When the pelican first sees her chicks hatch from their eggs, she thinks they are not related to her and she kills them. When she sees that they do not move, she is sad and lacerates herself, resuscitating them with her blood.
De Rançon’s honour and tragic death grew in the telling as word spread through the castle, with Dragonetz given a supporting role in both; Roland and Oliver not only in battle but with Geoffroi dying in Dragonetz’ arms. Whatever Maria thought of this version she did not come out of her refuge to contradict it.
In his role as physician, Malik notified Lady Etiennette of the death and she sent word to all the officials required to conduct a Christian burial. When a notary came bustling up from the village, red-faced and waving Geoffroi’s last will and testament, this too was passed on to the appropriate authorities.
Estela found talk of the tourney even more painful than plans for a splendid funeral. Her first instinct was to seek out Maria and see if she could help the girl but Malik suggested it was too soon. She could not sit and cry all day but she felt guilty at doing anything else, surrounded as she was by the business of a grand death. She had to get away from the castle so she would pluck up courage and pay one last visit to the beekeeping Gyptian, while she still could. Perhaps she could wring some truth out of the wretched woman regarding the cloth that was supposed to show her ‘ancestry.’
It would be easier to dismiss the Gyptian’s ramblings if none of them had come true. Yet, against all possible prediction, Dragonetz was dishonoured, accused of disloyalty. The prophecies weighed like curses on her and Estela wasn’t sure whether she wanted them removed or explained. If Maria had come to her dispensary talking of such superstitious nonsense, she’d have laughed in her face. And yet. Estela fingered the Pathfinder rune that she wore for protection, for guidance, for reassurance in this crazy quest.
The Pathfinder medallion was her only protection. She preferred to go alone on such an errand, with the mysterious cloth in her saddle bag. She had no problem slipping away unnoticed and picked her way slowly and carefully down the sodden track, past the place where the white rocks narrowed and on to the hidden cave opening.
Tying up her mare, she walked through the large entrance, surrounded by water drips and plopping echoes, the night’s rain seeping through the rock and sliming walls. She stumbled, caught herself against a wall and quickly pulled away. It was like touching an eel.
‘Dame Fairnette,’ she called, the ‘nette’ echoing through the caves and back to her, mocking. She entered the woman’s private sanctuary but nobody was there. The hearth was cold and yet in her state of health such a fierce night must have been chilling. The bee veil was on the cot. Not down at her hives then.
Rather than return to Les Baux, Estela continued down towards the river and the vineyards, where she and Gilles had met the farmers. She glanced idly towards the beehives as she passed and then stopped in her tracks. The flamboyant mix of fabrics and patterns in all colours, draping a hive, could not be mistaken. She had been wrong: Dame Fairnette was indeed with her bees, whose anger clouded the air above their keeper.
‘Dame Fairnette!’ called Estela, not expecting an answer, and not getting one. She turned her horse, rode back to the cave, grabbed the veil and four scarves, then forced the increasingly reluctant horse to return to the beehives. Stopping at what she hoped was a safe distance, Estela dismounted, tied up her mount once more and donned the veil. She folded her dangling sleeves over her hand, tied her skirt with scarves to make a hobble - vulnerable but better than nothing and she took tiny steps towards whatever she might find at the centre of bee attention.
Amidst increasing noise and growing numbers of scouts, who pinged against her veil, she approached the beehive until she could clearly see the Gyptian’s body draped over a broken top, face down amongst all the enraged occupants. The sound grew ever louder and more threatening but Estela kept walking towards it. She noticed a kitchen knife on the ground beside the hive, long strands of wicker stuck to it and she turned the body until she could what was left of the old woman’s face, too swollen to be recognised. Dead.
More inhabitants poured out from their damaged hive, joining the black cloud that already impeded Estela’s vision, ever more determined as they attacked her veil. Estela could do nothing for Dame Fairnette and risked joining her if she didn’t move fast and far. Twisting in tiny footsteps, hobbled by her skirt, she swore as the first stings came through a scarf round her hand and on her ankle.
It was as if the whole swarm became further maddened by the stings and she was chased by the whole black mob almost the whole field’s length, until the noise diminished and she collapsed, panting. She tore off the veil and scarves, hitting her head wildly at imagined attacks. She suffered one more sting on her arm from a straggler who’d stayed with her, then she was safe.
She’d headed away from her horse, afraid the bees would never give up, and now she walked a wide circle to rejoin the mare. Murmuring sweet nothings, as much to calm herself as the mare, she rode back to Les Baux, running over and over in her mind what she’d seen, what it meant and what she was willing to say.
