If someone is bruised on any part of his body from a blow or a fall, he should take old fat, and mix with it equal amounts of sage and tansy. He should press prasine into it, then heat it in the sun or near a fire. Then he should place all this, with the stone, so heated, over the place where it hurts, and it will be better.
Dragonetz could still hear the echo of seven voices blending, the gift left to him from his poppy dreams. While the singing lingered, he knew an inner peace. ‘Inshallah,’ he murmured. One day, he would find the voices to bring his music to the world. He had tried, had sent messages to abbeys and monasteries famed for their plainsong, but the reply was always the same. The notion of multiple voices singing different melodies was not possible. How many times in his life would Dragonetz be told something was ‘not possible’? When he could hear the music of the spheres! One day, he told himself. One day, he would find the voices and teach them to interweave the pattern of his dream.
‘My Lord Dragonetz?’
‘Raoulf.’ More cause for guilt. Dragonetz had barely wished good-day to his loyal lieutenant since they’d come to Les Baux. Barring some curt words over Raoulf’s dispute with Gilles regarding Prima, conversations had been little more than instructions and yet Dragonetz had grown up with this bear of a man always at his side. Such a history, and the loss of his son, gave Raoulf the right and, in his own eyes, the duty to say what nobody else dared.
‘I’ve not spoken to you since de Rançon’s message -’ Raoulf began
‘ - Then don’t.’ Dragonetz cut him short.
‘Your father, and the Duchesse, will see they’re mistaken…’ persevered Raoulf, flinching at the black-eyed glare he earned.
‘Have you checked horses, armour, weapons?’ Dragonetz asked, pointedly ignoring the comment.
‘Of course, my Lord!’
‘And is Hugues really recovered enough in your view?’ The very question was intended as a salve to Raoulf’s pride, a reminder that his opinion counted - on military matters.
‘Put it this way: if he comes unseated, his arse will be sorer than a pair of unblemished buttocks would be. But between us, I wouldn’t cry over it. And he’s champing at the bit to have at the enemy - whoever he might decide that to be.’
Dragonetz smiled. ‘Astute as ever. There will be a few on both sides having at their enemies, whoever they might decide fits the name. Walk with me and tell me what you think of a wheel formation to begin the tourney. If we have the young Comte as standard bearer and Malik beside him, of course, then each of us rides as in a spoke at his jousting partner, do you think that would work?’
Raoulf sucked on the coarse hairs of his black beard, discovered a breadcrumb and disposed of it, chewing on the idea. ‘Maybe,’ he said cautiously. ‘I like the formation itself but you’re hoping they’ll form a loose outer wheel, riding around until each selects his target?’
‘Not hoping,’ replied Dragonetz, a glint in his eye. ‘relying on it.’
Raoulf sighed. ‘Inside information.’
‘Of course. So?’ Dragonetz prompted.
‘It’s the best way to protect the young Comte,’ Raoulf conceded, ‘and it makes the one-to-one combat better organised than your average melée. But it gives them three advantages; they’ll already be moving into the joust and they’ll be picking who fights whom.’
Dragonetz shook his head. ‘Hugues and I’ve agreed that each of his men turns and stops, then charges in turn, on the signal. That’s time enough for us to do likewise. And it means we’ll all move from a standing start.
As to the partnering - Hugues and I have decided that already. And of course Barcelone will be doing all he can to protect the young Comte too,’ Dragonetz pointed out, ‘so he’ll work to keep our formation in place, even if he’s on the other team.’
Raoulf’s eyes widened. ‘It wasn’t Barcelone who…’
‘I’m saying nothing,’ grinned his Commander. ‘Besides, Hugues is the opposition leader, not Ramon.’
‘And you know fine well that any seasoned general can direct Hugues, simply by telling him what he mustn’t do,’ observed Raoulf.
‘The third disadvantage?’ pursued Dragonetz.
‘They’ll be charging at our standard-bearer - your precious young Comte - and we’ll be charging towards a precipice.’ The plateau might be flat and easy-going underfoot, especially in summer drought, but on three sides there were sheer cliffs.
‘Motivates our men to control their horses well. Practising in a manège doesn’t offer the same discipline.’
Raoulf wisely bit back whatever he had started to say. Instead, he asked, ‘The rules are unchanged?’
‘All as agreed. First contact with the lance, one attempt only, to avoid damaging other contenders. If one is unseated, he yields. If neither or both, the combat continues by sword until one yields. The men have been told we want no deaths and there is no shame in yielding but glory in fighting with honour.
We expect chivalry.’ Dragonetz shrugged. They both knew how men behaved, once roused to a fight. ‘Those taken prisoner are honour bound to go and stand with the Master of Horse. He has a vested interest in seeing that any riderless horses are removed from the scene by his hands and cared for properly.
