Plaint for Provence Read online

  The Consul had been hoping to pass a trouble-free year and be one of those to lose the election at the end of it. When he made the youngster repeat his message, he knew his hopes were doomed. Trouble had found him, sure enough and he could not ignore such a flagrant breach of the law, even by a family as grand as the Porcelets and even if they’d been provoked - as was likely, given that the plaint was coming from their deadly equals. It would have to be the wretched families of Pons and Porcelet forcing his hand!

  ‘Again!’ Consul Xavier told the lad but word for word was exactly the same, rattled off at top speed with no pauses but as comprehensible as it was ever going to be.

  ‘Hugues Pons des Baux denounces Porcel Porcelet for non-payment of ferry dues on this and many occasions by evidence of the indelible red marks of thievery on the palms of him and his men that have been so marked by Hugues Pons himself who will testify with witness to the crime you may apprehend the felons from this afternoon’s crossing and their hands shall betray their guilt.’ The boy gulped a breath with hand outstretched for his customary coin.

  ‘Your master can reward you from the Porcelet money he recoups in fine should he speak truth,’ the Consul told him sourly. If pushed to take sides, he rode behind the Pons for the good of Provence, which - as he well knew - was why Hugues had trusted him to act on the information he’d received. However, he did not like being pushed, especially when it would mean reporting to the Archbishop that his favourite family had been found erring.

  Although the Consuls had freedom of action, the Archbishop of Arle had overall responsibility for them and reporting to him was their duty. Xavier cursed and wished the whole system in hell. He’d been pushed into standing in the first place and this was what happened when you let people push you. If Pons and Porcelet hadn’t been at loggerheads twenty years ago - them again! - Arle would never have followed Avinhon into this Italian fashion for Consuls, inspecting the city’s business.

  Xavier wished he’d not bedded Widow Clans before the election - one vote fewer and he’d not be this position. The Consuls weren’t supposed to know how the votes went but everyone did, of course, and it had really been that close between him and another. Another thought struck him; if only women had no vote at all, he’d definitely not have been elected.

  The popularity of his curly black hair and easy manner had indeed been his undoing, although not in the manner his mother had foretold. Among the heads of household entitled to vote were many widows and women of all walks who ran businesses in their own name, whether bakers or traders, and many of them had voted for Xavier. But there was as much chance of women losing the vote as Porcelets flying, and he must suffer the consequences of his smile. Wishing would change nothing. He sighed.

  The Porcelets bore long grudges and he’d hoped to avoid being on the receiving end. But he’d been sworn in at the Assembly on Michaelmas fair-day, when he’d taken the post, and an oath was an oath, so he would go down to the river that afternoon. He sighed again. The day’s promise had turned to showers and he predicted storms. Not for one moment did the Consul doubt that the information itself was accurate as he cancelled his other plans.

  Chapter 4

  The sea (mare) sends forth rivers, by which the earth is irrigated, just as the body of a human is inundated by the blood of its veins. Some rivers go out from the sea with a rapid motion, some with a gentle motion, and others by storms. The earth along the course of each river has some sort of grassy vegetation, unless it is too rich, or too dry, or too rough, so that from it vegetation is unable to grow. But from land which is moderate in these things, vegetation grows.

  Physica, Elements

  ‘My uncle’s proper poorly. Told me you’d be coming though and that you’d paid already. I’m just to let him know how many men and how many horse, and see you safely over the river of course. I’d be fair stupid to forget that part!’

  Lord knew the ferryman was no genius but his nephew-replacement made Lord Porcel of Porcelet appreciate the older man’s common sense and brevity. A man named Porcel of Porcelet had learned early in life not to value imagination but he did like a businessman, and the ferryman had struck a business deal profitable to all, without wasting words. Not like this buffoon. If every unnecessary word were worth a denarius, the man would be the richest in Provence. Porcel cut him short before another of the Porcelet cadre was tempted to violence.

  ‘Eight men and eight horses. And we’re in a hurry.’ They didn’t wait for permission to lift the rope across the gangway and embark. At least the oars were manned and the boat empty of any but Porcelets. He could speak freely of Barcelone’s imminent visit without looking over his shoulder all the time.

