Plaint for Provence Page 9

  How did Malik feel about the castle’s Saracen Tower, built as a look-out when Moorish armies were invading from the south, pushing ever further into Occitania. One battle different and the language of Les Baux and its songs would have been Arabic. If there really was Moorish treasure in the caves, it belonged to Malik.

  Wasn’t he tempted to search for and claim what was his by right? As heir to the Banu Hud, he had as much right to Zaragoza as did Les Baux to Provence. And yet here he was, commander and physician to the Christian Prince who had conquered his homeland, accepting whatever fate brought his people and himself. Was that the way to live well: acceptance? Or was it better to fight to the death for what - or whom - you loved?

  ‘Estela,’ Malik broke into her reverie, which Dragonetz seemed not to have even noticed. ‘You have been treating Petronilla. How do you find her?’

  With an easy smile Dragonetz told them, ‘If you two are going to discuss deer-hide belts and dried crane’s blood, my delicate sensibilities are better off shouting at men who hack when they should parry.’ He excused himself as if a proposal of marriage happened every day and he had more important matters waiting his attention.

  Equally light in tone, Estela chivvied him. ‘Dried crane’s blood is indeed recommended to aid childbirth, by von Bingen herself, but I won’t tell you where it should be put…’

  ‘No...’ Dragonetz crossed himself and left quickly.

  His absence was a relief, allowing Estela’s mind to cease its self-torture and discuss the care of a pregnant woman with a physician who knew so much more of medicine than she did but who might learn from her insights all the same. It would be better for Petronilla if she learned to trust her Moorish doctor, even on women’s matters, as Estela would not be there when the Regent’s progress ended.

  Her mind skated over where exactly she would be if Dragonetz married Etiennette and war erupted. Even if Dragonetz didn’t marry Etiennette, what if war recommenced, with Dragonetz leading Les Baux and Malik commanding Barcelone’s men? Turning her thoughts resolutely away from the possibility, Estela assumed peace, Barcelone secure and the entourage returning home after the display of force. Indeed, the sooner that happened, the better for the chances of an heir being born without mishap. Travel would be safest between the fourth and seventh month, agreed the two healers.

  ‘Has she told him yet?’

  ‘I fear not,’ Estela replied, sighing. ‘I have encouraged her to but she finds the evidence of her sin difficult to speak of, even though she knows Ramon longs for an heir. There is only one way to cut through this tangle of ignorance and church teaching.’

  Malik nodded. ‘You have told me nothing I did not observe myself so you’ve broken no oath. I have not been asked to treat her for this so I break no oath if I tell my Lord that I am wondering whether the signs suggest… he is wise enough to say the words for her and let her tell him in such a manner.’

  ‘What is he like, Malik? I cannot imagine a man who’d plight his troth to a baby, bring her up like his daughter then marry her for the sake of two kingdoms.’

  Malik was silent. ‘I have only known one other man be Ramon’s equal as a general. He will not lose.’

  ‘Even if Dragonetz leads Les Baux?’

  ‘It would be my duty to take down Dragonetz.’ It was just a fact. ‘And there is no-one of any stature behind him. I have Ramon behind me and his reputation was not gained from pretty games in mountain passes.’ So they knew the truth of the ambush. Of course they did. And if Dragonetz continued on his present course, war would mean one leader against two.

  Not just any two leaders either. Could Dragonetz really make peace or was he just diving headlong into another crazy fight, one that he could only lose. She knew her man well enough to know that he would give his life rather than surrender and she felt a surge of anger at his lack of concern for her and for his son.

  ‘I can do nothing, Malik,’ she told their friend frankly.

  ‘I know. He must be himself. Be patient. Allah’s will is not clear to any of us in this matter.’

  ‘But as a man, what is Ramon like?’ pursued Estela.

  ‘Not as you imagine.’ Malik smiled indulgently. ‘Petronilla is his meaning in life; he was twenty-four and she was three when he accepted her as a sacred charge, betrothed her to protect her. He was there when she read her first verse, was father, mother, brother and mentor as she grew. They played hoops and ball together, read Latin together, danced courtly steps together. By law, he could have married her when she was twelve but he waited till her first flowers.

