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

by Jean Gill

  Independent for life. Singing at the court of Narbonne. Able to follow her dream, develop her own composition and maybe one day even perform her own songs. She was sixteen and had an amazing future. Her mother would have been so proud of her. So what was the problem? Or rather, the problems.

  Marriage scared her. She thought back to the few, precious conversations with her mother about managing a household, about supporting her husband politically, about bearing him an heir. Surrounded by farm animals in her childhood, Estela knew exactly what would be expected of her on her wedding night and although she felt nervous, she acknowledged some curiosity and the desire to become a woman - and to be recognised as a woman. Her mother had no need to warn her that songs of romance were not the daily fabric of married life, even of happy married life, and it was no coincidence that lovers in songs were never married, or at least not to each other.

  No, Estela was not likely to confuse overheated blood with a decision on how she would live the rest of her life. But who was this Johans de Villeneuve? He was obviously old, at least forty, to have children her age and older. Was he ugly? Why did he want to marry her? What would he expect from her? Had he even seen her? It was obvious that he was Ermengarda’s man and this marriage, with all the promised bounty, was a sign to everyone of the Viscomtesse’s favour.

  Was Estela ready to be Ermengarda’s woman? She was just getting used to belonging to Aliénor and now she had been given away. Her momentary resentment that Aliénor should part with her so easily disappeared when she remembered the Queen’s words. ‘Paris is a form of imprisonment for a woman of spirit and the days vary only in the forms of torture. I do not wish on you what I cannot escape. This proposal is as much my gift to you, for the glory of your voice and of your future, as it is that of my Lady Ermengarda. I hope you will take this life we offer you in both hands and soar, take flight for me too. I have chosen a different path but I envy you.’

  It was clear that Johans de Villeneuve would accept an absent wife, given that Estela would live at the Palace and have court duties. Her mother’s advice on household management would not be put to use, not yet at least. Would he then visit her at the Palace? For duties of the bedchamber? She supposed so. And although he had heirs already, no-one could suppose he had enough children, having only four. With one sweep of plague, mortality ended all plans. Yes, she was nervous at the idea of having children but she was more than old enough, so she would do her duty. She would be the woman her mother had hoped and her questions would be answered after her marriage, when she would truly find out what manner of man Johans de Villeneuve was. Until then, she must trust to Ermengarda to have chosen with Estela’s interest at heart. There was no doubt that Ermengarda believed she had done so. Estela fingered her Pathfinder rune, tracing the graven paths.

  ‘This is the one I must take,’ she whispered. ‘Ermengarda, Narbonne, a future with music. And Johans de Villeneuve.’ And the path not taken? Her fingers traced an opposite path on the clasp and she saw a blue ribbon, a crooked smile and a song at dawn as two lovers parted. She flinched away from the clasp as if it were white-hot and as soon as she broke the contact, the images left her. She shook the silliness out of her head and thought about the one problem that she really must resolve, and before the wedding. A woman could not marry under a pseudonym.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by hooves thundering towards her and for a crazy moment she thought she had conjured up the man in her head, come to sweep her off on a black charger.

  ‘Estela!’ Arnaut greeted her, out of breath, his cheeks pink and his grey eyes shining. His blonde hair flew out like a halo and he looked like a beautiful avenging angel in his working armour. His horse was not black and was not a charger. It was slightly overweight and puffing hard from the unaccustomed labour. It skittered a little at the sight of Nici as Arnaut pulled up. ‘Dragonetz sent me after you.’

  ‘Did he now,’ she said drily.

  ‘It’s not safe, riding round on your own!’

  ‘According to Ermengarda’s Ladies, being with you is even less safe!’ she retorted.

  Arnaut flushed. ‘Normally, I would avoid adding to gossip about you but I am following orders!’ Estela bit back a sarcastic response and was glad she had when he continued, ‘But I would have followed you anyway. This,’ he fingered the chain round his neck leading to her token, ‘this means something to me. I have sworn to you and if there is any threat to you, I won’t allow it.’ Estela felt old beside his young man’s passion but then she reminded herself that however young he sounded, he had seen action Oltra mar and his sword was no toy. Neither was he and she must be careful.

