t you understand the words? Don’t you have any feelings? We are done for today!’ He smashed his hand against the innocent woodwork and Estela’s instinctive jump backwards led easily into her covering her face with her hands and rushing distraught away from the alcove, avoiding Lady Sancha and leaving her angry tuto
r to complain about young students and pressing business.
Bemused, Estela left her mandora in her chamber, grabbed a cloak, changed into riding boots and headed from the Palace towards the stable block where Tou could be found. The stables had always been her sanctuary, leather and beeswax mingled with horse and clean straw, people who talked of bot-flies and saddle burn, the friendly harrumps and whooroos of her own grey mare, the ring of a hoof on cobbles. A stable-hand already had Tou outside and was saddling her up.
‘Has she been ridden lately?’ Estela asked, knowing that even a placid mare like Tou could be frisky after being cooped up for days.
The lad straightened up. He was about Estela’s height and probably her age too, wearing the rough jerkin and britches of his trade, his hair a ragged mop of curly brown and his eyes brightest blue in a face that still had more curve than angle. His shoulders and arms were bare, the muscles gleaming and restless in the sun as if he too fancied a gallop in a spring field. The pit of his arm was dark with soft hairs and sweat and Estela leaned closer to breathe in the scent of male animal. She almost shut her eyes to turn it into music. What was the matter with her today? She only had to see a young man to follow her fancy to... to places she was not going to follow her fancy to!
He lowered his eyes, respectfully. ‘As ordered, my Lady. She’s been exercised every day. Should be sweet as a nut for you. We just had the message to saddle her up so I haven’t finished... if I can carry on?’
‘Of course.’ As he bent down to tighten straps, she watched his broad wedge of back, working, the inward curve at the base of the spine visible below the jerkin, rounding out again below. What was it al-Hisba had said? Something about spring stirring the blood. That must be it; she had a touch of spring. She cleared her throat. ‘What’s your name?’
He looked at her with those amazing blue eyes, cornflowers and sapphires she thought, trying out a line of verse in her head. ‘Peire,’ he told her, ‘Peire de Quadra.’