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

by Jean Gill

  Ermengarda’s hair fell in a shimmer of pale gold down below her shoulders but the rest of her appearance, in high necked gown, fully laced, would have been appropriate for receiving any of her counsellors and Dragonetz knew that she had already understood. When she sat and invited him to join her, it was impossible not to remember the first time, to wonder if he were being a fool, but he knew he could not act differently. He waited, allowing her to lead, to put the face on events that she wished them to wear.

  ‘My friend, I believe the time for night rendezvous is over and this must be our last such.’ Her steady grey eyes sought his and found the confirmation they were looking for.

  ‘You are peerless, my Lady.’ He offered her all he could. ‘What we have shared was a song worth the singing and what we still share will last forever. What I have sworn to you is written on my soul.’

  ‘What you have sworn to Narbonne,’ she corrected coolly.

  ‘And are you not Narbonne?’ he was equally steady.

  ‘I am Narbonne.’ Her answer was expressionless. ‘I have been Narbonne since I was four years old. And Narbonne will indeed hold you to your promises.’ She reached out and he let her take his long hands in her own. ‘But Ermengarda gives you freedom. What will you do with it?’

  Dragonetz raised one white hand to his lips, inhaling almond oil and orange-water. ‘Nothing, my Lady.’ There was a silence. She withdrew her hands, rose and stood with her back to him, apparently contemplating two silver goblets and a jug of wine, untouched. He had stood up the minute she did, poised, waiting, ready to give everything he owed, to the last careful word.

  ‘If the prophecy had not been made, would you have kept on coming to me?’ Her voice was the same, even tone as usual.

  ‘The prophecy was made,’ he stated flatly.

  ‘And you reacted. I reacted. She reacted.’ Dragonetz said nothing. ‘And now it is not enough with me, without love. Yet you won’t go where love is. Why not?’

  He would have answered no-one else such a question. ‘War wounds,’ he answered softly. She must know - who better? - that there was no physical damage between him and his desires.

  ‘You are wrong,‘ she told him, clearly, unselfishly.

  ‘Tort-n’avetz,’ he told her, turning her own favourite expression back against her, the nickname he had coined in the new songs he was writing for her, the nickname that the Gyptian had seen accompanying her into the future, when she would be truly loved.

  ‘I am not the one,’ he said. ‘And you are not for taking lightly. There will be someone worthy, my Lady.’

  ‘Tort-n’avetz,’ she responded as the door opened and closed quietly and a tear dropped onto the hand that steadied itself round a silver goblet.

  Estela braided her hair into two long plaits, which she coiled on each side of her head and experimentally fastened under her matron’s veil and peaked head-dress. They tumbled down, failing to maintain the fiction that she was a married woman and she brushed them out again angrily, making the hair spark and frizz. She had passed her three Tobias nights as a maiden and after the fourth night she should have announced to the world that she was now a married woman. Her mouth set in a grim line as she determined that she would soon rectify anything missing from what the word ‘married’ implied and before that, she would confront Ermengarda over what exactly Johans de Villeneuve was supposed to be to her. She had turned his words over and over in her head, that he had loved his dead wife and that he understood the situation. She was glad someone did!

  With a pleasure that surprised her, Estela noted that Sancha was back from whatever family business had taken her to Provence. She had undoubtedly brought news from the east, the state of play between the Lords of les Baux and Raimon Berenguer of Barcelone and how it had been affected by the death of Roger Trencavel and succession of his brother. In her turn, Estela looked forward to sharing all that she had gleaned on the Angevin attempt on England and her frustration at the impasse on tracking down the spy in the camp. Unfortunately, the pleasures and distractions of intelligent conversation would have to wait as it was understood between Estela and Sancha that they guard a certain distance in public, the better to draw out contradictions in the Ladies’ confidences. Sancha’s elegant silk back, resolutely turned towards the younger woman, was a reminder of this and Estela resigned herself to another day of embroidery talk and fruitless fishing for news of any interest in a pool she had now emptied. A servant confirmed that Ermengarda would receive her before mid-day meal, a prospect which occupied so much of her mind that she missed the warning signals when Philippa de Lyon joined her.