  Ignoring the fool nephew’s constant chatter, the boat’s turn and straightening as a rower switched sides, and the spitting rain, Porcelet rested his hands on the railing as he shared his thoughts with his younger brother, Bens.

  ‘I called a favour from the Genoese and their sailors sent word this morning that Barcelone should reach Arle tomorrow.’

  ‘Arle, not Marselha?’

  ‘Arle,’ confirmed Porcel, ‘but others don’t know that and we’ll keep it to ourselves. I want the house of Porcelet glittering at the quay in welcome. Pass the word to the womenfolk that they shake the mothballs out of their best gowns and pretty up the children to win young Petronilla’s heart. I want everyone there, with loyalty on their faces and riches round their necks.’

  ‘We still go to Les Baux?’

  ‘You go, with enough of a force to show politeness, but you go with Barcelone. I heard from the château at Tarascon that he goes there first, so he’ll take the northern approach to Les Baux.’

  ‘Go there from the north?’ Bens’ surprise showed.

  ‘I know. Little more than a mule track that way but he’ll catch the Pons family on the back foot. I don’t think he trusts the ‘welcome’ he might get if people know exactly where he’ll be and when. This truce is only ink on parchment.’

  ‘But we know where he’ll be.’

  ‘Aye and he won’t mind that. We’ve shown our colours in the last few years and we’ll get our rewards. Patience, brother, patience. When you offer to travel with him, let it be seen by him as protection on a tricky road; he’ll see you’re willing to choose sides in public.

  And if others see you and know who’s in control here in Provence, that’s their interpretation. I’ll stay here and mind the business. I’ve no stomach for Etiennette and all that château frippery. Besides, it’s Arle is capital of Provence, not Les Baux, and someone should remember that!’

  ‘Look at them black river birds like black omens of black doom,’ intruded the ferryman, close enough to Porcel to force him sideways so as to escape the smell of eels and the pointing finger. Glancing briefly at the cormorants, Porcel gripped the rail tight to control his irritation and was rewarded with a black-toothed smile and another blast of eel-breath.

  ‘Black thoughts indeed,’ murmured Bens, drawing a tight smile from his brother. ‘You’ll put the men off their stroke.’

  ‘You noticed, then.’ Nodding his head enough to give everyone looking at him a headache, the ferryman informed them, ‘New oarsman today and my uncle warned me he’d be a weakness. Started strong so I kept him port-side but now he’s flagging a bit so I’ve moved him up-river to balance things out.’

  He raised his voice, presumably hailing the new oarsman. ‘Put your back into it, Roc! Pull! Lift! Pull! Lift!’ His rhythm fitted into that of the man calling the moves and then left it. An imaginative man might have heard the song of the two men’s voices, the dip and splash of oars, the patter of raindrops. Porcel was not an imaginative man. He spoke louder.

  ‘By the time you reach Les Baux, Barcelone will be feeding from your hand, encouraged by his lady wife, and proof against any change of heart or real welcome at Les Baux. Drive the wedge, Bens.’

  ‘Change sides again, Roc and Gars. We’re coming into land. Stir yourselves!’ Roc, the unfortunate
new oarsman, wearing hide that had smelled better on the cow it came from, was crossing the deck and stumbled against Porcel as the boat rolled.

  ‘Fool,’ Bens knocked the man to the ground, where he lay as if stunned.

  Porcel continued, ignoring the interruption. ‘Every defiant word from the Pons family, every act of rudeness at Les Baux will seal their fate. Let Barcelone deal with Les Baux - we’ll help him wipe the vermin from their holes. Rightful heirs are those who show they’re capable! With Barcelone back in his home, who’ll be left here to rule Provence?’

  ‘Roc, get back to work,’ yelled the ferryman, and the oarsman lurched to the empty place once more.

  ‘We will,’ Bens replied.

  There was the usual fuss of tying up and, unusually, it was one of the oarsmen who leaped to the jetty rather than the ferryman. With his fellows, he moored the boat. All Porcel’s attention was focused on the men who’d suddenly appeared to meet them, who had no connection with the House of Porcelet, and who were led by one wearing the unmistakeable red cap and robes of Consul. Porcel cautioned Bens to silence, a hand on his arm.