We want to avoid any serious bloodshed. I had an idea that we could make blunted lances for such an occasion but all tell me ‘it’s impossible’. There will be a lot of excitable men and horse in a small space, even with the plans for formation. Bloodletting will be useful but I’m hoping we can stop at that.’ One day, he told himself, blunted weapons would be in use at tourneys. Another project that would prove not only possible but practical, in the future.
Another hesitation from Raoulf before speaking.
‘Spit it out, man,’ Dragonetz told him. ‘I’d rather know beforehand than after I’ve missed something.’
‘It’s just… there are a lot of men in this with good reason to kill each other.’
‘That’s what makes it entertaining!’
‘And if Hugues de Baux manages to kill his young liege under cover of sport? You’d not find that so entertaining!’ retorted Raoulf.
‘Neither would Ramon,’ was the reply, serious now. ‘But you underestimate Hugues. He values his reputation as a man of honour too much to choose the assassin’s route. If Etiennette were on the battlefield, now that would be a good question!
I’ve even wondered about Ramon,’ he confessed. ‘Whether he might take the opportunity to rid himself of Hugues. But I think El Sant is hoping to win Hugues over, not kill him, or he’d have done so long before. And on a more practical note, killing Hugues would only leave three younger brothers to follow, each more vengeful than the next, if Etiennette has her way. No, Ramon’s main task will be watching over his nephew and no doubt arranging some sword-play for him to feel like a man.’
Raoulf was sucking on his beard again. ‘Ay, there’s another thing. If the young lordling is out of combat as standard bearer, does that mean they’re doing likewise? Keeping a man out of play? Where will he be then? First man to win a joust could take their standard early on?’
Dragonetz shook his head. ‘It’s more complicated. Malik is out of play too, protecting the standard. Neither he nor Ramon would allow the boy to join in otherwise. We have the extra man with de Rançon, they’re keeping standard-bearer and one guard, the rest are paired in combat.
Some of the pairs I know; some I don’t but I can guess. They don’t have the same constraints as we do so maybe the standard-bearer will roam. But you’re right, it’s always good for morale to capture the standard, so if we can, we will.’
His grin was boyish, infectious, as he teased his lieutenant. ‘Keep that in mind when you’ve won your bout.’
It was Raoulf’s turn to shrug. ‘What can go wrong?’ he asked, with gloomy scepticism. He refrained from pointing out that charging over a precipice could be considered bloodshed by onlookers. Or indeed by the knight who found himself riding through clouds. War was tough. Training was practice for war.
‘What indeed?’ Dragonetz’ smile would have warned anyone who knew him that the tourney would unleash all the wild energy hiding within the nickname ‘los Pros’.
Striped canopies and banners in silks of all colours protected the spectators from the sun and many a lady wore her heart on her sleeve in red or blue favours. Pinned by a small gold dragon to the fashionable ruches, Estela’s blue ribbons fluttered proudly from an azure gown. Her hips were girdled by a plaited navy leather belt, fastened with her Pathfinder Brooch. Was it only two years ago that she’d worn the Viking rune-gift to another tourney, when Dragonetz had misinterpreted her attire as support for another? She would give him no cause to doubt her this time.
In the same stand as Estela, but seated as became her status, the Lady of Les Baux sported a red scarf embroidered with the new house blazon, the sixteen-pointed star of her ancestor Bautasar. Estela smiled to herself at the birth of a legend and made a mental note that she would pay another visit to the Gyptian on her own behalf, to extract more details about her own mysterious discovery.
Red ribbons and scarves decorated the ladies like poppies in a field but there was no shortage of azure. Anticipation turned to anxiety as the spectators watched an empty battle-field and waited. The trumpeters sounded a fanfare. Then another.
‘I feel faint,’ murmured a familiar voice beside Estela, the woman’s face hidden behind a makeshift fan, wielded more energetically than should have been possible by a damsel about to sink to the ground.
‘Imagine how they are going to feel,’ Estela rebuked her friend, noting that Sancha was wearing rather hideous blue and red stripes. ‘I’m betting on three breathing casualties and two pricked by swords.’
‘You have no sensibility.’
‘No, none at all,’ Estela responded cheerfully. ‘And you have no allegiance.’
Sancha gave a helpless shrug. ‘What would you have me do? My Liege is red and my lover is blue. Look, Vinse is wearing my ribbons!’ And sure enough, one of the anonymous knights in the procession from the castle had ribbons tied round his arm.’
‘They’re all wearing ribbons,’ pointed out Estela drily as the knights passed them, playing to the audience with half-bows and prancing horse-steps.
‘Yes but those are mine,’ insisted Sancha, blowing a kiss in the general direction of her gaze, then colouring and looking at the ground. ‘That was too bold for a lady, wasn’t it?’