  Early in her investigations, Estela had judged Philippa to be harmless. A dumpy, unmarried girl with a face reminiscent of the Lyon delicacies, tripe and sausage, that she spoke about with more passion than she managed for her husband-to-be, a wealthy merchant in the textile trade. Only hint at the Lyon motto, ‘Avant, avant, Lion le Melhor’ and Philippa would talk for hours on exactly why Lyon was the best but anything off her limited range of subjects left her floundering. She was not, however, unaware of more personal gossip and Estela had yet to learn that ‘harmless’ with regard to organising an assassination did not necessarily imply ‘harmless’ in more everyday interaction.

  ‘Not yet adopting your married status,’ was the opening comment, aimed at Estela’s appearance and spoken apparently without guile. Estela responded to Philippa’ smile abstractedly but with no reserve. ‘Some of the Ladies have been taking bets as to when you would pin up your hair, or even whether you ever would.’ Estela’s smile faded and she clasped her hands together in her lap, waiting. ‘Aimée said that you'd keep your hair down after you'd had the message.’

  Even when the baiting was obvious, the options were few, if she wanted to find out what was behind all this. And Estela very much wanted to find out. ‘The message?’ she queried, smoothly.

  Malicious eyes glinted like shiny favours in a galette des rois. ‘The message from Johans de Villeneuve.’

  Estela’s pride would allow no other response. ‘Oh, of course,’ she said. ‘That message.’

  ‘I did wonder if she should have told us. I said, Aimée, I said, do you think you ought to be telling us a private message for Estela but I remember exactly what she said. Aimée said, ‘Estela won’t mind one bit. We are all friends here aren’t we.’ And that’s true and of course she’s right and you don’t mind a bit, do you?’

  Estela imagined drawing the knife out from her skirts and carving chunks out of the flesh quivering in front of her before she found something more painful to do to Aimée. She had forgotten what girls could be like, she who’d climbed trees and crossed wooden swords with the boys who peopled the courtyards and outbuildings. She’d been motherless and free, choosing fisticuffs over barbed words. Her fists curled tight as she controlled herself. One dagger might have stayed in her under-shift but she couldn’t keep the others out of her eyes. ‘I don’t mind one bit.’ She tried to keep her teeth from gritting, her voice from rasping and, truthfully, added ‘that Aimée told you.’ No, what she minded to the bone was that no-one had told her!

  ‘Well, that’s what I said, and of course the message was so plain. It wasn’t as if he’d said lovebird rhymes like Aimée gets.’

  ‘From her husband, I assume,’ Estela saw that she’d scored with that reply as they both knew the source of Aimée’s romantic little morsels, delivered by page-boy every time a certain local burgher came to market.

  Philippa was shocked. ‘You wouldn’t expect that from a husband, not messages like Aimée gets.’ Why? wondered Estela. Because she was unlovable? Because her husband was not such a man? How odd that word ‘husband’ continued to sound. Had she dreamed this strange wedding? The prattle continued. ‘And just saying what he meant, no more than that, just telling you that he’d left for Villeneuve as planned and should you ever have business matters to contact him via his man Conti da Manho the woodseller. Of course he said sorry for slipping off at the banquet, bu
t he hadn’t wanted to draw attention to the two of you so as Aimée was such a good friend of yours, he thought you’d forgive him passing the message on that way. Nice message, wasn’t it. But me, I’d have worn my hair up straight away and I lost three hair-slides to Aimée. She guessed you wouldn’t!’ Philippa shook her head at the amazing perspicacity of Aimée, as did Estela.

  ‘That was just so sweet of Aimée to tell Johans,’ the name stuck to her tongue, ‘that we are friends. I really do owe her something.’

  ‘Oh,’ a tinkling laugh, ‘don’t you worry about that. I think Aimée has won enough finery to repay her fully for carrying the message.’

  ‘No.’ This time Estela knew her teeth were gritted. ‘I insist, I must personally repay Aimée for her role in this message. I will need to think about it.’