  ‘My Lord Consul.’ Porcel bowed low. ‘This is unexpected.’

  ‘It is indeed,’ was the dry response from one of the men elected to maintain law and order, resolving disputes in Arle should any be brought to his attention. Mostly, the Lord be thanked, they weren’t. However the messenger’s insistence that he should meet the afternoon ferry seemed to be based on good information. One simple test should confirm this.

  ‘May I see your hands, my Lords?’

  Turning to summon the ferryman in case he should need to prove his crossing was in good order, all paid and proper, Porcel became aware of the strange quietness. The garrulous ferryman had disappeared. Not that Porcel noticed, but the new oarsman, Roc, was also missing and the absences were not unconnected with two dark heads bobbing ashore further downstream.

  ‘Your hands,’ repeated the Consul, in a tone that brooked no further delay.

  Puzzled, Porcel, Bens and their men showed their palms to the Consul. The time it took to cross the Ròse had been long enough to transfer the moistened henna from the boat railing to pattern their hands like a skeleton’s.

  ‘It seems, my Lords, that you have been caught red-handed.’ The Consul’s face remained grave but not so the others within earshot. Porcel had been wrong about only Porcelets being on the ferry and every man-jack of the oarsmen would tell a good tale in the Vieux Bourg taverns that night. ‘You owe reparation to the Pons family,’ continued the Consul, ‘unless you wish to dispute this in the courts.’

  Briefly, Porcel considered the option. After all, his red hands only showed that he had crossed on the ferry, not that he’d done so without proper payment. It would be Hugues’ word against his. In public. With everybody in the hall knowing he lied, laughing at his red hands.

  ‘I do not,’ Porcel told him, teeth gritted and mindful of his need to greet a certain ship at the docks the next day. ‘There will be reparation. In private,’ he added glaring around him and rubbing his palms against his hose, transferring a little red but leaving the traitorous hands merely rawer in colour.

  ‘I leave the matter with you. And will of course confirm with Lord Hugues des Baux that his honour has been satisfied.’

  Barely nodding farewell he was so anxious to escape, his face redder than his hands, Porcel mounted and rode off with his men. Bens didn’t quite catch what his brother said but he suspected ‘Bastard’ and ‘pay’ figured in the comment.

  Meanwhile, in the nearby château of Trinquetaille, servants rushed more pails of hot water to the tub, to rid the young ferryman of the smell of eels while the oarsman paced the chamber. When Hugues had run out of oaths, he stopped pacing and asked the man sitting in the bath, ‘What shall we do?’

  Dragonetz ducked his head underwater, came up again and let the rivulets trace their course down his black hair. ‘Ambush Barcelone’s cavalcade before it reaches Les Baux,’ he suggested, and ducked under again.

  ‘You jest.’ Hugues’ face was still alight with their success and when Dragonetz said indignantly, ‘I do not!’ the third ducking was a tussle between the two men that ended with Hugues in the bath, Dragonetz out of it and more water on the floor than in the tub. Later, over a large quantity of wine, they refined their own plan for welcoming Barcelone to Provence.

  Later still, Dragonetz lay awake on his straw mattress in Trinquetaille’s Great Hall, listening to the snorts and snores of a hundred men. He’d turned down the luxury of a curtained bed in the solar, alongside Hugues, in order to set the tone for what was, to him at least, a campaign. The Lord of Les Baux had known his terrain in impressive detail, which should make all the difference against Barcelone’s men - and the Porcelets.

  His senses sharpened as always pre-battle, Dragonetz let the music of the day invade his thoughts. River and raindrops; twenty oarsmen dipping to the helmsman’s beat on the small oaken boat, a galley adapted to serve the busy crossing; whinny of horses, and flare of nostrils, as the planks shifted beneath hooves; the notes played in Dragonetz’ imagination and fragments of lyrics danced along the melody. Jarring tambours announced Pons versus Porcelet and clear flute trilled the victory.

