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

by Jean Gill

  next.’ As will you, as will I. Dragonetz kept the thoughts to himself. ‘It seems the man too monk-like for Aliénor has not been so half-hearted on one occasion and France will have an heir. Or is it indeed his?’ Ermengarda asked innocently.

  Luckily, honesty and self-protection gave the same answer. Dragonetz’ ‘Yes’ was emphatic.

  ‘I had heard that Aliénor sometimes compensated for her husband’s short… comings,’ she teased Dragonetz, who knew full well the rumours that he himself warmed the Queen’s bed when she so wished. But it was not of him that Ermengarda posed the question, although her eyes told him she might have. ‘The timing does not of course work for it to affect the fatherhood of this infant but I heard that Louis was not best pleased with the … relationship between Aliénor and her uncle, Antioch. Is this true?’

  Dragonetz knew that he could dance a politic answer and keep Ermengarda at a distance, at the distance proper for a man who followed his liege Lord blindly. It had been two years since Dragonetz was that man and he would never follow Aliénor blindly, never again. If he kept his oath and followed her, it was with his eyes open, and with a promise to the dead that he would make the right choices, not Aliénor’s choices and if this promise clashed with his oath, the dead claimed first allegiance, whether he paid for eternity or not.

  So it was with open eyes that Dragonetz answered bluntly, ‘Yes, Aliénor and Raymond were lovers and Louis knew. I’m not sure that shipping her off to Tripoli by force was the best way of dealing with it. She will never forgive him.’

  ‘Not even when their little Prince-son is playing hobby-horse in front of his doting parents?’ Ermengarda hadn't even blinked at the allegation of adultery and incest on the part of the Queen of France.

  ‘Never. Aliénor will mate with a king to make more kings, her kings, but she hates weakness and she cannot bear to be thwarted. Louis is guilty of both in her eyes. Worse, he humiliated her.’ Dragonetz remembered Antioch, Aliénor crazy with Crusade, with satiated desire, while Louis stumbled around in a living nightmare, his pilgrimage become the road to hell.

  What he and his wife then argued about was whether to re-take Aleppo for Raymond, because Louis could not say the words of their real argument. Unable to watch his wife leaning against her uncle, laces still loose from clothes thrown on in haste, but unable to speak or hit back, Louis fought over Aleppo, tried to prove his manhood by sulking and sailing off, had Aliénor bundled aboard a ship by his soldiers and her men told curtly to join their ships. A fine start to a fine campaign! ‘She loved him, her uncle, Raymond of Antioch,’ Dragonetz told Ermengarda quietly. ‘They were made of the same substance, pure fire together. When the news came that he was lost in battle at Aleppo and that Nur ad-Din had sent Raymond’s head to be paraded by the Caliph at Baghdad, Aliénor stopped eating. She was desperately ill for months, recovered only at the thought of a divorce. It was Raymond who suggested that the Pope would divorce her for consanguinity with Louis but the Pope was only too pleased to bless the marriage, and the result of that, you know.’

  ‘Why are you telling me all this?’ The room held its breath.

  ‘I have served Aquitaine from boyhood. I’ve been at my Lady Aliénor’s side through trophies and tragedies and I wish her well.’

  ‘But,’ prompted Ermengarda.

  ‘But I really don’t give a saint’s relic whether a man - or a woman - is a Christian, a Jew or a Muslim.’

  ‘That’s a dangerous statement. Even more so for a knight who’s taken the Cross and fought in the Holy Land!’

  ‘And will do so again, should my Liege Lord demand it.’ Dragonetz couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice. ‘But I will also lead my life and I will rescue all I can from this destruction we wreak on each other in the name of religion!’

  ‘A paper mill?’

  ‘A paper mill,’ Dragonetz confirmed. ‘If we take knowledge out of the hands of the Church and disperse the real treasures of the Moors and the Jews, we could become - ’ and for once, words failed him. Her silence told him he’d failed. No-one could understand what he’d seen, what he’d done, a brute among brutes. No-one could see how it could be different.

  ‘Civilised,’ offered Ermengarda and his heart lifted. ‘Yes, I know the treasures brought to my city by the Jews and the Moors, from al-Andalus and even our enemies in the Holy Land, who all know secrets of medicine, arithmetic, astronomy, engineering,’ she too ran out of words.

