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

by Jean Gill

  ‘It got worse,’ Estela told Dragonetz. ‘Everything was turned against me and I finally realised that she wouldn’t be happy till I was dead. I got out.’

  ‘And your brother?’

  ‘Didn’t believe me either,’ she said shortly. ‘But his turn will come. She will secure her future and her children’s future, should they be so lucky as to be born, by killing him or marrying him. Either is possible. Anything is possible. If she spoke to you, it would take seconds and you would believe her too.’

  He took her head in both hands. ‘Never.’ And he took her mind off the past with a wildness that took them both to new heights. There was something untamed about him, an unpredictability that sparked fire between them. Just when she thought the flames were tamped down, temporarily, he told her, ‘The Church has a useful edict detailing all that is forbidden.’

  ‘I am aware of it,’ she replied, lowering her eyes demurely.

  ‘I propose we work our way through the entire list so as to have a better understanding of sin and repent more fully, unless of course you find anything distasteful or painful.’ As he was already engaging as promised in an activity that was definitely on the Church’s proscribed list, and was very very pleasurable, Estela made a noise in response, which seemed to be taken as assent.

  Afterwards, he murmured as he lay beside her, ‘Why, I do believe I am repentant after all. I have never been as tired in my life. And as it is you who have been wronged, you must declare a penance for me.’ She did. ‘When I’m recovered,’ he whispered, and kept his promise. She learned to make his body her playground, trading scar for scar, discovering a warrior’s closest escapes etched in his skin. With her eyes shut, she could distinguish between each type of hair on his lean body, silky under his arms and tapering down his back, thicker tufts on his chest. She knew how many handspans measured the distance up his spine or between the ridges of his shoulder-blades. She knew the exact tension of his thigh muscles against her own and the fit of him to her, in the shelter of her arm, in the curl of two spoons nestling, his hand on her breast, in passion, over and over.

  They were exhausting each other. She ached inside and out and could think of nothing else. They could not continue at this pitch. They couldn’t stop. They had to stay awake in order to sing together at a banquet.

  Arnaut had never seen a banquet like it. He was sure he was full at the end of the second course, gorged on herring, mutton in wine sauce, chicken in almonds and all of it flavoured with any combination of ginger, sugar, vinegar, wine, raisins, mace, cloves, cumin, cardamom, cinnamon, pepper, and honey. If he had not visited the kitchens beforehand, he would not of course have recognised any of the meats either by taste or appearance, so transformed they were by food colourants of indigo, red and yellow.

  There was no mistaking the meats of the third course and even those accustomed to the French court gasped as the servers brought in the platters, fifteen more dishes to delight the eye and the stomach. The long-tusked boar was laid on the table with due ceremony but remained disappointingly ordinary until carved open to reveal the cockerel roasted inside it, which in its turn revealed sweetmeats in its recesses, to general applause around the Great Hall as the various dishes were displayed and duplicated on the crowded tables.

  Arnaut found that a man’s appetite could revive with an appropriate appeal to his senses and for him, it was the glazed pilgrim that awoke his abused stomach to demand more. The biggest pike he had ever seen had been boiled at the head, fried in the middle, roasted at the tail and was served in heraldic pose alongside a roast eel, on an edible background of the colours of Narbonne, with the black of burnt bread crumbs etching the lines. Ermengarda’s cooks must have prepared for weeks, commandeering cart-loads of hens, herrings, rabbits, game birds and sheep, and five thousand eggs was probably an underestimate.

  Arnaut helped himself to one of the fruit dishes (plums baked in wine and spiced with cinnamon) that accompanied the boar, pike and venison, and let the conversation drift around him. As bellies warmed, anticipation of the evening’s entertainment was growing and amongst discussion of the food was comparison of the various troubadours who had passed this way. The title of ‘Best’ kept returning to two men. Marcabru had his devotees but it was generally agreed that Dragonetz was his equal as a lyricist and beat him for range and performance. It would be something to tell one’s children. And of course this would be his last performance as he would be off back to Paris with the Queen. As for this protégée of Aliénor’s, tutored by Dragonetz, she was a treat for the eyes and the ears, if not of the same quality. You wouldn’t expect it from a woman, would you.