  He is her entire world and she is the reason behind his every act. He refused to call himself King of Aragon for fear he would forget that the land is hers and their son’s. He is the same way as Regent of Provence: he holds it in trust for his nephew and will stand down the moment he feels he can. There is an integrity in him that is rare. He is nicknamed El Sant with reason. He weighs his acts to decide what is right by his God.’

  This was not what Estela wanted to hear so she sniffed and thought of Lady Sancha’s opinions of the usurpers. And of Petronilla, surrounded by saintliness. Much good had it done her! But then again, she didn’t want to hear too much praise of Lady Etiennette’s indomitable spirit and fierce pride in her inheritance, not at the moment.

  ‘Provence should have belonged to Les Baux.’ She made one loyal attempt to defend Dragonetz’ stance.

  ‘Should have is not law, my friend. Provence does belong to the young Berenguer and so to his uncle Barcelone, as regent. By decree of the Holy Roman Emperor, Conrad, who holds jurisdiction over the province.’

  ‘But it’s not fair. These people know nothing of Provence. Conrad’s never even been here.’ Unwittingly, Estela echoed Hugues.

  ‘You want things to be fair, don’t you.’

  Estela gazed at him mutely. The need to judge fairly should have been obvious.

  ‘Much hurt lies that way. Sometimes you cannot make things be as you wish.’

  It was as if he’d read her heart and Estela’s eyes brimmed with unshed tears.

  Malik quoted the poet al-Mutannabi.

  ‘Al-haylu wa-l-laylu

  Wa-l-bayda’u ta’rifu-ni

  Wa-s-saifu wa-r-rhumhu

  Wa-l-qirtasu wa-l-qalamu.

  The desert knows me well

  The knight and the mounted men

  The battle and the sword

  The paper and the pen.’

  Inshallah,’ he said softly and left her.

  Chapter 9

  Nutmeg (nux muscata) has great heat and good moderation in its powers. If a person eats nutmeg, it will open up his heart, make his judgement free from obstruction, and give him a good disposition. Take some nutmeg and an equal weight of cinnamon and a bit of cloves, and pulverise them. Then make small cakes with this and fine whole wheat flour and water. Eat them often.

  Physica, Plants

  Days turned to weeks, and Estela lost any hope that she would be told about Etiennette’s proposal to Dragonetz. The sun still shone. Dragonetz still stepped over Nici and came to her bed each night, leaving before dawn to protect her reputation. As if there were anyone in that court who didn’t know they were lovers!

  They rarely touched in public but when they did, the contact lingered a second too long, the alchemy too evident. They circulated among Etiennette’s guests at opposite sides of the hall and still invisible ties linked every word they spoke. Even the way they avoided catching each other’s eye exposed their feelings to the most casual observer. When their eyes did meet, there was no-one else in the hall.

  No, Estela could not accuse Dragonetz of loving less. Her fears were more practical. She was no green girl mistaking ballads for reality. A man like Dragonetz could have as many lovers as he chose and he chose her. But he had to take a wife. The one thing she could never be to him. If she really loved him, should she not encourage him to accept the proposal? If he spoke of it, perhaps she could find the strength to encourage him. He didn’
t speak of it. He threw Musca in the air and tickled him. He stroked the muzzle of the great white dog, who blocked the entire doorway to the chamber but only snored when Dragonetz made his night visits. He sought peace in her arms from whatever troubled him by day and Estela held nothing back but her thoughts.

  The sun always shone. Blistering brains with relentless heat. What it must be like for men practising sword-strokes, wearing armour, Estela could only imagine. She sought refuge in the cool stone interior, with the other women at their sewing, or in the Lesser or Great Halls, as required for hearings and meal-times. Amid the usual tenant disputes over land and legitimacy, was a steady flow of land-owners, lords and castellans come to pay homage to their liege. Although they’d been summoned by Les Baux to kneel to Barcelone in public, their private allegiance could be detected in the way they spoke first to Etiennette and Hugues, or held hand to hilt.