  Philippa was conciliating. ‘If you want. The bet's over now so you might as well keep your hair down.’ With that, Estela was left in what passed on the exterior for peace, as she shut out the knots of women laughing and glancing in her direction, even Sancha. If there was sympathy in Sancha’s eyes, Estela was too angry too appreciate it. She jabbed a needle into what could have been a handkerchief and would certainly become a duster and at each stab she aimed at Aimée’s eyes and tongue until finally it was time to place her unrecognizable attempts at entwined royal initials in the campherwood chest with the rest of the linens. She nodded a curt quittance to the Ladies, wishing them all in hell, and went to her interview with Ermengarda. This was hardly likely to improve her day.

  The Viscomtesse was motionless at the window when Estela entered the ante-chamber and at first she wondered if she had misheard the command to enter, so still was the figure, stiff in blue damask with white trimmings. Like the Virgin Mary, thought Estela bitterly, then was ashamed of the thought when Ermengarda turned round. She was paler than usual, ethereal, her words weighted with the responsibility for Narbonne.

  ‘I am sorry. I have had little time to speak to you, Estela. I think you understand the difficulties of the time. At least,’ she gave one of her rare smiles, a hint of the girl she might have been if she had grown up playing in the meadows or the river shallows instead of listening to disputes over land contracts. ‘At least, my Lord Dragonetz tells me that you have a grasp of the times that will serve us both well.’

  Estela had been schooled in a harder setting than ever her music mentor could have devised and she could control any sign of her reaction to his name, which came so easily to the lips that had just as easily come to his. She could not control the rage heating to white inside her from every injustice that the day could bring.

  ‘My Lady,’ she began. She could only speak straight and true then judge the response. To this fragile ruler she had offered allegiance, or rather had it offered for her. Was Ermengarda worth the candle? ‘You have honoured me in bestowing my hand, in accepting me to your entourage but you will forgive me if I am bemused at finding my life unchanged - or maybe worse, as I no longer develop my skills as a musician and am uncertain as to what I owe to the man who stood beside me at the church gate four days ago.’

  Grey eyes levelled with stormy topaz, read what they could. ‘Let me answer the last question first. Nothing. You owe Johans de Villeneuve nothing and he expects nothing. I have granted you the privilege of a marriage as civilised as the one which my friends found for me. The freedom of a married woman.’ Estela lowered her eyes to hide her knowledge of how Ermengarda took her freedom. ‘Respectable status, financial independence and most of all an end to the tedium of the bidding circus, men performing like little dogs to win you as the puppet-prize, all of them hoping to jerk your strings while they rule. I realise that you do not have Narbonne to offer the highest bidder but believe me, what you have was enough to attract the dogs.’ Estela had a bizarre image of Nici dancing like a bear to compete for her affections. It was silly enough to lift for a second the clouds threatening her. ‘Johans de Villeneuve is a citizen I respect. He will never make any demands on you, he will never cheat you, he will never try to profit from the turn of the wheel that will take you far far above him. He loved his wife and seeks no other. He has the heirs he needs. And his existence will always protect you from the dogs. But I thought you knew all of this.’ Ermengarda’s forehead lined at the need to explain what had been clear in the first place.

  Estela flushed, feeling naive. ‘I guessed, my Lady, but it helps me to hear it said. It is not how things worked in Montbrun.’

  ‘I can imagine. But I would rather you learned court manners and left Montbrun behind you.’ However gracious, it was still a warning. Estela inclined her head. She had already said goodbye to Montbrun with all her heart. Now she was saying goodbye to the marriage she had imagined for four days. What a fool she had been and how everyone must be laughing at the rustic from the gutter.

  ‘But in answer to your first question, I find I am at fault. I can only plead the boring, essential concerns of Narbonne that have come between me and my duties as host and patron of the arts. You have a rare talent and I have no intention of hiding it under a bushel. I would very much like you to play for me on the night of the summer solstice. It is time we celebrated love, for its own sake, for the sake of all those in love, for the summer.’ Why should Ermengarda look so wistful, she who had everything? ‘Yes, we shall make music for Aliénor to carry back to France in her heart, to warm her during the cold Paris nights. You and Dragonetz shall entertain me with all the new songs he promises me he has written and we will throw off our cares for one night.’