  Beside Arnaut, al-Hisba kept the same discipline in his thoughts that he had in his eating habits, hiding all emotion in the foreign swathes of cloth that marked him out in the company he kept. As usual, he hadn’t touched the wine and had even been abstemious with the glorious feast spread before him. Arnaut felt a stab of irritation with al-Hisba, who showed no amazement at the final subtlety, each course having been followed by these marchpane fancies.

  The last one was a full-size table-piece sculpted as a merchant ship with a likeness of Ermengarda as figure-head, extending the blazon of Narbonne to a crowned figure, flying impossibly, attached to the whole only by Ermengarda’s hand. The symbolism of friendship and alliance was obvious but it seemed to Arnaut that Ermengarda came off better than Aliénor, whose giddy flight was all too true to life. In following Dragonetz, Arnaut had followed Aliénor, in all her crazes, through Courts and Crusades.

  Someone was brave enough to break off the two rulers and the marchpane circulated. Arnaut chewed absently on the sweet almond paste of Ermengarda’s finger. He had followed Dragonetz and felt he was part of his inner circle. Recently he had felt more and more shut out. At first he had been an equal at the mill but al-Hisba’s obvious expertise had left Arnaut more and more dispensable until he had stopped trying to keep up and went there only under orders.

  Fighting in the Jewish Quarter, exercising in the woods, sleeping under the stars, Arnaut realised what he was losing. He washed down the sweet with another glass of wine. Who was al-Hisba anyway? It wasn’t like Dragonetz to let someone into his life like that. It had taken Arnaut years, campaigns together, fighting back to back, earning his place. He hoped Dragonetz wouldn’t regret it. Moors weren’t like Christians, however good they were at channelling water. He was definitely not going to use his trencher again and he slipped the hunk of dried bread under the table to a willing dog.

  Tables were cleared, the buzz was rising and it was time for the performance to start. Arnaut saw Dragonetz and Estela leave the top table, take their place in the limelight, tune their instruments. From the first note, there was no doubt that this was to be a virtuoso performance from a master, who drew tears and laughter from his audience, as he wished. Only to be expected, the satisfied expressions of his audience suggested. But what no-one anticipated was the quality of his little protégée, become his antithesis, his counterpoint, his muse, his follower, his leader, his lady, his star, his equal. Outstanding as each was alone, in their duets the connection between them charged the Hall with magic. At first, Arnaut let the music carry him to a world of love and loss, courtesy and conflict, the two voices interweaving with his very soul,

  ‘I don’t know what he did but it worked,’ murmured al-Hisba. ‘She is superb.’

  ‘I know what he did!’ Whether it was al-Hisba’s words, or some heightened intensity between the singers that opened Arnaut’s eyes, he couldn’t say but suddenly he knew. Pike, venison, boar, plums and marzipan nearly returned onto the table as he controlled his reaction. Had he looked that way, he would have seen the Viscomtesse of Narbonne as pale as he was, and for the same reason, however much her expression showed the appropriate pleasure and appreciation, but all Arnaut’s attention was focused on escaping. He untangled himself clumsily from the bench and shouldered aside anyone in his way as he lunged towards the back of the Great Hall where he found hi
s father blocking the exit, on guard duty. Instinctively, Arnaut’s hand went to his chest, covering the place where his token as Estela’s knight lay beneath his tunic over his heart.

  ‘I’m off to a tavern,’ he told Raoulf. ‘I’m de trop here.’

  ‘When will you grow up!’ He eyed Arnaut’s hand, knowing full well what lay beneath it. ‘Such a fuss for a woman!’

  ‘He could have had anyone!’ Arnaut’s sense of injustice blazed with all the fervour of its fresh flames. ‘Why did he have to take her?’