  ‘Of which we know nothing!’

  She corrected, ‘Which we are learning. The more Narbonne trades, the more she grows in this learning. Trade is more than daily bread! And the Jews I protect in my city are more than coin-spinners! Abraham ben Isaac has been useful to you.’ Was there nothing about him she didn’t know? ‘One day this same Raavad will be remembered by his people, perhaps by everyone, for his wisdom, when I will be forgotten.’

  ‘Never forgotten, my Lady, and if Narbonne will help me in this paper trade, your name will be writ large across the world!’ He knelt in front of her, taking her hands in his, the ceremonial gesture of oath-taking. ‘I am sworn to Aquitaine and cannot offer my sword elsewhere but I offer you a future in which Aquitaine is tiny, the future of knowledge shared and traded, the spread of reading and writing on paper!’

  ‘It is a good dream, Dragonetz,’ she said gently, her hands small and motionless in his grasp. ‘Yes, Narbonne will support you in this but I will not do so openly. The Archbishop is far less a brother-in-law to me than his good brother is a husband, for Bernard keeps to the letter of our agreement and we have a clear understanding. Our Papal Nuncio, however, fights me at every turn over his share of dues from tolls and justice and this paper business will unite clerics everywhere against you. It will be hard enough to dig ourselves out of the problems that the Crusades have caused, trade routes damaged, trust broken, Jews and Moors persecuted, without drawing the fire of the Church as well. Should the Friars close the doors of hospitality on our trade routes we will suffer and that’s the least of the weapons they hold! So, my support can only be in private, Dragonetz.’

  ‘I understand. And I am grateful.’ He bowed his head.

  ‘And however charming you are, there will be no reduction in taxes.’ Her voice was grave but he looked up and caught the sparkle in her eyes. ’Now, we can talk of paper and mills another time.’

  ‘There is one more thing. You were right. I would like a boon.’

  ‘Say on,’ her voice was colder but when he had detailed his request, she warmed again. ‘I understand,’ she said. ‘Your concern does you credit and I too know the... caprices of my Lady Aliénor. The girl will be safe, I can promise you that.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Her fingers curled and she extricated her hands from his. ‘We could make better use of this night,’ she said, stroking his hair and following the curls down to the opening of his jerkin, tracing the line of his neck with her index finger. ‘Rise, Dragonetz.’

  ‘It’s a little late for the command, my Lady,’ he smiled at her as he

  stood, allowing her into the circle of his arms. He loosed the pins trapping her coiffed hair, found the pale rose of her mouth and shut his eyes.

  ‘You’re trembling, Dragonetz,‘ she whispered.

  ‘It’s been a long time, my Lady. I won’t be able to stop, once we begin…’

  ‘We’ve already begun,’ she murmured, unlacing his jerkin and teasing the black hairs on his chest between her fingers, then searching lower, loosing the ties in her way. ‘I want you to explain to me some of the finer points of your recent songs.’

  ‘Your Viking will kill me,’ he tried.

  ‘Only if I tell him.’

  It took all his self-control to resist just a few seconds more, holding her away from him, warning her, ‘I won’t last long… this will be a disappointment for you.’

  ‘Then,’ she said, pressing closer, ‘We will pleasure you first and I will wait the second time for my jouissance.’ Raoulf would approve was Dragonetz’ la
st coherent thought before he let go, dissolving into the scent of Eastern oils and the smoothness of translucent skin. Shaking free of her own clothes, she stood pearl white and naked before him, smooth golden hair above and crinkled golden hair below. He reached out to touch the small breasts, firm as apples, and she caught his hand, drew it to her mouth and explored his fingers with her teeth and tongue. ‘Come’ she said, leading him to the canopied bed, and he did. Three times that extravagant night, leaving the rich fabrics of Narbonne crumpled and discarded and their mistress pink, gold and sleeping.

  Chapter 10.

