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.
‘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 Trinquetaille,’ 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.
‘There are five ways to reach the bottom of Roucas. The main route is from the south, over the pass and across the marshes. They’re worst with storm rain but if you stick to the path, they’re not as bad as further west when the Ròse floods. That’s the way my mother would expect Barcelone to go.’ Thanks to the messenger Dragonetz had sent to Les Baux, Etiennette would be forewarned of Barcelone’s approach and of her son’s, although innocent of the reason for Hugues’ delay.
‘I suppose Tarascon offers him a safe night and a chance to consolidate his hold there.’
‘I think so too,’ Dragonetz pondered. ‘It was his base in the wars with your mother and he might need it again.’
Hugues gave his slow smile. ‘He might,’ was his only comment.
‘And he is right to worry about his safety en route to Les Baux.’
The smile grew larger. ‘It was kind of him to choose the northern route. We have the small look-out posts you saw earlier in these mountains,’ Hugues continued his description, ‘the Alpilles.’ Hugues had made sure the men at the look-outs knew their comrades were back in their terrain and what their plan was.
Dragonetz nodded. ‘We want the men there to try - but fail - to rescue Barcelone in his time of trouble. And they’ll be helpful in signalling his approach, to your mother and to us. That would be the natural response, no?’
‘Barcelone will be lucky to avoid a flight of arrows with a troop that size and no warning.’
Dragonetz was emphatic. Barcelone was no stripling to gift them mistakes but a victorious overlord come to demand oaths of fealty more binding than ink. ‘He’ll send clear warning of his approach, just before he comes. He won’t risk giving excuse for bloodshed to eager men.’
‘He might send a Porcelet ahead to warn the look-out,’ Hugues said hopefully.
‘Who might be mistaken for a brigand.’ Dragonetz laughed. Even if Barcelone was naïve enough, the Porcelets were wiser. ‘No, my friend, you must resign yourself to whatever fun we have in the chase tomorrow as the Pons family must be seen in public to host their guests in an honest manner, which does not include killing half their number en route! You signed a truce!’
‘I know. With my father still warm in some unknown grave in Barcelone.’ Hugues face darkened. Then he continued. ‘From the west is a way that follows a permanent stream along the marshes. The water is useful.’ Dragonetz nodded again. ‘The marshes themselves protect us but men underestimate them at their peril and many have gone missing there, man and horse swallowed in the sinking mud. Even those of us who grew up here keep to the known tracks.
There are two paths from the east, going different sides of the Méjan hill, with water at some times, dry at others.
And of course the Aurelian road from the old times, a straight road that skirts the valley east-west. We have men in the settlements at Les Caisses, Le Castellas, La Tène, Le Mont Paon.’
Dragonetz added all the detail to his mental map. The next day would show whether they were indeed lucky that Barcelone had chosen the difficult northern approach.
Waiting was always the hardest part of an ambush. Assuming you lost no men during it. For the millionth time, Dragonetz ran through their scheme in his mind, knowing only too well that no plan was foolproof and that the best commanders were always those who could react to change - just as the best men were those whose obedience was instinctive.
‘They’re coming!’ Hugues’ exclamation was unnecessary as everyone heard the hunting horn from the look-out post, which would also tell Etiennette that her guests were on their way. The throaty ripple of frogs’ mating calls reverberated down the hillside from the pass, along the route through which Barcelone’s company must travel to the cave which hid the band.
As each scout in turn took up the love song of Provençal marshland, the rest of Hugues’ men took up their positions, hidden behind rocks in the valley, on either side of the narrow route to Les Baux and right beside the cavernous entrance to a complex of caves.
After the frogsong came the sound of a cavalcade: the jingle of horses’ tack; curt instructions; the more leisurely pace of travel talk; creaking wheels and wagons; laughter and sweeter-voiced pleasantries. Hugues’ men let the vanguard go by, double file for riders and then the first wagons, taking up the whole width of the track with no room for side-riders. The men of Les Baux awaited the signal, steadying their restless horses.
Dragonetz watched for the wagons in mid-train and assessed each one quickly, its weight and handling, its guards or lack of. Clothes, he thought, of one; women, of another, obvious enough from the high-pitched chatter inside.
Then a smaller cart, its wheel-ruts digging deeper, chains fastening the tarpaulin over its stacked contents, the drivers clearly armed, no peasants. ‘Now!’ he shouted leading the attack on the heavy-laden treasure-wagon.
Throwing his reins to Hugues, Dragonetz leapt from the black destrier, which had learned trickier moves on the sands of Damascus and still kept its balance. The knight landed on a tangle of drivers, pushing one off his perch onto the roadside, while a comrade dealt with the other.
Too surprised to offer resistance, the drivers were dragged behind rocks by Hugues’ men, who’d been instructed to bind them not kill them. Anonymous helmets, mail coifs, hauberks and speed provided all the disguise needed to keep the men of Les Baux safe from later identification, and humiliation was always more gratifying to mete out than death. So removing the drivers’ clothes seemed to be an improvement on the original plan and they were then tied up, together, as instructed.
