Likewise, an excellent powder for provoking the menses: take some yellow flag, hemlock, castoreum, mugwort, sea wormwood, myrrh, common centaury, sage. Let a powder be made and let her be given to drink one dram of this with water in which savin and myrrh are cooked and let her drink this in the bath… Or let there be made another pessary in the shape of the male member and let it be hollow, and inside there let the medicine be placed and let it be inserted.
Estela was feeling quite recovered from the dizzy sickness but the ache in her belly, as if she’d been kicked by a horse, was only too familiar. Her menses would start some time soon and she just wished her body would sort itself out so she could get on with her life. She still felt reluctant to face any public situation so she intended to take refuge behind her ‘illness’ for a few more days. Not even to herself did she name the individuals she couldn’t face, represented by ‘public situations’.
When the knock came on her door, her badly-behaved heart skipped a beat but, as Sancha was absent on other duties, Estela forced herself to take the normal action of opening the door, seeing who was there. How did all these fears take root? She watched her own hand as it turned the door handle. She felt her heart pounding as she tried not to picture the unknown behind the door.
The more she tried not to picture someone the more convinced she was that Death had come for her, a skeleton in a cloak, a skull for a face. Only when she’d given in to her day-mares, when she accepted that if it be Death, then whatever God willed would happen: only then, in total acceptance, and after a third attack of knocking, could she open the door.
Where a page stood bearing a large bundle wrapped in sackcloth. As was the way of young boys, new to their position, he delivered his message at full sing-song speed with no inflexion whatsoever as if it might be the receipt for orange preserve rather than a matter of any moment.
‘Roxane once of Montbrun know this that the Lord of Montbrun casts you off you are no daughter of his nor heir to his lands and you renounce all such rights for yourself or your ungodly offspring as you swore in front of witnesses should be…’ the boy took a breath and continued, ‘… the case if you should regain the object alleged to be a legacy from your dam which is hereby given to you to seal the contract his dearest wish is that he never see you again and they leave Les Baux this morning the Lady Costansa de Montbrun says it is not over and she has given you token also…’ another breath ‘… thank you my Lady if you are satisfied with my delivery please to remember that a boy needs to eat.’
Estela felt like clapping at the end of such a message, almost distracted from its content by the unique form of delivery. She fetched a penny from her pouch, was rewarded by genuine thanks and a huge grin, then she took the parcel from the boy and he skipped off along the corridor.
After checking, twice, that the door was firmly closed, Estela put the package on the bed and unwrapped it carefully, afraid of her stepmother’s parting shot. Her father’s word counted for enough still to guarantee that the oud would indeed be inside the sackcloth but Costansa was perfectly capable of breaking the instrument.
Not until she had examined every inch of the oud did Estela believe that she really had her precious lute back unscathed. She exhaled with deep relief, her thoughts singing ‘leave this morning’, telling her that the Montbruns were gone, out of her life. She placed the oud on a stool, her fingers itching to pluck the strings, find a new melody, create the song of a freed cagebird.
Absent-mindedly she started to shake and fold the sackcloth wrapping, when a tiny chirp arrested her. Maybe that was the sound that had suggest birdsong to her troubadour’s senses. It was no doubt a cricket, hopping on to warm fabric and getting caught up for the ride. Not wanting to harm any living creature on a day that promised fair, she unfolded the cloth again to rescue the little insect - and jumped back as black claws clicked shut where her hand had been a second earlier. The unmistakeable arched back and clicking claws of the black scorpion continued their small threat, then scuttled off the bed, across the floor and into a crack in the stonework.
Costansa’s parting gift - a scorpion bite. No doubt intended to be fatal. Except that she’d sent the wrong kind of scorpion. Even if it had bitten Estela, the black scorpion would have caused no more pain than a wasp sting. If Costansa had been brought up by a wise woman, as had Estela, she’d have known that the brown scorpion might look less offensive but was far more likely to kill. Costansa! Always judging by appearance - and hoping that others would do likewise. And the worst she could think of was to send a chirruping black scorpion to say ‘Boo!’ Estela could think of a million far worse things to do to Costansa! However, all of a sudden, she no longer needed to; Estela de Matin was somebody who did not need to prove herself. Roxane de Montbrun did not exist any more.
Collapsing onto her clothes-coffer, Estela started laughing. Once she’d begun, she couldn’t stop, whooping until tears came. She was still chuckling to herself when Sancha returned and rushed to her side, concerned at these signs of hysteria.
‘I’m fine, fine.’ Estela told Sancha she was on no account to fetch Malik and concluded, ‘but I have started bleeding, by the bucketful in fact.’
It was Sancha’s turn to collapse, pasty-faced with shock.
‘For the love of God,’ snapped Estela, earning another reproachful look for such blasphemy, ‘act like a woman!’
‘Just the thought of blood makes me faint,’ confessed Sancha, perched on the stool beside the oud, swaying precariously.
‘Be careful with that!’ Then Estela started giggling again, just at the thought that her oud might be destroyed by her friend after surviving Costansa’s spite. ‘All I need is for you to take a message not to look at…’ Sancha gave her a pleading look. ‘Send me a maid, one of the reliable ones, with clean cotton rags. If I can use pessaries for medication, I can use them to soak up blood…’ but Sancha had already rushed for the door muttering ‘maid, cotton rags’ and she bolted before the end of the sentence.
Light-headed, perhaps from loss of so much blood, Estela closed her eyes while she waited for the maid; saw a cage-door opening, heard a bird sing.
‘They’ve gone,’ Dragonetz told her, hovering in the open door, his eyes assessing her state of health. ‘How are you?’
Estela was propped up on the bed, her oud beside her. The notebook Malik had given her, in which she recorded her songs, was on her lap. She’d been working. ‘I’m bleeding,’ she told him.
‘I know.’ He grinned. ‘I guessed from the way Sancha turned green and avoided in any way telling me what ailed you except to say that you ‘would be better in a few days’.’ His eyes softened and he hesitated. ‘Are you disappointed?’
‘If you are.’ She met his question, straight, no games.
‘There is no rush for more babies. It’s enough work to look after the family I’ve got!’
She smiled weakly. ‘I’m glad they’re gone.’ Her not-family.
‘Do you prefer me to stay away for a few more nights?’
‘I’m bleeding,’ she repeated, stupidly.
‘I’m not Sancha.’ The lop-sided charm of his smile made her insides lurch and she suddenly felt weepy again. To be held in her lover’s arms, soothed and stroked was all she wanted. The Montbruns, Les Baux, Barcelone and the whole of Provence could go hang themselves!
Dragonetz read her face, came into the chamber and closed the door behind him. He placed a stool against the door, moved the oud and the notebook, and stretched out beside her, She found her place, head tucked under his chin, into his shoulder.
‘Your training,’ she murmured.
‘Can wait. We’re preparing for the tourney. Hugues can manage. Give the boy something to think about that doesn’t wear skirts.’
‘Wear skirts?’
He didn’t answer and she was too contented to pursue the subject. Other people’s amours were of no interest. Her own folded her in his arms and she stayed awake as long as she could, to better enjoy the long fingers stroking her hair from tip to waist. Then again, and again, in the slow rhythm of comfort as he murmured in Arabic the words of the poet Ibn Faraj.
All night I lay by water
thirsting like a muzzled camel,
her bounty flooding my senses
with fruit and flowers.
No wild beast, I would not take
A garden for a pasture.