By the time her horse was stabled, Estela was desperate to get to her dispensary and make up a rose-water poultice to soothe the pain from the bee-stings. Van Bingen was curiously silent on bee-sting treatment but an older Arab tome offered a recipe which Estela had used before on others. She sent a stable-hand to tell Etiennette that a peasant was dead by the beehives and then she rushed off to her own domain, confident that the Lady of Les Baux could organise the burial of one of her own peasants.
Estela sat on her stool in the cool dark of the dispensary, amid the scents of dried thyme and lavender, rose and wormwood, that bitter herb which was the closest to cure-all that Estela knew. The poultices had brought instant relief, followed by a gradual return of a duller form of pain. There was already some swelling round the stings she could see but she’d removed the one tiny arrow left by a striped warrior. The second day was always worse than the first but she was confident the treatment was working and her thoughts returned to the dead woman.
There was no chance now of finding out what the Gyptian had meant about the cloth and Estela’s ancestors. Nor was there an opportunity to shout at her for prophecies that twisted words, that had meaning only after the events which they foretold. Estela had been right - Dragonetz had not broken oath! And yet the words had indeed contained some truth. And never would she betray Dragonetz! The Gyptian had spoken hurtful lies when she’d seen another man lying with her! She should have had the chance to tell the woman so! But Dame Fairnette was beyond Estela’s questions and recriminations.
Malik had taught her to look for symptoms and to consider what a patient said as only one of those symptoms. A doctor should never accept a patient’s self-diagnosis but observe and analyse. What had she observed? A dead body surrounded by bees. So many stings would kill anybody. Perhaps the beekeeper had rushed out in the storm, worried that the hives would be damaged. She’d found one knocked over or broken, tried to right it. But then she’d have worn her veil. Unless she was somewhere else first, maybe in a farmer’s cottage, in the other direction. It was possible. If Estela were asked, that’s what she would say.
But she just knew that was not how it had been. What else had she observed? Not just today but previously. Dame Fairnette was coughing blood, showing signs of pain, refusing treatment. She’d turned down Estela’s offer of treatment, suggested she could treat herself and said something strange; ‘the girl can’t do what’s needed for me but I know those who can’. The malady was obviously getting worse and the Gyptian was not young. She gave every impression that her own life was over, apart from her dreams for her people and her desire to join them.
The wicker beehive, hacked. The knife, trailing wicker threads. And something else Dame Fairnette had told Estela; storms make bees mad. Even before the storm breaks. Were the bees ‘those’ who could do what she needed? Had the beekeeper known exactly what she was doing when she’d gone to the hive, probably before the storm. Had she cut off the top of the hive, lain across it? Estela shuddered, scratched at her own stings. If she were right, then Dame Fairnette’s body should be buried without ceremony and her soul condemned to hell. So it would be, if Estela spoke up.
First, do no harm. Surely, the bees were God’s creatures? Dame Fairnette could not be held responsible for their actions and Estela had no doubt that the Gyptian had died from bee-stings. It was not for the doctor to judge what a suffering patient might do or to offer mere speculations to those who made such judgements their business. No, Estela would not even talk to Malik about this troubling death. A physician needed to carry such burdens alone, to keep the patient’s confidences secret, even beyond the grave.
Dame Fairnette’s death might have caused lurid stories in the servants’ quarters but went unnoticed amid the preparation for Geoffroi de Rançon’s funeral. If the vigil over his body had been brief and ill-attended, there was no lack of enthusiasm for the rites themselves, the procession, speeches and feasts. While the Gyptian’s body found a pauper’s grave, de Rançon was allowed a place in the Pons crypt, in honour of his prowess during the tourney. There was much debate as to whether this was appropriate, given that he had died rather disappointingly of some malady rather than in the height of battle, but Etiennette insisted. Dragonetz had stated categorically that Geoffroi’s remains were not to be returned to his home estate, and it was too good an opportunity to show off Les Baux’s renowned pageantry.
Etiennette was deeply disappointed that neither Estela nor Dragonetz was willing to sing at Geoffroi’s funeral feast but she recovered quickly when a cousin from Aurenja accepted her invitation. Estela had not seen Raimbaut d’Aurenja since leaving Die and, in other circumstances, would have appreciated the chance to hear this reputed troubadour once more. She’d last heard him in the court of Narbonne and his reputation had grown since then - rightly so, she judged. It was no surprise that her friend and ex-patron, Béatriz of Die, had succumbed to his charms.
