Plaint for Provence Read online

  Morning found Dragonetz kneeling at the back of the Chapelle-St-Blaise, a small, plain sanctuary placed between the château wall and the village. Forced to leave Estela sleeping, early enough to avoid being seen in her chamber, Dragonetz had sought the peace of stone walls to prepare his thoughts for the public audience with the Comte de Barcelone later that day.

  The details that Sancha and Estela had added to his knowledge of Provençal politics had merely made him more confused about what was right and what he should do. He liked Hugues and was prepared to like the forthright mother but liking should not shape the future of a realm.

  Sancha’s family had been among the sixty-four who backed Etiennette during the recent war rather than the sixty-three who backed Dolca’s heir. Etiennette had been badly treated by her father, who had no right to make Dolca heir to Provence while the younger sister was given only Les Baux and Trinquetaille.

  No-one could have predicted that Etiennette’s father would be murdered and that Dolca would inherit Provence only to leave it to Barcelone. Dolca hadn’t been married to anyone when Etiennette and Raymond had signed away their rightful inheritance. And the sequence of deaths had left Dolca’s grandson, a seven-year-old at the time, an orphan and heir to Provence, the titular Comte, even though his uncle-guardian was Regent.

  In Sancha’s eyes, Etiennette should have been heir by right when her sister died, and Barcelone was usurping her realm, using his nephew as an excuse. No-one doubted that it was the Regent from faraway Barcelone who held all the power. No-one even doubted that the law was on his side - but many in Provence believed that the law was not justice in this case. They wanted their land in the hands of one of their own lords - the Pons family. Unless of course they were among the sixty-three families who would prefer some Comte from Barcelone to anybody from the Pons family.

  The question of rights was complex enough but even more troubling was the question as to which of the contenders could best rule Provence. For Sancha, the stakes were high, as her family lands had been in Provence as long as records existed. In her opinion, there was little chance of peace with an overlord who could not be present and had his own fiefdom of Barcelone to maintain plus the prospect of Aragon.

  With power came responsibility and at this point Dragonetz had to disagree with Sancha. No-one could accuse the Comte de Barcelone of taking his responsibility lightly. He had taken his nephew in as a son when the lad lost his father. Then, in the same year, Barcelone had defended the boy’s rights against armed attack from Les Baux and all those who must seem rebels in his eyes. Dragonetz’ previous patron, the astute Viscomtesse de Narbonne, was Barcelone’s close ally and spoke highly of him. Their friend Malik rode with Barcelone and would not do so if he thought ill of him.

  Even Barcelone’s marriage showed his self-discipline. He’d become betrothed to Petronilla, heir to Aragon, when she was a year old and he twenty-four. They’d married as planned, last year, when she had reached womanhood at fifteen. Dragonetz tried to imagine himself betrothed to someone Musca’s age, watching baby grow to girl, and girl grow to wife, all to unite two realms. He could not do it, but he had to respect someone who could. Combining Aragon with Barcelone was a masterstroke, creating a power in the north to balance Castile in the south. Where power was balanced, there was peace.

  Could Barcelone balance Provence? Even if Sancha was right and the nephew was merely an excuse for Barcelone to claim the region, he was experienced in battle and in government, so famed for piety and restraint that he was known as ‘El Sant’, ‘the Saint’. Not only was he a force to be reckoned with; he was here, in Les Baux, and, according to Malik, he wanted Dragonetz among those who rode with him.

  ‘Guide me,’ prayed Dragonetz, his thoughts whirling fruitlessly. A channel of daylight came through the chapel door as three men in robes entered, passed Dragonetz in a swish of skirts and stopped to pay their respects before the altar. One was surely the Chaplain and the other two Benedictine monks, judging by their black garb. They knelt, crossed themselves, then moved to the choir and prepared their voices for song.

  Dragonetz knew well the way they hummed, warmed their throats with scales, tested a high note and a harmony. Idle thoughts stopped completely when the brothers started to sing. Dragonetz felt his heart stop too, then soar, as he heard music as close to the divine experience of his opium dreams as any he’d heard before or since.