  His father shrugged his wide, capable shoulders. ‘So what if he did. She’s just a woman. He’s your liege Lord, my boy and if it was you instead that he wanted, Viking fashion, why you’d just have to bend over and take it.’ His eyes narrowed and he pushed his son in the chest. ‘Or is that the real problem. She could have had any man she wanted and she chose him.’

  Arnaut felt the bile rise. ‘Leave me go.’ He pushed back while two voices threaded their plaintive chant behind him.

  ‘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...’

  The big man stood aside, watching Arnaut stumble into the night.

  ‘It’s not real!’ he yelled after him but his son had gone.

  Unaware of Arnaut’s absence, Dragonetz and Estela made obeisance to the Queen and Viscomtesse, receiving as their right the evening’s rich gifts, armour and jewels, alongside the plaudits. The evening had clearly been too much for the girl’s social skills as she managed to knock the goblet out of the Queen’s hand and a pitcher beside it, while accepting a gift. There was a furore of servants mopping up, and some gracious words from Aliénor smoothed over the clumsiness and all was perfect. A night to remember. Only Dragonetz and Ermengarda were close enough to hear Estela’s low words of explanation to Aliénor.

  ‘The infusion reeks of pennyroyal, my Lady.’ She lowered her voice still further. ‘It is an abortificient and can poison the mother too.’

  ‘I’ve only had a sip. I asked for a digestive tisane - it smells of mint.’

  ‘There is a similar freshness,’ Estela agreed, ‘and mint wouldn’t harm you but this isn’t mint and whoever used it knew exactly what he - or she - was doing. Don’t worry - you’ll be fine,’ Estela assured her, ‘ - both of you. It’s a lot harder to do harm at this stage anyway.’

  ‘There are hundreds of servers here - we will never trace it back! You should have been safe here, Aliénor. I am so sorry!’ Ermengarda was as helpless as she was anguished and it was Dragonetz who took control.

  ‘Pretend,’ he instructed them. ‘We don’t need the puppet, we need the puppet-master and we will draw him out before you leave for Paris!’

  And so they pretended. As did Dragonetz and Estela, separating for the night with mutual praise in public - and, not much later, mutual pleasure in private. Neither of them gave a thought to Arnaut, who was deep in his cups, trying to ignore some loud-mouthed stable-hand nearby. The lad was as drunk as Arnaut, hoping to make a fortune by selling some love-token from a drab he’d deflowered. Gratitude from some easy lay. Arnaut snorted in his wine. He’d be lucky if his token was worth another jug of wine and he’d probably regret it in the morning. As, no doubt, would Arnaut himself. He caught hold of a passing female haunch, squeezed it in a friendly manner and ordered some more wine.

  It was growing harder, not easier, to part at dawn. This time was even worse.

  ‘Of course you must go,’ Estela told the man kneeling at her feet, his lips on her hand, seeking her permission to leave Narbonne. He gathered her to him and kissed her more intimately and she shivered, not with cold, although she was naked. It was indeed growing harder to part. They separated because they had to.

  ‘Only for a few days,’ Dragonetz told her. ‘I must draw this assassin before the Queen returns to Paris.’

  ‘Before you return to Paris,’ she said, banning all emotion from the words.

  He looked at her sharply. ‘I thought you knew.’ Her eyebrows arched in query. ‘I told the Queen I was staying in Narbonne.’

  Because of her? The thought was dismissed as quickly as it had fluttered hopes in front of her. Then why? In the same expressionless voice she asked. ‘How would I know?’

  ‘I thought it would be common gossip. I’m sorry.’ He weighed up what she hadn’t known. ‘And yet you asked me here anyway. Or was that the point? That I would be leaving.’ His tone mirrored hers and she felt she walked along a ridge in the fog, ravines either side, and only the touch of a hand to guide her, his hand. How far did she trust that touch?