  Estela was not rustic enough to consider this a request and she curtsied her obeisance, risking only, ‘Is the Queen returning soon to France?’

  ‘I think she must.’ Before the pregnancy was too far advanced. And back to Paris with Aliénor would go her Commander, her Troubadour. No wonder Ermengarda was wistful and wanted a night of love songs before their parting. Estela left the ante-chamber with the fury inside her growling its need for action and she knew of only one place she could go, one place she had always gone when she had been hit, when she had been cursed, when her father had married again. She was going to the stables.

  Brushing heedless past the anonymous palace servants in Narbonne livery, clerks in the same black and white as their accounts, occasional court finery of feathers, silks and lace, Estela saw nothing that she passed. Not the people, not the grand entrance with the steps on which the Viscomtesse had greeted the Queen just weeks earlier. Not the switch from palace people to trade bustle, working leather aprons and hessian jerkins, hand-carts and laden donkeys. She didn’t even notice the blast of heat as she marched from the cool of the old stone, protecting the Palace interior with walls as thick as a man’s girth, into the mid-day sun, merciless on the open courtyard.

  Storming across the cobbles, her summer boots tapping an angry rhythm, Estela snatched at thoughts that buzzed and bit like gnats, ‘Unfair!’ the recurring refrain. The smell of the first stable-block reached her before she unlatched the half-door and entered the world of soft snorts and sweet straw, wax and warm leather, but it was not enough to calm her. She blinked in the sudden darkness, then, as her eyes adjusted, saw the horses in their byres, shifting restlessly, flicking at flies with tails and manes. There seemed to be no-one in the stables but her and she was gripped with a sense of anticlimax that only fuelled her bitterness. Unfair!

  Then she heard regular, working sounds in the last byre, behind the partition, sounds that could only be human. Picking her way past over the drifts of straw, mouth in a determined line, Estela headed towards the noise. It was always possible that it was someone else, in which case she would bid him good-day, ask after Tou and return to lunch, where anyone civilised would already be taking a seat. She was so certain that it was going to be someone else - Unfair! - that it was a shock to see the familiar chopped brown hair and bare back bending and straightening, pitching clean straw into place. Estela watched for a minute, deliberately, allowing herself the visual pleasure of muscles
that gleamed even in the shadows, bronzed skin. Her eyes traced the hollow of his spine down to the twin shadows that curved into his hose and then, with a deep breath, she walked forward and placed her hand flat on the smooth tanned skin of his back, saying, ‘Peire de Quadra.’

  The boy straightened slowly, as if frozen by her touch and her voice, unable to pretend that neither existed. It was probably only a few seconds that they stood in this fashion but to Estela it seemed a glorious, rebellious eternity, her palm absorbing the heat from a man’s skin, her senses filled with sweet animal scents. She said his name again as she dropped her hand to her side and he turned round to face her, the pitchfork like a weapon between them.

  For a moment, Estela felt awkward. What would a man do? ‘Put that out of the way,’ she told the boy and he obeyed, his blue eyes round and wary, never leaving her face. Following the instructions of a thousand songs, she reached up to meet his lips with her own and she found a softness and willingness that lit the tinder-box of her emotions into mindless fire. She placed her hand on the light brush of hair low on his naked stomach and she moved her hand down, onto his skimpy hose, to the place she hoped would make her purpose clear. He gasped and she felt his response, a leap against her hand, like a fish in a stream.

  ‘Do you know how to do this?’ she breathed. He nodded. ‘Then do it,’ she ordered, running her hand once more down this male body that was hers to command. She surrendered to the sweetness of his arms around her, crushing her against him and then he turned her, pushed her prone onto the straw and the sweetness stopped. Straw in her nose made her sneeze but it hurt her neck to lift her head so she lay, her face sideways in the prickly bedding, trying to speak but too choked. What would she have said? Please stop? This isn’t what I wanted? Too late to snatch the dagger from her skirts and defend her honour. Too late.