  From the very first words, the Latin chant spoke to him as if each word were for him alone, and the music of the combined voices carried the words of the mystical hymn deep into his psyche.

  O ignee spiritus laus tibi sit

  qui in timpanis et citharis operaris

  Praise be to thee O spirit of flame

  who speaks through lyre and tambour…

  Dragonetz shut his eyes to better conjure up the spirit of flame, better hear the lyre and tambour that he would have used in performing such music. Whoever had transcribed this piece for men had surely heard the voices of angels, whether his dreams were inspired by opium or other means.

  Intellectus te in dulcissimo sono

  advocat ac edificia tibi

  cum rationaliate parat

  que in aureis operibus sudat.

  Intellect calls to you

  with sweetest sound

  and teams you with Reason

  to make works of great worth.

  Dragonetz didn’t know whether he aspired to works of great worth but he was open to the advice that he should build on reason in choosing between Les Baux and Barcelone. Maybe the choice would become clear; maybe there would be no need to choose.

  Tu autem semper gladium

  habes illud abscidere

  quod noxiale pomum

  per nigerrimum homicidium profert.

  Quando nebula voluntatem

  et desideria tegit

  in quibus anima volat

  et undique circuit.

  Sword e’er in hand

  to cut out

  what the apple poisons

  through blackest murder.

  When mists cloud the will

  and its desires,

  the soul takes flight

  in circles, rudderless

  Blade in hand and swinging wildly! Dragonetz wanted to cut out what was poisonous to the body politic but how could he determine exactly what - or whom - should be removed? He knew only too well how the sword-bearer could turn murderer if a knight forgot his vows and lost his way, which was why he was here, praying for guidance. No ordinary sword but one of Damascene steel, it was forged with the secret skills of that city. Dragonetz had named it Talharcant, ‘Bladesong’ in his native Occitan, and he vowed here before God that its song would be worthy of the hymn he heard.

  An awkward transition from one phrase to the next jarred on Dragonetz’ ear and reminded him these were no angels. He imagined Estela singing the verses but it sounded wrong. Not just the richness of her experience, confusing the spiritual qualities. The hymn demanded choral singing. Perhaps several women… but then the sensual associations would intrude and of course, women choristers would never be permitted in any church but a convent. Boys, then.

  In his mind, he replaced the deep chant with the ethereal quality of young boys’ voices and smiled. One particular boy’s voice blended with the others but could not hide its exceptional quality. Muganni, thought Dragonetz, remembering the little Arab boy who’d served him and saved him. By now, Muganni should be with his people in the mountains, free forever. His beautiful voice was lost to the court of Jerusalem and some might consider Dragonetz’ training wasted on camels and dervishes but maybe ‘God’s creatures praised Him’ and that was enough. Singing could be for pure pleasure.

  Tu eam citius in igne

  comburis cum volueris.

  Your fire purges all ill

  as is your will

  Dragonetz nearly murmured ‘Inshallah’ from old habit but luckily the blasphemy stopped in his mind. Perhaps he had lived in Arabic too long wh
en captive in Damascus, to return to unthinking Christianity. It had been a shock at first to see the human faces in a church, the Christ-figure hunched in suffering on the cross, after the purity of Muslim tesserae. So close in origin, the two religions, and yet so divided. Another blasphemous thought, unsuited to his setting!

  Nunc dignare nos omnes ad te colligere

  et ad recta dirigere. Amen.

  Gather us to you now

  and set us on the right path. Amen.

  ‘Amen!’ said Dragonetz aloud, fervently. Sometimes, asking the right questions was more important than being given answers and he now knew what he needed to find out, about Les Baux and about Barcelone, and about Provence. His intellect would determine how he found out. And his sword would serve its proper purpose on the right path.

  When the singing ceased and the Chaplain was lighting a candle, alone, Dragonetz approached him. And so was Talharcant, the sword forged by a Saracen smith in Damascus, blessed in the chapel of Les Baux, as was the knight who wielded it.

  ‘Bless this sword so that it may be a defence for churches, widows and orphans, and for all servants of God, against the evil one.’ The statue of St Blaise watched from his niche, adding to the blessing his skills of healing and calming wild beasts, of which there were many prowling the darkness of Dragonetz’ soul.