But Estela and Dragonetz were both too heavy-hearted to enjoy the funeral pomp and they excused themselves whenever possible. Estela retreated to her dispensary to grieve, packing those items that could travel. Dragonetz endured emotions with no name. Unable to bury them with de Rançon, he merely continued with his duties. He tried to make up for the past months by sharing his plans freely, but in confidence, with Raoulf, who approved wholeheartedly. That would not be the case with others and, when the funeral was over, Dragonetz must speak to five people. It would not be easy.
‘Barcelone has announced publicly that he is going home,’ Estela told him.
‘Yes.’ They both knew what that meant. ‘I have an audience with Etiennette this morning.’ Estela kissed him, not needing to say more.
The ante-chamber was draped in its new décor, sixteen-pointed stars on red fields, visible everywhere fabric could be displayed, even on tasselled cushions.
Etiennette smiled ruefully, noticing his expression. ‘I know but it makes Hugues happy. And the name of Les Baux deserves some fame abroad. Au hasard, Bautasar suits us well, don’t you think?’
‘Perfectly. The name of Les Baux will be a byword for courage throughout the world,’ replied Dragonetz, kissing her hand.
‘Barcelone is leaving,’ she stated, knowing it was not news. ‘We can build up our forces again while he takes care of his own land. Hugues will carry on with your training methods here and draw in new recruits. Once Barcelone has left, we can win back those he swayed. I am confident we have more than half of Provence with us already.
There is time for you to go to Arle, oversee the mint, produce all the gold we will need to go to war again. We will need coin and this time I want our money. I know you won’t marry me for foolish reasons.’ Her eyes flashed again. ‘But you will come back to Les Baux when we declare war and lead an army. And it will be my head on the gold we use to fund it. I don’t want to see a Barcelone head on anything but my battlements!’
Dragonetz lost any hope that Etiennette might have softened. ‘You signed a truce…’ he risked saying.
‘I had no choice!’ she spat back. ‘My husband murdered, my sons threatened - and Provence all but taken from me! Besides, Hugues was too young to know what he signed. He will wage war, not I.’
‘You have been the perfect host these last months,’ murmured Dragonetz. ‘Barcelone has nothing but praise for your hospitality.’
‘Of course.’ Etiennette drew herself up with pride. ‘This is Les Baux. We know how to conduct ourselves with courtesy. And how to wage war with honour.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘Once Barcelone and his lordling leave, they are no guests of mine. Whether it takes one year or twenty, I will have my father’s lands back!’
‘My Lady, if you love Provence, don’t tear her in two.’ Dragonetz knelt so as not to tower over this indomitable widow. Never had he felt so strongly that she’d been wronged. ‘Please. Give it up. Accept an overlord and rule Provence in his name, as you always have. Be the power, not the name.’
‘Never,’ she said. ‘I will never bend the knee to some foreigner.’
If Dragonetz thought it equally unlikely that she would bend the knee to some local, a Porcelet for instance, he was wise enough to hold his peace. But he had reached the moment he knew would come.
‘I won’t help you tear Provence apart. I do believe your cause is just. I have done everything I can to teach Hugues leadership but some qualities are within, not learned. You still lead here. And if you choose war, you choose death for brother against brother, friend against friend. Barcelone soldiers will die, yes, but the people in Barcelone will carry on farming and going to market, while the people of Provence see their crops burned, their wells poisoned and their children murdered by their neighbours!’
White-faced, Etiennette said, ‘I will not yield.’
‘But I will,’ Dragonetz told her. ‘I will not help you turn Provence red with blood. Ramon is leaving because I have sworn to go with him. He will keep the truce and leave because he knows you aren’t strong enough to fight him without me.’ Her stubborn lack of reason suddenly infuriated him. ‘God’s blood! Don’t you know he could have wiped out your entire family and it’s by his mercy you’re alive at all, let alone governors of his province!’
‘It’s not his province.’ Her voice small and cold, her fists were clenched, she held firm. And she hadn’t hit him. ‘It will take longer without you but we will go to war again.’
He shook his head, torn between frustration and respect. ‘The courage of Les Baux. I make you one promise: should it come to war, I will never ride against you. I swear it and I am no oath-breaker.’ He bowed farewell.
‘Au hasar, Bautasar,’ were her last words to him.
When he reported the conversation to Estela, she asked the very question that had crossed his own mind. ‘Will she have you killed?’
‘No.’
‘Because?’