  Committing the pattern to memory, Dragonetz allowed himself to drift into sleep, conjuring a love deeper even than his music, comfortable in his certainty that Estela was safe at home, whatever he faced at Les Baux.

  At the top of the east tower, Dragonetz smoothed feathers gently with a finger, held the pigeon’s plump breast cupped in his hands, wings gently pinioned. The metal tag attached to its foot glinted in the first rays of the sun. So much had happened since this little bird had left the Moorish tents outside Damascus with its fellows, a gift to the knight, presented with a strong suggestion that he should never return to the Holy Land. Cooped up at sea, then in the loft at Dragonetz’ Marselha villa, the birds had accepted their new home, as predicted.

  After a month, Dragonetz had started taking birds a short distance from home to let them find their way back, ensuring food and their mates were there to meet them. Then he tried further afield, and with messages; simple with the older birds who’d survived the sea voyage and already had their Moorish breeding and training embedded. Not so reliable with the youngsters he’d collected locally but Dragonetz’ newly appointed keeper noted which birds performed best and discussed a breeding programme.

  This was the first time Dragonetz had used one of his pigeons on a real errand rather than a training exercise. ‘God speed,’ he murmured, holding the pigeon out of the narrow window and throwing it gently to the breeze. The bird faltered a second, then righted and headed like an arrow south-east, to Estela, with a message of love that only she would understand.

  Dragonetz felt his heart wing home with the bird as he watched the speck vanish from sight. The Moors had told him to beware the falcons that learned to watch pigeon lofts for easy pickings but he’d judged Trinquetaille safe and so it had been. Pigeons had not been kept here as meat or messengers. That was about to change, as elsewhere in Provence. Dragonetz descended the spiral staircase to organise the ride to Les Baux.

  Although he automatically registered the defensive potential of the Sarragan Pass, its gigantic rocks allowing a few men to hide and seem many, the narrow bottleneck of access and exit, these features were not what had struck Dragonetz most. He and Hugues had reached the top of the rise first, in the van of their small troop, with the setting sun behind them, gilding the grotesque white boulders, the marsh-reeded valley and the cliffs beyond.

  The boulders grew leering faces and demonic familiars in the shifting light and long shadows, dropping into unfathomable blackness in the valley below and lightening again as the cliffs rose, and rose again to the jagged tips. Except that the tips were not jagged but regular crenellations, the turrets of a castle that made the small hairs on Dragonetz’ arms prickle with excitement or foreboding, he knew not which. ‘It’s prettier than Trinqu
etaille,’ Hugues had said, regarding the origin of their name.

  ‘Les Baux,’ breathed Dragonetz.

  Hugues said nothing but his face spoke. There was a set to his jaw, a determination in his gaze that Dragonetz had seen before, in the Crusades, when a man had decided what was worth dying for. For a brief moment, the low day’s-end sun caught whatever metals the castle offered; armour and flagstaff, door-hinge and wheel-hub, and the fortress caught fire, dazzling and defiant. Then snuffed out, just as suddenly. His eyes still recovering from the glare, Dragonetz rehearsed his litany of defence, but this time extending it to Les Baux itself, not just tonight’s camp.

  The massif was occupied by the château on the northern heights, protected by sheer cliffs on two of the sides that Dragonetz could see, and dropping through the dependent village downhill to the south, Les Baux’s only access and weakest point. Gate and rampart were visible even from this distance, defending the entry.

  ‘The access to the château from here is downhill, by the boulders, across the river and marshes, then up by the south gate into the walled city and up again to the château?’

  ‘There is no river in the valley, just marshes. The path down is basically a mule track, widened by our use. And the caves are amongst the rocky outcrops,’ confirmed Hugues. They had spoken at length of the caves the night before. Dragonetz had assumed a river from the look of the land and was surprised that a fortification of this importance had no water source nearby. Rainwater was unreliable, especially in Provence, making the castle even more vulnerable to siege. He must investigate the water system when he was in Les Baux itself.

  ‘How do men get to the château itself?

  ‘There’s only one way to get up onto Roucas, the rock on which the citadel is built, and that’s to the south. The side you can’t see is sheer cliff.’ Just as Dragonetz had guessed.