  Chapter 7

  Through the beneficial herbs, the earth brings forth the range of mankind’s spiritual powers and distinguishes between them; through the harmful herbs, it manifests harmful and diabolic behaviors.

  Physica, Plants

  By the time Dragonetz knelt over the hand of Ramon Berenguer IV, Comte de Barcelone, Prince of Aragon and Regent of Provence, he was composed and inscrutable. Barcelone and Petronilla were holding ‘informal’ court in the Great Hall, ensconced in the carved chairs Dragonetz guessed were usually occupied by Etiennette and Hugues when they heard lawsuits and resolved disputes. On Ramon’s right hand, stiff and stone-faced, was a fourteen-year-old boy, the young Comte de Provence, Dolca’s grandson and heir. Old enough to know that he was the cause of six years’ civil war in Provence but too young to rule.

  The Regent, his uncle and guardian Ramon Berenguer, Comte de Barcelone, had waged war in his nephew’s name and would have no hesitation in peace-time decisions. The boy had been well-schooled and watched, sharp-eyed, then accepted Dragonetz’ obeisance with a dignity that gained the tiniest nod of approval from Uncle Ramon. His aunt, Queen Petronilla, flashed the boy a smile of encouragement.

  Petronilla herself looked sickly and was barely older than her nephew but equally accustomed to the role she must bear. Although her white face suggested that it was just as well she were sitting, her back was ramrod straight and her accented courtesies were faultless.

  It was, however, the man standing guard beside the boy who made Dragonetz’ heart lurch. This was not someone he could fool with fancy word-stepping or cold courtesies. This was someone to whom he owed everything.

  ‘Sire, with permission?’ he asked the Regent, laying down his sword, and Ramon nodded.

  Then Dragonetz crossed the few paces and the abyss of circumstance to take the turbaned guard in his arms. ‘Malik,’ he said, feeling his bearhug returned, in the more reserved manner that characterized his friend.

  ‘Dragonetz.’ The hint of a smile flickered and vanished. The warmth lingered and no more words were needed. They’d all been said. Dearest friend of my mind Dragonetz heard and his stomach clenched. He knew what he owed but he could not repay it nor even take it into account. Not when Provence was at stake. But Malik knew that too, with the same acceptance that would run a sabre through Dragonetz should he raise Talharcant against a Berenguer. The abyss of circumstance. Perhaps it need not come to that.

  ‘My Lord Dragonetz.’ The Regent made it clear that his patience was limited. ‘Your reputation as a commander does you credit but I find you in my fief of Les Baux, without an army, in the company of those who recently led a rebellion against my true vassals. Should this worry me? Or are you willing to offer that renowned sword in my service?’

  So there was to be no thrust and parry but warrior-to-warrior honesty. Dragonetz studied Talharcant at his feet. He already knew his answer but words mattered.

  ‘Sire, you do me honour.’ Which meant no. The very silence held its breath. What Dragonetz could offer was equal honesty. ‘I swore fealty to Aquitaine and its Duchesse. Though I am freed from duty, that oath takes precedence over all else and always will. I have sworn no oath to any Lord but my Lady Aliénor.’ Meaning, not to Hugues and not to you. Meaning, I have not decided yet.

  Ramon must have understood Dragonetz’ intention and yet he looked puzzled. ‘You are sworn to Aquitaine?’ he repeated, frowning.

  ‘As of many years.’ Dragonetz was steadfast. Ramon was silent, musing. The knight continued. ‘I have an estate in Provence and care about its people. If my sword can keep the peace then we do what we were both forged for. This is my purpose here. To keep the peace.’

  Ramon might be known as El Sant but he was no peaceful monk. His tone held iron threat. ‘Allying yourself with Les Baux will encourage a new rebellion. And rebels lose. However good their hired swords. You may leave.’

  Dragonetz flushed at the insult and merely bowed to the Regent. But for Malik, he added, ‘Our hostess appreciates songsmiths. Would you be willing to share your art at table one evening?’ And to make his message clearer, he sang the lines that were haunting him.