‘It would not be honourable. Another ruler would have poisoned Barcelone and his family here while they slept.’ They knew such rulers. Mélisende of Jerusalem, perhaps even Aliénor - there were rumours.
‘Hugues?’
Dragonetz had gone straight to Hugues on leaving Etiennette. ‘More complicated. Some days he seems to understand what war would bring to Provence. Other days he wants to lead his men into glorious battle, avenge his father and please his mother. The hero of song. At bottom, I think he’s glad to get rid of me.’ He teased her. ‘Apparently I’m competition for all the women in the castle.’
‘That would sum up the focus of Hugues’ romantic attention,’ was the dry reply.
‘And Ramon?’ That had been a happier interview. When Dragonetz had offered his sword to Barcelone, with his conditions, there had been no hesitation. ‘He is a man I can follow,’ he told Estela, de Rançon’s words ringing in his ears. Ramon had proved his mettle a hundred times, in the field and in tactics, as a leader and as a man whose judgement was tempered with mercy. El Sant indeed.
Malik’s reaction had been even warmer than Ramon’s and Dragonetz owned that it lifted his spirits to think of riding beside his friend, speaking freely with him again.
Estela hesitated, then named the last of the five. ‘Sancha?’
‘Turned her back on me.’
Estela said nothing but went on her own mission to bid farewell to their friend. Sancha did not flee her but stabbed at a piece of embroidery that was more in Estela’s style than characteristic of her own neat work. She kept her eyes firmly on the victim of her mood, refusing to meet Estela’s gaze.
‘I don’t want us to part like this,’ Estela said, talking to cover the silence. ‘We’re leaving tomorrow, with Barcelone’s party. Dragonetz has sent a pigeon to the villa and we’re stopping to collect Gilles, Musca, Prima and Nici. Then we’ll go to Marselha, sort out our business affairs - I have to visit the baths so the ladies have access to funds and know what to do with treatments. I’ve written notes for them.
Then we’ll go to Arle and catch up with Barcelone’s party. Dragonetz wants to see the mintmaster. He’s sent a pigeon there too, has some idea that the man might come to Barcelone and work there. Etiennette will probably forget about him as there’s nobody who can run a mint now Dragonetz won’t do it. He’d have been good at it too. I think it’s the one thing he regrets about going…’ she broke off, realising that her chatter had taken her in a direction that was unlikely to help matters.
‘I don’t care,’ Sancha told her. ‘Baths, money, pigeons. It’s all a game to Dragonetz. And to you.’
‘That’s not fair,’ Estela retorted. ‘You turn faint at the sight of blood. You had to hide your eyes during a tourney! Yet you want Dragonetz to start civil war here again, your own people killing each other.’
‘They all ought to fight for Les Baux,’ Sancha said weakly.
‘I don’t want our last words to each other to be an argument. We’re not going to agree about Provence but you should know that Dragonetz is going to Barcelone to keep the peace here. We understand Etiennette’s rights but that’s not the point any more. The point is not to kill people. And I’m going to miss you!’
‘Really?’
‘Really!’
‘But you’ll have Dragonetz and Musca…’
‘Dragonetz will be training men and Musca can’t say much more than ‘Icky’. I’ll miss intelligent company. I’ll miss women’s conversation.’
‘There will be women in Barcelone.’
‘They’ll all have strange accents and believe that babies arrive in baskets.’ They laughed and some of the ice thawed. Estela told Sancha her plans to pursue her medical profession and establish a dispensary in Barcelone. At first they’d be living with Malik’s wife and children. The prospect of living with strangers, who were also Muslims, was a little frightening but also part of the adventure. And she had no doubt that it was going to be an adventure.
Finally, Sancha accepted a hug and a tearful goodbye, and said she would wave to them when they left and check the message that came back by pigeon from Arle, to know they’d arrived there safely.
Estela had not realised how empty her arms had been until they were full of wriggling toddler. Musca cried when he saw the strange woman who wanted to grab him but after seeing Nici greet her in somersaults of joy, the little boy allowed himself to be cuddled. Stories collided as Gilles asked whether ‘the witch’ was dead yet; Estela asked whether Musca was eating vegetables; Raoulf wanted to know how many horse and guards were at the villa and Dragonetz wanted a pigeon count.
Large quantities of food and wine eased the conversation and after dinner, Dragonetz found himself in a quiet moment with Gilles. Although there had been no open animosity, there was obviously tension between him and Raoulf with regard to Prima, who seemed blithely unaware of her current lover’s protective glares.
‘It goes well?’ enquired Dragonetz, delicately.