  That same impartial observer who would know that Dragonetz and Estela were lovers, would know that Etiennette was summoning her supporters, a few at a time, to surround her Barcelone guests with carefully chosen company. Moustier and Avignon were among the old guard who’d resisted Barcelone back in their fathers’ time. From the recent wars came the Baux supporters; de Simiane, de Cabannes, de Trinquetaille and de Beaufort, all bending the knee to Barcelone and then ranging themselves beside Etiennette. Her cohort grew daily.

  Not all the guests were chosen by Les Baux however. Porcelet was quick to spot the growing partiality in invitations and he sent out a few of his own, on Barcelone’s behalf. Etiennette could not veto them so she graciously welcomed d’Orgon and de Rochebrune, de Trans and de Volonne, gritting her teeth. The Comte de Toulouse was busy with a convenient local insurrection but would send lesser castellans in his stead.

  Toulouse had his own lands bordering Provence and everyone knew that he had greedy eyes on the whole, so his support for Etiennette would be tactical and temporary. But it was still support. The same could be said of Forcalquier, the third ruler of Greater Provence, who held the north as far as Savoie.

  Let Barcelone and Etiennette weaken each other enough, then Toulouse and Fourcalquier would be quick enough to divide the remaining spoils. Support the weaker now and clean up afterwards. Etiennette knew this well but it was still support for her, now.

  Ermengarda of Narbonne was also unable to attend in person but sent her oath of loyalty to Barcelone (who was unlikely to doubt her support, given that he had rescued her from an inappropriate marriage to Toulouse when she was four years old). Estela was relieved that Ermengarda was not coming: Dragonetz’ love life was complicating her life enough without without having to take into account the sophisticated and beautiful Viscomtesse of Narbonne. Although it would have been theoretically interesting to match Ermengarda against Etiennette, not just as political opponents. At one time, Estela could have said so to Dragonetz and they would have laughed. Not now.

  If this were peace, Estela thought, then maybe war was preferable. The sun beat down, the pressure built up and still more local lords filled the castle with their demands for food, beds and stables. Etiennette had to send ever further afield for the wagons of spelt flour, mutton and poultry, lard for cooking and wax for candles that were needed to meet the needs of a fortress bursting at the seams. And still she sent for more people.

  This was not so much peace as the drawing up of battle lines and when the storm broke, the lightning would strike without discrimination. Sancha on one side: Malik on the other. Dragonetz slipping down his see-saw towards Les Baux. And as for herself? She had a pregnant woman to look after. Usurper and bearer of the King of Aragon sounded very fancy but Petronilla was just another scared girl about to have her first baby, and Estela would give her all the care she could, regardless of sun or storm. Estela’s own personal storm was still merely distant thunder and had not yet crashed through any illusions of security that she retained.

  It was easy enough for Dragonetz to avoid being alone with Etiennette in the most natural way possible: by spending time with her eldest son and heir.

  In that, as in most of her observations, the Lady des Baux had been astute. Hugues was responding to training and the harder he drove himself, the more his men loved him. From a ramshackle band of vassals, the men of Les Baux had become an army. Each day as the new guests brought their followers to the fortress, Hugues slipped away from the court protestations of loyalty and forged rather different ones with swords and sweat.

  Dragonetz demonstrated Sadeek’s paces in the hastily constructed manège, pole fences forming a corral over scorched summer earth. Only those knights who’d been on crusade to the Holy Land had ever seen such tricky horsemanship, and never from a Christian knight. Trained by Damascan guards, Sadeek and Dragonetz formed a new being, a centaur, side-stepping, reversing, capable of turning on a penny.

  At first, men leaned on the fence and laughed at the dancing horse but then Dragonetz donned armour and still Sadeek twisted and turned. The man instructed to run at him waving an axe, fell flat on his face in the space where the horse had stood, while it was Dragonetz’ turn to laugh. And, this time, men laughed with him.

  Without hesitation, Hugues joined Dragonetz. Les Baux’s sturdy mare looked stolid beside the black destrier but was soon proving her master no dullard in horsemanship. Soon, Dragonetz had volunteers being schooled in the manège and a waiting list eagerly watching. It was not an activity for mid-day sun but neither was war, and endurance might prove to be the supreme decider, whatever the men’s skills. So they worked and sweated.