  ‘Nunc dignare nos omnes ad te colligere

  et ad recta dirigere. Amen

  Gather us to you now

  and set us on the right path.’

  ‘The remarkable Hildegard von Bingen,’ Malik acknowledged. Dragonetz had long ago lost his surprise at the Moor’s learning. ‘She is as well known for her medicine as her music, you know.’

  ‘She?!’

  Malik smiled. ‘Yes, the composer is a woman. Lady Estela can tell you all about her.’

  Of course, Lady Estela would know all about a woman remarkable for medicine and music, Dragonetz thought ruefully.

  ‘And yes, we can still sing together,’ was Malik’s final word as Dragonetz bowed and left. Could such a friendship be as precarious as the truce between Les Baux and Ramon Berenguer? If so, they would still sing together while they could. And Dragonetz had to find the best way to return a precious portrait to Queen Petronilla. No doubt Lady Estela could advise him on that too. As it turned out, she could indeed.

  ‘But we went to so much trouble to steal the cart!’ Hugues was digging his heels in, as could be expected.

  ‘And what could show your superiority better, in your terrain, than declaring in public that your diligent pursuit on Barcelone’s behalf has recovered some of the missing goods. Everyone will know that he was robbed and helpless, while you show both good faith and greater power.’

  ‘There are those who think we were behind the theft…’

  ‘Including Barcelone himself.’ Dragonetz let his protégé work out the ramifications for himself.

  ‘If I announce that I’ve found some of the goods, that will lull his suspicions … or at least make him unable to make any such allegation, whatever he suspects.’ Hugues was indeed growing in statecraft. The young man’s wide grin proved so as he realized, ‘He’ll have to thank me.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘But he’ll want to punish the thieves. It won’t work, Dragonetz.’

  ‘Of course he will want to punish the thieves. And you are so efficient, you will have already done so. You will be able to tell him the names of the offenders and the terrible vengeance you wreaked on his behalf. I’m sure your men can provide you with details of suitable criminals who’ve been dispatched in the last few days, preferably in villages far enough away to deter further inquiry by Barcelone. He is too astute to waste time on what can only be a wild goose-chase.’

  ‘And I can remind the men that the rest of the treasure can safely be distributed once this cursed vis
it is over. It would be better if our markets were not suddenly flooded with gold coins depicting Barcelone’s cursed face and some inscription in Arabic!’

  ‘Safely and fairly,’ Dragonetz agreed. ‘However loyal your men, the tale you tell of the alleged thieves’ deaths will serve as a reminder of your mailed fist. Barcelone is a proven general with a reputation for justice. You must be seen to match him for strength and fairness.’

  ‘There’s no justice in him stealing my inheritance!’ burst out Hugues, his boyish temper rising.

  ‘Your inheritance is the people of Provence. Ask yourself what is best for them. Be what is best for them.’ Dragonetz sighed inwardly as he saw the young man dwell on the unfairness of his lot.

  Hugues’ next words, ‘I don’t know that my mother will like it,’ confirmed Dragonetz’ worst fears but he restrained himself from pointing out that Barcelone didn’t consult his mother when making decisions.

  ‘Lady Etiennette will respect your thinking,’ was all he said. Then he visited his hostess to ensure that she would.

  Estela was glowing with satisfaction as she returned from her mission to Petronilla. The young woman’s expression when her miniature was returned, all that she had of her saintly parents, would have brought tears to a tougher onlooker. ‘Hugues des Baux believes this is yours?’ Estela had said, certain that she was embroidering threads in the silken web that would maintain peace in Provence. ‘It was among the treasure he recovered and he wanted to ensure it was returned to you, personally.’ It went without saying that Hugues could not have presented it in person, given the delicate relationship between Barcelone and Les Baux. Even an innocent like Petronilla would understand that the gesture, although through an intermediary, was conciliatory. Not the word that came to mind in any dealings with the formidable Lady Etiennette. Maybe the next generation would find a way out of the impasse. Even if the gesture had in fact been concocted by Estela and Dragonetz.