  Aliénor took advantage of being alone to lean against the wall and ease her aching back. She was hoping to hide her pregnancy until after she returned to Paris, preferably until after the baby was born. From the moment it was public knowledge, she would be penned in like a prized brood-mare, banned from breathing in case it hurt the baby, subject to every passing whim of court priest or astronomer. She already had to fight for any say in matters of state and her growing belly would weigh in against her. She didn’t have to imagine the thousand slights expressed as compliments from important men to a woman whose worth was in her belly. She had heard them all last time around, had lived the nine month speculation on the heir-to-be, had dreamed her future as the mother of the King of France, finally able to achieve all of which she was capable. And then she gave birth to a daughter.

  Nothing had prepared her for the disappointment, for the eyes that didn’t meet hers as they offered hypocritical congratulations. The southern whore had failed. She read it in every gesture, especially in Louis’. His first words were, ‘Never mind, there will be another,’ and she knew when he sighed that he was thinking of the devil’s work he would have to do in her bed to get a second.

  Her own disappointment blazed into bitter resolve. She would show them all what a woman like her could do; a woman with all Aquitaine at her lightest sway. Her first move was to ensure that baby Marie was well-placed, her wet-nurse healthy and loyal, first link in the chain that would grow a royal princess. Little Marie’s mother would not underestimate the potential of the right daughter, brought up the right way - the southern way - and married to the right title.

  So, while Louis put on his long-suffering face and girded up his loins for another attempt, Aliénor ensured that her daughter was surrounded with hand-picked women from Aquitaine. The less interested in her that Louis and his frocked advisors were, the more time Marie would spend in Poitiers, enjoying her childhood and imbibing Occitan. In absence, Aliénor would bind her daughter to her so tightly that no-one would ever come between them, however many miles separated their bodies. By the time Marie’s betrothal was discussed, she would be Aquitaine’s forever. Her baby born and kissed good- bye, Aliénor had been swept up in the wave of Crusading fervor.

  Shifting uncomfortably in the window seat, her thoughts swerved from the two years abroad back to her womb. She was past the dangerous time at three months, and she carried well, so she was more irritated than worried at the thought of ‘being careful’ on grounds of her or the baby’s health but she knew that she had other reasons to be careful. They were no further forward in finding out who was behind the crossbow attempt on Dragonetz but it underlined the point that her knight was threatened, and so she was threatened. A warning? A first move? No-one could have known about the baby then. But now? Had anyone guessed? And if they did, what would they do? Instinctively she clasped her hands on the bump hidden beneath her gown.

  Of course, Dragonetz knew. And - she faced the unpleasant truth - he was drawing away from her, had been ever since Damascus. Just as she had left some part of herself bleeding on a stick, paraded on the battlements of Jericho along with Raymond’s head. But whatever the changes in herself, in Dragonetz, she was sure of his loyalty as her knight. She pondered his report on Ermengarda, the other person Aliénor had told about the baby. Like Dragonetz, Ermengarda seemed to be slipping away from Aliénor, and there was no question of binding the Viscomtesse of Narbonne with an oath of fealty to either Aquitaine or France.

  Three years had changed them all and Ermengarda, who knew nothing of desert or night ambushes, except what her merchants told her, had hardened into leadership in that time, in a different way from Aliénor but just as strong. It was no good harking back to the young girl who had swung on Aliénor’s arm, asking for advice on everything from perfume to judicial procedures, open in her admiration. When Aliénor looked at Ermengarda gravely explaining the organization of Narbonne to Bèatriz, she saw how they had been, herself and Ermengarda.

  Broody mare, she told herself as the loneliness threatened tears. This is why pregnant women cannot be trusted with affairs. Tears and smiles for nothing. And you know that Ermengarda had Advisors from the age of four, was born to Narbonne as you were to Aquitaine, was no naïve girl swinging on your arm but already back from leading a successful campaign. Ouch. That hurt. No-one would ever say that she, Aliénor had led a successful campaign.

  Goading herself away from self-pity, Aliénor considered what Dragonetz had told her and it fitted. Ermengarda was too much the ruler to assassinate her ex-husband on personal grounds and too much the trader to assassinate him for political reasons. ‘And that’s two weak spots, my Viscomtesse,’ murmured Aliénor aloud, ‘should ever I need them. Trade before politics and you hesitate to kill.’ She had smiled mysteriously when Dragonetz told her that Ermengarda was happy to have Toulouse gone, however it might have happened. He had made this a question and in the pause he left, Aliénor carefully said nothing, leaving her smile to say that perhaps a man’s murder was her doing and perhaps it wasn’t, much the way she presented it to herself. With a shrug, Dragonetz had told Aliénor that Ermengarda would not entertain for a minute the idea that Toulouse was dead by Aliénor’s order. ‘And that’s the third, my friend,’ Aliénor told herself, ‘You judge others by yourself.’