  As the days went by, Dragonetz delegated more of the training to Hugues and watched the young man’s confidence grow alongside his men’s respect. Leaning on the fence-posts, one eye on the movements in the ring, Dragonetz swopped stories with the other onlookers. He made them laugh at the punchlines and learn from the apparently incidental details. As did he.

  A red-faced man with broken nose and hands like hams argued with his friend. ‘Nay, that would be Groms, the best armourer. Wilmen at Aurenja will charge you lands, wife, and horse with them, but for all that his chain has weak links. I’d not trust my life to his mail.’

  ‘Where did you get your sword, my Lord?’

  Dragonetz unsheathed Talharcant, passed it round so men could admire the balance, the blade and of course the Damascan filigree, like watered silk along the steel. ‘I brought the swordsmith with me from the Holy Land. He has a smithy in Marselha if any man has the coin for his skills. Say Dragonetz sent you and you’ll get a fair price.’

  Envy warred with the reality of their budgets as the men reluctantly returned Talharcant to its master.

  ‘Don’t be like the Castellan of le Caylar ,’ Dragonetz warned them with mock-severity.

  ‘I’ve not heard that one.’

  ‘What did he do?’ Scenting a good tale, the men round Dragonetz prodded him to continue.

  ‘Beitz, his name was.’ Dragonetz shook his head at the tragic fate of poor Beitz. ‘A knight fond of his armour, very fond of his armour. He wanted to make a good show in all he did. Some men can’t resist a neat ankle on a woman … well, Beitz couldn’t resist the shine of a new mail shirt, or a hawk reputed to be the keenest, or a horse with good breeding.

  Every smith and armourer in the Causses, every knight wanting to reap some coin knew his weakness and, if he were visiting, the prettiest, most expensive goods were on display.’

  ‘Ay, that’s the way Wilmen at Aurenja plays it. And they’re not always the best goods, neither. Just polished up a bit and set in the light.’

  Dragonetz nodded. ‘So, with his pretty armour and weapons, Beitz was bound to win in any contest, wasn’t he. Or so he reasoned. To pay for all these purchases, he’d bet one of them against another.

  He bet his hawk would drop the rabbit before another man’s and he lost his prized hound. He bet that he’d win against all-comers in duel and he lost his helm.

  Then of course he’d seek better accoutrements, convinced that he could wi
n it all back if he bought better armour. He grew deeper and deeper in debt, gambling all he had and sometimes winning.

  This only made him bet more and lose all. In his cups, and he was often in his cups, he’d place a bet on which duck would rise first from a lake or that a certain maid would smile at him.’

  ‘This will go ill with Beitz,’ the men predicted, with knowing smiles.

  ‘And so it would have …’ Dragonetz teased them. ‘But as it turned out, his debts grew smaller. His favourite sellers told him he was such a good customer that they would wipe out his debts for the sake of future custom.’

  The men laughed sceptically. ‘I thought you were telling a story of this world not the next!’

  ‘Would that such a miracle came my way!’

  ‘Ay, Wilmen would break out in boils at the very thought!’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ Dragonetz insisted. ‘So it was. From then on, when he saw goods he wanted, he was pleasantly surprised at how little they cost. He gambled less now he no longer had heavy debts and he found the same excitement in betting trinkets that he used to have in larger stakes. You are wondering how this came to pass?’

  ‘Nay. We know it couldn’t happen,’ was the blunt reply.

  ‘I should tell you that there had been a ten-fold increase in the flocks grazing the Causses during this time.’

  ‘They were Beitz’ flocks?’ hazarded one man.

  ‘No, or he would have bet them too.’ The men were stumped for answers and waited for the solution to the riddle.

  ‘Beitz had one treasure that he never wagered. His Lady was neither fair nor young but she was shrewd and loved her Lord, for all his faults. Unbeknownst to him she had acquired flocks of sheep and with good husbandry, they had multiplied.