Other Pons men sliced through the harness of the wagon following the one ahead of the target, and dealt with their drivers. These weaponless peasants saved the ambushers the trouble and tied themselves up with every gesture of surrender known to scared men. The loose horses blocked the attempt by Barcelone’s men to rally round their mid-section and the general panic was encouraged by the circling and whoops of the ambushers.
While dust and riders whirled around the three wagons, the devil took the reins and the middle cart disappeared. At least this was the story told later by Barcelone’s men, as they crossed themselves. How else could the cart have disappeared in broad daylight? And then the men too.
Caves, the locals suggested when they heard the tale, but the indignant soldiers told how they had seen the entrance to a cavern and gone in to check it for their ambushers and stolen goods but nothing was there, not so much as a bat. Then the locals crossed themselves and whispered of ‘the devil’s cave’, a place to avoid. If some of these locals had a smile on their face and some Barcelone loot in their pouches, the foreign soldiers were too upset by the day’s events to notice.
If he’d chosen to, Dragonetz could have given a different version. Under cover of dust and panic, with all six drivers safely removed and trussed, and none of Barcelone’s cohort close enough to see what was happening, he’d taken the drivers’ place. Hugues had come back on foot to lead the carthorses off the road and into the cave entrance.
Slicing through the harness, Hugues freed the pair of workhorses and drove them back onto the road, while his men took their place, and, with sweat and muscle, wheeled the cart past the mouth and apparent back wall, behind which was a cavern big enough to hide an army.
At first it was difficult to get enough hands to the cart to get it moving but once it had started rolling, the momentum and slight downhill slope rendered the task less of a strain. All easy enough for someone who’d known the caves since boyhood, Hugues declared, his eyes dancing and his cheeks smeared black with sweat and grease.
Wiping out the tracks with brushwood, the men of Les Baux stacked some rocks in the inner entrance, to add to the illusion of wall. Then they assembled in the deeper caves, as far back as they could go, re-uniting and reassuring the horses.
Once again it was a waiting game but this time success lent patience to the ambushers. They heard Barcelone’s men report the cave empty, the shouts echoing strangely through the caverns. It was impossible to keep the horses silent but whatever whinnies and snorts escaped must have echoed as oddly to those outside as the sounds there did to those holding their breath in the cave. Horses on the road made their share of panicked noise as presumably the loose ones were re-captured.
Then silence. And only imagination to indicate when it would be safe to come out. Barcelone would want his drivers found, untied and questioned. They should be found quickly enough as they’d been left ungagged. They could reveal nothing but that men in armour had assaulted them. Whatever Barcelone suspected, he could prove nothing. When he reached Les Baux, Etiennette’s surprise would be real enough on hearing of the terrible robbery suffered by her guest.
Hugues’ men would withdraw back up to the Sarragan Pass for the night, and the next day they would back-track enough to approach Les Baux from the south, flying the red and yellow banners of Provence, and trumpeting their innocent return home.
Treasure-cart? What treasure-cart? How terrible that such a thing should befall Barcelone on Pons land! Hugues rehearsed their innocence with his men until laughter drew tears. Dragonetz withdrew just enough to make sure all eyes were on Hugues. He smiled to himself as he stroked the black silk of his stallion’s neck. It was a good beginning.
Only one minor thing troubled him: a young woman’s voice calling in distress, ‘My parents’ portrait! It’s in the wagon!’ and the deep-voiced reply, ‘They cannot take your memories, my Queen, whatever things are stolen. They are just things and we are more than that.’ Petronilla and Barcelone. It had to be. But what stayed with Dragonetz, even more than a woman’s distress, was the tone and tenor of her husband’s words. It might not be so easy to dislike Ramon Berenguer, the Comte de Barcelone.
Dragonetz found a moment to speak quietly with Hugues, then broke into the treasure wagon with two of the men, who memorised the contents they could see. Dragonetz himself searched methodically until he found a coffer of women’s jewellery and in it, wrapped in black velvet and framed in gold, a miniature portrait of a nobleman and woman, set-faced and serious.
The painting was unremarkable, as were the subjects’ long faces but Dragonetz was struck by the family resemblance in Petronilla’s mother to a woman he knew very well. Red hair, the white skin that often accompanies it and something about the determined jut of the chin were common features to them both. But where Aliénor, Duchesse d’Aquitaine was all fire and vivacity, this woman - her aunt perhaps? - was quiet-eyed and the so-similar features composed for lumpy plainness where the niece’s pleased with their symmetry.
Presumably the artist had used the usual tricks of his trade to beautify the subject, making her forehead higher, clearing the skin of blemishes and in colour, in which case Petronilla’s mother had indeed been very plain. The father’s expression verged between sour and saintly so in some ways the couple seemed well matched although there was no sense of connection between them. Dragonetz wondered if in the future an artist might dare to show a couple’s feelings for each other, as he did when composing songs, but even the thought was unseemly. Still, a daughter’s love saw beauty where art showed none.
Unseen, Dragonetz slipped the package into his pouch and returned the coffer to its place. The men secured the treasure-cart once more and listed the contents to Hugues, who arranged the guards until such time the treasure could be retrieved safely.