  And Dragonetz’ conclusion had been? That Ermengarda’s interests ran alongside those of Aliénor. She would keep a hold in the south against the new Toulouse while Aliénor was busy elsewhere and at such a time as it became practical, Narbonne would welcome a new Toulouse, the rightful heir.

  None of this was new. ‘What are you not telling me, Dragonetz?’ Aliénor asked herself. ‘Practical’ to Narbonne would always mean ‘good for trade’ so perhaps the support for her claim was qualified? Was Ermengarda tempted to an alliance with young Toulouse? Dragonetz was definite on that, a resounding never, to the extent that Ermengarda feared Raymond more than his father.

  Even though it was exactly what she had asked him to do, Aliénor wondered how Dragonetz was so sure of Ermengarda’s thoughts. She guessed at that answer too, putting to one side a memory of a young knight and her hands shaking as she took his oath and claimed him. Dragonetz had grown away from her and she was Duchesse d’Aquitaine and Queen of France. There was no room in her life for complications.

  But still. ‘What are you not telling me, Dragonetz?’ was still echoing in her head when Ermengarda announced herself and entered, with a request that made Aliénor forget Dragonetz completely.

  After a minimum of politeness, Ermengarda came straight to the point. ‘My friend, I know you have taken to this little would-be troubadour, you have showered her with gifts, treated her as a lady in your entourage and there is no questioning her talent - what a voice! - that, thanks to you, she has developed…’

  ‘But?’

  Ermengarda nodded, ‘She is treated as a lady but she is not living as one. Certain of my women are unhappy that someone who behaves as she does should be mixing with them, and in particular with my Lady Bèatriz.’

  ‘Who behaves as she does? Has she been rolling round the tables drunk or arm-wrestling your Vikings and I haven’t noticed?’ Aliénor laughed off the accusations.

  ‘Far from it,’ Ermengarda continued patiently, ‘in fact, in a married woman her behaviour would be considered perfectly acceptable but as a single woman, she should not be riding out alone with m
en or even singing and making music in a corner with two of them. I know,’ she cut off Aliénor’s protest. ‘I agree with you. The constraints are ridiculous. Estela is an artist, she should be free to learn, to discover the world for herself and to share her gift with the world. But if the Ladies are making malicious gossip, it isn’t good for Estela and it isn’t good for you. Here in Narbonne, neither of you can be hurt by a few nasty comments, there is space for you to breathe here, to enjoy some freedom, but in Paris?’

  Aliénor’s hand tightened on the stuff of her dress. She knew exactly what sort of malicious gossip flew round the streets of Paris and who was its target.

  ‘In Paris,’ Ermengarda continued inexorably, ‘you are not treated with the respect you should be. You cannot afford the accidental damage Estela will do to her own reputation and to yours. Imagine this beautiful girl at court talking freely to whoever she likes, as she did to Marcabru? It won’t work, Aliénor, you know it won’t! And you’ll just be giving more ammunition to your enemies while Estela herself becomes more and more unhappy.’

  ‘So you think I should get someone to talk to her, ensure she is chaperoned?’ Aliénor sighed. Why was everything she did weighed down by other people’s rules? Weariness flooded her at the thought of dealing with something so trivial. No-one would think she had ridden at the head of an army, faced Saracen blades, put fear in fighting men’s eyes. Give her a clean fight any day instead of struggling like a fly in the strands of court intrigues! ‘Or tell them go hang themselves!’ she rallied. ‘To hell with them!’

  ‘Or let me keep her in the south, for Narbonne,’ Ermengarda suggested quietly. ‘Protect her by finding her a suitable marriage. There is a merchant I would like to reward, a widower with children, who would be happy to render this service in return for securities for him and his family. Estela could stay here when you leave, continue her tuition of Bèatriz, become the troubadour you saw she could be, fulfil the promise you saw in her.’