  ‘What makes you think there is some threat to me?’ she asked slowly.

  ‘Dragonetz says you are to be married.’

  Estela’s mouth tightened in annoyance but she answered the man who was beside her not the one who wasn’t. ‘This is true but it is... very recent news.’

  Undeterred, Arnaut pointed out, ‘I think Dragonetz knows about things before they happen.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘I have to ask you two serious things, Estela, and I want you to think before you give me an answer, not to tell me today. You don’t have to marry this man if you don’t want to.’ Estela’s heart dipped as she guessed what he was going to say. ‘I would be honoured to have you as my wife.’

  ‘Arnaut,’ she began but he cut her off.

  ‘Please, let me finish. I know that you said there could be nothing but friendship between us. Perhaps love on my side and friendship on yours would make a better marriage than this man you don’t know!’ He rushed on. ‘And if your answer is still no, if you want me to kill him for you, I will.’

  Estela swallowed, hard. ‘Arnaut, I have to answer now because otherwise the question will just be hanging over us. My answer won’t change.’ She glanced at his profile, set and stern as he rode beside her. ‘There is no easy way to say this. I wish I did love you but I don’t, not in that way.’

  ‘You love this man you’re marrying even less!’

  ‘So nothing more is expected and no-one will be disappointed! You deserve someone worthy of you. No, don’t contradict me, I’m only speaking now of this feeling that you have. Yes, we are friends and I want us to stay friends. If we married, what hurt it would cause, to you and me as well as those around you! And that is if we behaved stupidly and married against all good sense so let’s talk sense as well as love. Raoulf would be happy, wouldn’t he, with you marrying a pauper found in a ditch! You know I would have nothing if I turned down my Lady’s generosity.’

  ‘My father doesn’t have a say in everything,’ muttered Arnaut.

  ‘And I am sure your mother would welcome me to her fireside, where I would sit doing embroidery while you were following Dragonetz on his latest campaign. And I would beg your parents for a new dress or even some coin to go to market.’

  ‘I have some income.’ Arnaut’s voice was low.

  ‘Which will grow when you meet the heiress of your dreams.’ Estela refrained from adding ‘And the dreams of your parents.’ There was no need to rub the message in further. ‘We are not children and we must make adult decisions.’

  ‘So you don’t want him killed,’ Arnaut stated bleakly.

  ‘I want you to be nice to him. Unless of course at any time I change my mind and ask you to kill him.’

  ‘You only have to ask,’ he promised.

  ‘That’s very reassuring. Enough of all this. The topic of my marriage has a limited interest. Tell me how the paper mill is going.’ Although she started the tangent to distract Arnaut, Estela found herself more and more involved in the intricacies of drying, cutting and shipping paper. She had not realised that things had progressed so far and it was in amicable and animated conversation about the possibility of brand-marking paper that the two of them returned to Narbonne.

  In the privacy of her room, Estela shook off her amazement at receiving two marriage proposals in one day, and found that she
had come to a decision. If her marriage was ordained, then so was the revelation of her name. She could ask for a small audience but she would have to be married under the name given her at birth. And she would have to take the risk that word would reach those she had so recently escaped from. This time, however, she would be ready for them. Nici belched and rolled on his back in the doorway of the bedchamber.

  Chapter 12.

  Ermengarda and Aliénor had received Estela in private as she requested but the air was frosty with regal impatience at spending time on trivia.

  ‘Well?’ Ermengarda demanded. ‘I assume Guillelma has the arrangements in hand. I gather that next Wednesday, the seventh day before the Ides of June, is acceptable in the eyes of the Lord as represented by our dear Archbishop, who is sending a priest to bless the union. My Chancellor will officiate and I will authorise the contracts. Have I forgotten something?’

  This was not going to be easy. ‘I think you should know who I am, my Lady.’

  The voice softened a shade. ‘Don’t worry. My favour, and that of the Queen of France, makes you a very desirable match, however lowly your birth. And as your liege lord, I will replace your family and vouch for you contractually.’