Maria pushed her way past them to the front of the stand, leaning out to catch a red rose tossed to her by a knight who passed close enough to see the gleam of sweat on his horse as a neat side-step twisted rider and horse back towards the centre. Flowers. Estela’s daily gift of flowers had stopped a few days earlier, causing her to wonder why. Should she have done more to acknowledge them?
She’d worn one each day but Dragonetz had said nothing. In fact, he’d seemed more trouble-ridden when he’d seen her, not comforted. Of course he was busy with his men, being a Commander, but it would have been nice to have a token, like Maria had been given. A romantic gesture. She sighed. Foolish, girlish thoughts.
Last of the riders wearing blue came one on the blackest of pure-bred horses. Sadeek. Estela’s heart flipped at one curt nod of the helm, in her direction, one little dance of hooves, for her, then Dragonetz followed his men to their warm-up exercises. This was what he did, was who he was and she was overwhelmed anew that such a man loved her.
She and Dragonetz were a partnership, as much as he and his men, whereas Maria and her mystery knight were at the start of a love affair, all heat and no substance. Von Bingen would have prescribed a steam bath with cooling herbs to work against the madness known as being in love.
Estela had wondered who Maria’s knight might be but she still couldn’t tell. Blue, so one of Dragonetz’ men. Maybe Raoulf? But she’d have recognized the bulk of Dragonetz’ lieutenant even in armour. She glanced around the plateau and yes, there he was, unmistakeable in his battered armour. She even imagined strands of his unkempt black beard poking through his visor. No, Raoulf had not left Prima for a pretend virgin. That was hardly his style anyway. His approach was that of a rough soldier who took his pleasure lightly, left easily and supported the bastards he’d fathered, without worrying about their future.
Estela flinched from the word ‘bastard’ and sought out Maria’s knight on the battleground. Barcelone was easy to identify, his helmet sporting a gold nose-piece and eye-slit; his mount smaller than all but the jennets of his nephew and Malik. The young Comte was easy enough to identify, carrying the leader’s standard with its silver dragon on an azure field. All credit to his training in horsemanship, he managed his task with aplomb. The third small, nippy horse must belong to Malik, who would have been unmistakeable anyway with his spiked Moorish helm and sabre.
Still trying to distinguish the other individuals within the team, reciting an aide-memoire, a mix of riders and mounts: ‘black legs, pointy helm, skinny roan, left-arm-ribbon…’ Estela was distracted by the Lady des Baux jumping to her feet and clapping. The three younger sons who’d been banned from taking part were even more enthusiastic, as their older brother led out his men.
Each of Hugues’ team wore a red tabard emblazoned with the white sixteen-point star and Estela had to admit they looked magnificent. How the sewing-women had made such attire in the time available was a miracle worthy of Bautasar!
‘Bravo, Les Baux,’ she murmured, then looked around to check nobody had heard her who could report back to Dragonetz. Sancha looked back at her, smug.
They watched the red tabards weaving among the riders with blue ribbons, like an army of metal-carapaced beetles, sun glinting on their freshly-oiled armour.
‘If I had a blazon,’ Estela mused, ‘it would have to be a star, for ‘Estela de Matin’, the morning star. Eight points, I think, and a silver star on a gold field.’
‘Gold is good,’ approved Sancha. ‘For the morning and for a bright future. But you need to learn the right terms.’ That was the sort of thing Sancha would know. ‘Background first. So yours would be ‘Or, for gold, on a star argent.’ I think you should make it quarterly gold and azure, to link your blazon with Dragonetz.’
Estela contemplated this but found it less exciting than having her own blazon. ‘No,’ she decided. ‘It would be only gold. What would you have as a blazon?’ Sancha was looking towards her blue-ribboned knight as she opened her mouth to speak and Estela insisted, ‘For yourself, for what you are, not to proclaim your affections.’
Sancha closed her mouth again and thought. The knights were quite obviously hurling pre-tourney insults at the opposing team as they passed each other. The words were lost in the dust and warm breeze but, from experience, Estela had a good idea that they featured ‘your mother, your sister and your lady’ with reference to whores, dogs and sexual activities.
At least opposing Christian sides would understand each other’s insults. In the Holy Land, Estela had been bemused at seeing the traditional Christian insults of the Saracens. What men like Malik made of gestures that suggested they wore beards and were literate, she could not imagine. The Moors did indeed wear beards and many could read, but it was unlikely that being reminded of this would reduce their confidence in a battle. But those were the benefits of travel, Estela supposed. Heathens turned into human beings and allies could sometimes seem very silly.
Still, men would be men, and Estela had visited enough taverns to know that insults could raise a man’s blood in a manner likely to enhance fighting strength. Judging by the quantity if not the quality of insults, the men’s blood was simmering nicely and Dragonetz could be relied on to bring it to boiling point at the right moment. Van Bingen had remedies for that too. Estela sighed. Her skills might well be called on afterwards but there was no chance of prevention so she might just as well enjoy the show. And it was going to be quite a show.