  ‘If you don’t know the answer to that, nothing I say will convince you.’ She stroked his cheek to soften the words, to remind him. Was this what love did? Pierced all armour, made steel vulnerable and ice melt? Of course. He was staying for Ermengarda. It made no sense but it was true. She tried the words on her tongue to see how they felt and they had a bitter taste. ‘You are staying for Ermengarda.’

  His eyes held hers, pools with depths she could never read, though she felt every ripple that shadowed them. ‘In a way,’ he stated, ‘but not as you mean. The paper mill is important to me, part of something bigger, something I can realise in Ermengarda’s domain.’

  ‘And how did Aliénor take it?’

  Unexpectedly he laughed. ‘Very badly. But most of the damage has been repaired. I remain her knight, of course.’

  ‘Of course. And Ermengarda’s man.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You lead a complicated life.’

  ‘You don’t ask what your place in it is?’

  ‘If I have to ask, then I don’t deserve one.’ She summoned a smile and gathered the love-words he scattered around her like autumn leaves. Summer always ended.

  ‘So, you start at Douzens?’ She brought them back to the practicalities.

  ‘The first attempt was after Douzens. I might pick up a trail there and if Raymond is involved, Carcassonne might know the gossip. Six days away, I think. The road is shorter without carts and baggage, even on borrowed mounts.’

  ‘You’ll miss the Court of Love.’

  ‘I know all the answers.’ He gave his lop-sided smile and she was lost.

  ‘Six days is nothing,’ she reassured him and herself, as she pressed him to leave. The sun was already higher than was safe, with the bustle of servants starting their work in streets and hallways. What was a week?

  If nothing else, Dragonetz’ absence at least gave Estela the motivation to face up to one of her own monsters. If she were going to escape the city for a few hours, with some safe company like Arnaut, she would need a horse, and it was ridiculous to keep avoiding the stables. There had to be a first meeting, after... after what had happened, and she would make it clear that in fact, nothing had happened. She would be absolutely normal. She would even smile and be gracious. If she saw him at all, of course. It was always possible that he would be elsewhere and some other stable-hand would help her mount. She flushed even at the thought of such contact with him. This wouldn’t do. Her days spent with the Ladies had not been wasted after all, she thought, as she applied a layer of chalk powder, painted it delicately with water, then added some diluted indigo to trace the pale blue veins demanded by current fashions and of course abhorred by the church. Today, Estela had no qualms about wearing a mask and if she should have to choose her Confessor carefully afterwards, why then she would be following Queen Aliénor’s lead in that too.

  Suitably painted, mantled and shod in pattens, Estela tripped out the Palace across the Courtyard, which was already reflecting the heat of the summer sun. She was rehearsing her calm request to have Tou saddled and ready for her in the afternoon, by which time she would have found Arnaut to either accompany her or propose a substitute, when she noticed her friend in person, with a detachment of his men, armoured and active in front of the stables. As she grew nearer, she noticed that his complexion
had a green tinge, his eyes were bloodshot and his movements nervy. His words when he saw her were sharp enough though.

  ‘Estela! You can’t go in. You’re not to see the boy.’ Estela flinched at the command, outraged beyond shame, for the moment. Only one person could have set Arnaut to guard the stables and prevent her going near them. How could he! What did he think she was going to do there? How could he make something so private the talk of a regiment! As Dragonetz wasn’t there, she glared instead at the young man blocking the stable entrance.

  Far too quick for Arnaut, she ducked under his arm and swished her skirts and clacked her heels from ringing stone onto dusty earth and straw, into the dark smell of leather, wax and fusty fodder. It was strangely empty, no hoof-clinks, snort-breaths or shifting movements. No horses. Instead a stillness, a wrongness that smelt of a thousand punishments Estela had seen inflicted on criminals at her father’s keep. The iron, screaming smell of bloody judgement. Estela stepped back, too late to make her eyes return their vision to the darkness, Arnaut’s arms supporting her, too late to make any difference, as he murmured, exasperated, ‘I tried to warn you, to stop you, Leave it, turn round.’