  ‘Believe me, your Lady, I understand the honour and couldn’t be more sensible of it.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But I fear an objection from my family when they hear of it. I am Roxane, daughter to the Castellan of Montbrun.’

  ‘God’s blood and are you indeed!’ swore Ermengarda.

  ‘Montbrun?’ queried Aliénor, smoothing the apron of her skirt over the hidden bump, a gesture that was becoming habitual.

  ‘A minor noble but a noble all the same. And in the Corbières, with Carcassonne as liege not me, so that makes it more difficult - not to say impossible - for me to play Lady Bountiful over an outraged father. This smells of unpleasant lawsuits. Let me think.’

  ‘And if I sent to your father for his consent? With news of your advancement and suitable appreciation?’ suggested Aliénor.

  ‘He’d never consent, not if a host of Turks were waving their scimitars outside the walls of his Chateau and made it their condition for lifting the siege!’

  ‘And the reason for this rift?’

  ‘Family matters, my Lady.’ The silence spread, with its invitation to expand on this terse explanation, but Estela was silent.

  ‘It would be irresponsible of me to deny a father’s rights,’ judged Ermengarda’s cool tones, ‘especially on such little evidence. I should let him know that you are here.’

  ‘Others will do that soon enough once my name is known!’ Estela’s bitterness brought bile into her throat, the sour taste of a forced return to all she had hoped to escape. Her knees trembled and she clenched her teeth to steady herself, fixing her eyes firmly on a mottled black stain on the stone floor, which turned from a flower to a bird to a dagger wound as she tried to still her thoughts. It was the unexpected hand of the Duchesse d’Aquitaine that raised her chin and met golden eyes with intelligent green ones.

  ‘Estela is still in my household, Ermengarda, until such time as she marries, and I am a little weary of the rights of fathers. I have yet to see the lawsuit that declares against the right of the Queen of France to marry her vassal, given the willingness of the two parties to be married of course.’

  Ermengarda’s brow was still wrinkled and she was forthright. ‘I don’t like it. This will brew trouble near enough Narbonne to be my problem.’ The implication was clear - and far enough away from Aquitaine and France to allow Aliénor to meddle with impunity. ‘I said to let me think! I haven’t said we can’t find a way. Carcassonne...’ she mused.

  ‘Roger Trencavel de Carcassonne is liege lord to Montbrun,’ Estela confirmed.

  ‘Not any more,’ stated Aliénor. Estela just looked at her. ‘Word came last week from Bernarda that her husband is dead.’ Estela cursed her lack of attention to the Ladies’ gossip. Of course this explained the absence from Aliénor’s household of his niece Alis, as well as fifty other pieces of speculation which had floated over Estela while she strummed with Bèatriz. So Roger Trencavel was dead. Like so many, he had been ailing since his return from Crusades and whatever gnawed at him turned inward, obsessing about the construction of great walls around the city. With light-headed fancy, Estela hoped he’d seen the walls finished before he died. Roger dead and childless meant Bernarda relegated to second rank; no wonder she was sending messages to Narbonne. And liege lord to Montbrun was now Roger’s younger brother, Raimon.

  Ermengarda gave one of her rare smiles, a flicker of warmth lighting the alabaster skin. ‘I do believe that Roger Trencavel, Viscomte de Carcassonne wrote to me before his death, conferring a charge on me.’ Estela was lost but to judge from Aliénor’s dancing eyes, she was ahead of the game.

  ‘I believe I remember the very missive, concerning one of his subjects, a Roxane de Montbrun and giving signed permission for her to join the household of Ermengarda of Narbonne and marry according to the choice of her protectress, the Viscomtesse of Narbonne, should the said Roxane be so willing.’

  Reluctant as she was to question the solution, Estela felt compelled to point out, ‘My father will never believe it.’

  ‘That, my dear, is the beauty of it.’ Ermengarda was triumphant. ‘Whether he believes it or not, he will get no contradiction from Roger Trencavel, whose authority he cannot but accept, and he has no grounds to challenge the word of Narbonne.’

  Slowly taking in her own benefit from the death of her ostensible liege lord, Estela was still taking in the wider implications and she risked breaking into Ermengarda’s smug mood with further questions.