Barcelone and Dragonetz in one-to-one combat was the climax everybody had been waiting for, including, Estela suspected, the two protagonists. She could hear cautious bets being laid around her in the stand, with nobody certain of the outcome. Apart from her. General he might be but, sainted or not, Ramon would be no match for Dragonetz, and if Barcelone had caught even a glimpse of the devilment in his opponent’s black eyes, he would know that.
‘Argent on a fess sable - that’s a black stripe - one needle between three pansies azure, declared Sancha finally.
‘Most apt,’ was Estela’s judgement. ‘One of your talents, certainly, and blue is the colour for truth. The pansy because you want to show thoughts? Friendship?’
‘No. Just because I think they’re pretty.’
Estela sighed. Ladies. Perhaps it was just as well only men had blazons. The fashion was growing and even those who already had symbols were changing them for ones they liked better.
On the field, the colours were separating, blue ribbons retreating to the centre, around their standard, red tabards forming an outer circle. Estela suddenly noticed, ‘They have no standard-bearer!’
‘They don’t need one if they’re all wearing blazoned tabards. Nice tactic. Takes away the vulnerability of the standard-bearer…’
‘… and gives them an extra man!’
‘It will even things up. The blues had an extra man,’ Sancha pointed out, revealing the sharpness that Estela loved. The demure exterior hid many talents. When they’d first met, Sancha had been one of Dragonetz’ court spies.
‘But Malik’s sworn to protect the young Comte! So we are a man down before we begin. I don’t like this one bit.’
The blues had formed a cluster round their standard-bearer and his guard, each of the men facing outwards, waiting. The reds found their places in a great wheel around them, each man stopping to face his tourney partner, as if along the spoke of a wheel. With one man in red, riding free.
With a growing premonition of disaster, Estela watched the wheel turn clockwise, move as one to a different partner.
‘Why would they do that?’ she asked.
‘To unsettle the blues. They thought they knew who they’d be fighting. Now they have somebody different. And no time to re-think whatever strategy they had planned.’
The trumpet sounded and the first bout commenced, the two riders building up speed from a standing start to clash lances in the middle. Both were unseated and they’d barely staggered to their feet and drawn swords when the trumpet sounded again. The next pair charged, kicking up dust, lances high. One of the loose horses reared in fright, about to bolt, but a stable-hand caught its reins in time and ran it to safety, while one of his brave fellows rescued the other mount.
‘No!’ Sancha shrieked and gripped Estela’s arm. ‘He’s going to get hurt!’ Her knight, in the second bout, had been unseated and flew in an undignified arc to land firmly on the parched ground. ‘I can’t look.’
‘And you’re in favour of Les Baux going to war,’ Estela pointed out to her friend, sotto voce. ‘You can look now. I think there are some rules and being unseated is a loss. Your knight is leaving the field.’
‘Thank God,’ was Sancha’s verdict, somewhat lacking in team spirit.
As the pairs launched in turn, round the clock, Estela had already guessed that Dragonetz would be last but, as she fixed the players in her mind - ‘skinny roan, left-hander’ - she suddenly realised what Hugues had done. ‘He switched!’ she said, outraged.
‘Who switched? Switched what?’
The fourth pair didn’t wait for the trumpet, the fifth pair started at the fourth trumpet call, then the next two pairs charged simultaneously. What with the dust and noise, horses charging and clashing weapons, the spectators could only infer what was going on from occasional sightings of a red flash, a loose horse or some blue ribbons. All formation had turned to chaos, with riders and men on foot chasing each other through clouds of dust.
‘Hugues.’ Estela was indignant but there was no mistaking the solid Barcelone general on his horse, roaming free, intervening in the fight only to haul out a reluctant loser - on either side - and send him on the march to the ever-growing number of prisoners’ in the Horse-master’s care. Ramon was pulling out loose horses too, whirling them away from men enraged by the fight, long lost to reason. ‘Hugues replaced Ramon, to fight Dragonetz!’
Sancha laughed. ‘Was Barcelone too scared to take him on?’
They watched Ramon riding into the thickest clouds of dust, judging a combat over whether the men in it thought so or not, dispatching justice and saving lives.
‘No.’ Estela could see the pattern Ramon made, as he rode, an inner wheel. ‘He’s protecting his nephew without shaming him! He won’t let the fighting get too close to the standard-bearer and if a man’s beaten, but won’t surrender, he’s declaring the fight over. No, it’s not Ramon that worries me. It’s Hugues taking Dragonetz!’
‘If Ramon had little chance against Dragonetz, Hugues has less!’
‘But you don’t know…’ Estela began. You don’t know how much hate Hugues is carrying and neither does Dragonetz. De Rançon, where are you now? Dragonetz needs you.