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.
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 visit 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.
It had been a good morning’s work and Estela was humming as she tripped along the flags between Petronilla’s ante-chamber and the window bay where she’d arranged to meet Malik and Dragonetz to practise some new material for evening entertainment. She felt creative again, had an idea for a lyric and wanted help with the melody. She’d wanted to include some of von Bingen’s work in the repertoire, if the two men were willing to sing plainsong with her. They blended well, Dragonetz’ bass and Malik’s lighter tone, and all three knew each other so well that they could feel the pauses for breath without any signs.
To Estela’s chagrin both men had vetoed von Bingen’s work as inappropriate for entertainment. Sacred music could only be sung in church. Estela’s frustration was no less because she knew they were right. ‘But I can’t perform in church because I’m a woman! Not unless I join a convent! Perhaps I should go to Alsace and sing with von Bingen herself. She has more freedom than I do.’
‘I can’t sing her work in public either,’ Malik reminded her quietly. As a Muslim he couldn’t - or wouldn’t - enter a church (Estela wasn’t sure which). But sing it in private, they could and did, the words carrying them to that other world they shared, where God and Allah were but two faces of some eternal truth.
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…
When the music stopped, Estela could feel the tension, the choosing of opposite sides that lay between the three of them, but in singing there was only the old harmony. They all needed that respite. And this morning she felt optimistic about finding that same harmony in the greater world. Provence was beautiful in the slanting summer sun, hazy blue through the arrow slits.
Peasants would be harvesting spelt and the first of this year’s honey had already reached table. It was still early enough in the day for the dairy farmers to sell their fresh cheese at the castle gate. Soon they would have to pack up and ride home, hoping to peddle their wares after hours to buyers willing to risk cheese rancid from heat if they could save some coin or bartering power.
Longer-lasting products such as grain or flour could be sold on to the regrators, middle-men who would store goods as long as they could afford and sell when the price was highest, winter or famine. Estela had grown up a castellan’s daughter and was accustomed to the way the hinterland contributed to the community within the walls.
Perhaps she would saddle up and explore the valley after practising her music. What was it Bernard of Clairvaux had said? ‘Stone and trees will teach you a lesson you never heard from the masters in school.’ Stone and trees had always taught Estela more than masters; being a girl, she had taken schooling where she could, from her healer mother and from shadowing her brother.
Most of all, she’d been taught by Gilles, who taught her how to choose and use a dagger, how to ride and care for a horse, and how to read stone and trees so she could always find her way home. He’d saved her life and paid with his right hand. He was all the protection she needed to ride out with her, to escape the walls for an afternoon. Nici could run alongside. Dragonetz would no doubt be busy with Hugues’ guard, with sword drill and tilting but she would have all the protection she’d ever needed. All was as it should be.
Perhaps not quite all, she amended. There were always minor domestic concerns. Estela had caught the wet-nurse rubbing red eyes with her wimple when she’d thought herself unobserved. Prima’s care of the two toddlers, her own and Musca, was faultless.
They thrived and slept well, despite the love games of Musca’s parents on the other side of the chamber’s damask curtain, and the whimpering dog dreams of Nici, guarding the threshold. With a guilty pang, Estela had wondered whether Prima slept less well beside the babies and behind that same curtain but when she asked Prima what was troubling her, noisy bed-neighbours weren’t mentioned.
With some reluctance, Prima confessed. It was no secret that Dragonetz’ gruff man-at-arms Raoulf had enjoyed the nurse’s favours. Indeed, the two of them had lived like a family, protecting Musca in a hideaway while his parents were in the Holy Land. They had even looked after Nici, although the dog would probably give a different version of events, if he could speak.
It seemed that the change in domestic arrangements had made Prima less available and the ever-fickle Raoulf had happily found his pleasures elsewhere. Not that Prima had expected fidelity from a married man above her station but she hadn’t realized how lightly he took her until she saw how lightly he left her. She had even hoped that she might bear him a child and keep his affections where others had failed.
All Estela could offer were sympathy and security. And privately she thanked the fates that Prima was not pregnant. Raoulf’s bastards were numerous, his generosity to them impeccable - unlike his begetting of them - but Musca needed his nurse’s full attention. Prima was young and would get over it and Estela saw no other clouds on her horizons. The day was too fair to worry over her wet-nurse’s amours.
The door to the Solar was ajar as Estela passed and although the voices inside were low, she was so attuned to one of them that the words reached her clearly and stopped her in her tracks.
‘My Lady, you do me great honour.’ Dragonetz, saying no. But what was he saying no to? She knew he was speaking to their hostess even before she heard the other voice. She also knew that it was despicable to listen like this, that Dragonetz would tell her the whole conversation later in the day. She remained rooted to the spot.
‘I am not asking for an answer now, Dragonetz, just asking you to consider my proposal. Since my Lord was murdered, I have taken his place as best I can but I know my weaknesses. I am but a woman and, as you have shown me, my sons are not yet the men they need to be against such as Barcelone.
You are young in years but old in experience. You are a man. A man with rare talents. A man who has already been more of a father to my son in a month than he has ever known! I offer you Les Baux. Marry me and be Lord of Les Baux. Chase Barcelone from your land and keep its people safe.’
Estela waited for Dragonetz to say it was impossible, that he loved and was loved in return, that he had a child, a family. She had to remember to breathe.
‘Hugues would not accept me as Lord of Les Baux.’ Twin points of anger reddened Estela’s cheeks and it took all her self-control not to march into the chamber and slap ‘her’ knight.
‘You would win him round. And I do not ask that you love me or renounce… other commitments. I could perhaps surprise you…’ the tones furred and Estela envisaged grey hair being loosed, the robe unlaced seductively, ageing fingers stroking Dragonetz’ jaw and neck. She felt sick. ‘We might find solace in each other and I am not too old to bear another heir, another boy. Just think on it, Dragonetz.’
‘My Lady, I did not expect…’ Neither did I! thought Estela. ‘I think you underestimate your own strength, without any man’s help.’
‘But I want a man.’ Lady Etiennette could sound every bit as petulant as her son. ‘And you are my first choice!’ Good Lord! thought Estela. She has a list!
‘Then I must indeed consider the matter seriously.’ There was no mistaking Dragonetz’ meaning - he was taking leave. Estela picked up her skirts and scuttled out of sight before she could be caught eavesdropping. She too needed to consider matters very seriously. Suddenly, the day clouded over.