  ‘Raimon Trencavel is already Viscomte de Béziers and d’Agde, under the Comte de Barcelone; with Carcassonne, Albi, and Razès, that puts him under the Comte de Toulouse as well for those fiefs - an uneasy combination of loyalties!’

  ‘Quite,’ agreed Aliénor, replying to a warning look from Ermengarda with, ‘The more the girl knows, the more useful she will be. Roger was solid as Carcassonne rock in separating the Viscomtesse from that predator Alphonse and has held his fortress as Narbonne’s ally in Toulouse territory. Raimon is a very different case. He and Toulouse were thick as crusading thieves until their return. It seems Toulouse was unhappy with his friend’s oath to Barcelone and now, with Carcassonne his, Raimon returns to the shadow of Toulouse. Which way he will jump with his new overlord, his ex-friend, remains to be seen.’

  As if the shadow of Toulouse had no power to squeeze a mailed fist around the heart of Narbonne, Ermengarda said, ‘I’m sure Estela has need to speak with Guillelma, the matter of a wedding gown and so forth, so we won’t keep you.’ Estela took the hint and curstied her exit but there was someone else she wanted to talk to before she sought out Guillelma. Someone who might shed a little more light on an assassination attempt, or at least on broken glass. Assuming, of course, that Dragonetz was wrong.

  ‘Aliénor didn’t send for me, did she,’ observed Lady Sancha, looping her skirts over her arm as she accompanied Estela across an internal courtyard.

  ‘No, she didn’t. I wanted to talk to you in private, without making others curious.

  Lady Sancha’s mouth pursed in unexpected approval and she nodded. ‘You’re learning. Shall we?’ She indicated a bower seat, overgrown with a vine, in a shady corner, one of Ermengarda’s experiments with Moorish gardening. They sat, spreading their silk skirts like exotic flowers against the background of stone and leaf.

  ‘You don’t like me, do you?’ Estela gazed straight ahead, at water bubbling over a stone into a square pool. Al-Hisba could no doubt explain to her how the water flowed endlessly. Wheels within wheels, with hammers, probably. Estela could feel the human warmth of the body beside her on the seat. They were too close for facing each other but Estela sensed the questioning glance that brushed her face and returned to that same enigmatic pool.

  ‘Oh, my dear,’ was the unsatisfactory response, with a
sigh.

  Irritated, Estela continued. ‘There’s no point pretending any more. I know you’re a spy and an assassin, and I’m going to put a stop to it.’

  ‘And how did you make this amazing deduction?’

  This was not going to plan. Gritting her teeth, Estela continued, ‘I’ve watched you among the Ladies, gathering information, asking clever questions.’

  ‘And no-one could accuse you of that,’ Sancha interrupted drily.

  Estela flushed. ‘The Queen doesn’t check up on you. If you ask her to give her seal to her message, she does, and I bet one of those messages was a safe passage for the arbalestier. Even Dragonetz trusts you - God knows why - so it was easy enough for you to get his password and send word to Arnaut at Douzens that there would be a friendly crossbow on the road and to ignore it.’

  ‘And why exactly did I want to kill Dragonetz, who, as you so rightly say, trusts me? Surely he is more use to me alive.’

  ‘Money,’ said Estela succinctly. ‘You need a great deal of money. Guillelma gossips, you know, and your dresses, your jewels, your finery are all beyond the means of a small estate in Provence. So someone paid you to kill Dragonetz.’

  ‘Ouch! A hit!’ Sancha laid a dramatic hand over her heart. ‘And do we know who this someone is?’

  ‘The knights. It’s not about Aliénor at all. It’s about the mill. The knights, the white friars, the Archbishop - they all want to stop Dragonetz at any price.’

  ‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about but it does seem poor Dragonetz has acquired rather a lot of enemies.

  ‘And then you tried to get rid of me from Aliénor’s household. If I hadn’t appeared at table when expressly summoned to play that night, I would have been dismissed by Aliénor.’

  ‘Back in the ditch she found you in,’ agreed Sancha helpfully, adding even more colour to Estela’s cheeks.