Gilles understood. ‘She’s a good lass and we’re suited.’ Then it was his turn to probe. ‘De Rançon turned up. Did he try to kill you again? Did you tell her about Jerusalem?’
Gilles was the only other person who knew, who’d been there and seen for himself. He could tell Gilles about Muganni, share the burden, have one other person who knew his real grief. But he’d already made that decision, when he thought of telling Malik. ‘No,’ he said. ‘De Rançon intended malice but didn’t follow through. Even saved my life.’
Gilles looked sceptical. ‘He’s a fancy enough swordsman but looking to run you through from behind no doubt.’
‘No. I think something changed him.’
‘I doubt that very much.’ Gilles was clearly not overwhelmed by the notion of redemption so Dragonetz didn’t pursue the issue. ‘Have you told her?’ Gilles repeated. Nici was barking furiously somewhere near the entrance.
‘No. Even if I did, she wouldn’t believe me. And now?’ He shrugged. ‘Where is the good?’
‘She should know,’ persisted Gilles stubbornly.
‘No. the subject is closed. Estela has lost a dear friend and is hurt enough.’
Gilles humphed again.
‘Dragonetz?’ Estela was calling him. ‘There is a messenger…’
Pinned to the spot by a large white fury was a messenger attired in the sort of colours for which Estela had criticised Dragonetz the night of the storm. He and his horse looked rather more portly than was the usual case in such an active job. Nici was doing his best to impress, barking manically, hackles raised, snapping if the man moved but otherwise causing no real threat. Those who knew him well could see that he was enjoying himself. His upward curve of a tail thrashed the air like a feathered sabre.
The messenger did not know Nici well, to judge by the stain on the front of his hose. ‘Good boy,’ he stammered, further delighting the dog.
‘Icky!’ Musca said sternly and the dog looked at him, wondering for a moment, then dismissing the idea of obedience.
‘Nici!’ commanded Estela and this time the dog considered it to be more than an invitation. He stopped barking but stood ready to pounce, staring at the stranger.
‘I had word, in Marselha, that you’d come back to the villa, and I’ve a message for you, my Lord. Only I couldn’t deliver it because I was attacked and robbed by a gang of twenty men. They left me for dead and I was rescued by a good Samaritan, a landlord, who nursed me back to health. As soon as I recovered, I sought to deliver my message but you had left the villa so I was too late. I put the word out that there would be a reward for whoever told me you’d returned. I’m sure you’ll repay me the reward, my Lord?’
Dragonetz bit back all the words that came to mind. There were ladies present. ‘The message?’ He already knew what was coming but he listened anyway.
The messenger shut his eyes and recited, ‘‘By this token, I, Aliénor, Duchesse of Aquitaine and Queen of England, command you to come to me with all speed, lead my men against Louis’s armies, protect your Liege and keep your oath.’ And she said I was to give you this.’
If Estela hadn’t put a hand on his arm, Dragonetz would have hit the man but he restrained himself and took the note from him. He broke Aliénor’s seal and read the words she’d scrawled, ‘I need you, Dragonetz. Come now. I trust you.’ And he had not gone.
Raoulf stepped forward and hit the man’s face with a mailed fist. Estela winced and gripped Dragonetz more tightly. Reeling, the messenger said, ‘Thank you, my Lord, thank you.’
‘Enough.’ Dragonetz cautioned Raoulf, even though he couldn’t find it in himself to be sorry. ‘You owe me a message. You and your nag are well-fed and well-rested; you start for Aquitaine tonight and you ride until you find first the Duchesse and then my father Lord Dragon. You deliver two messages.
Tell Aliénor you never reached me, I never received her message in time and I am more sorry than she will ever know but I am no oath-breaker. You have that?’ the man’s lips moved as he repeated and memorised the words. He would not be Aliénor’s messenger if he did not have at least that capacity so Dragonetz trusted his memory if nothing else.
‘And the message for Lord Dragon?’ the messenger asked, relieved that he’d been given work and no worse.
‘Tell him I am with the only family I care about and he may go to hell.’
The messenger lost any colour he’d regained and looked perilously close to vomiting.
‘If you survive the two messages, we are quits,’ Dragonetz told him. ‘If you don’t deliver them, you will never know a night’s rest again because I will find you, wherever you may be and I will rip out your coward’s liver so you may watch it fry while you’re still alive!’
‘Thank you, my Lord,’ the messenger managed to say, before backing towards his horse and galloping away.
The sombre mood lasted until Musca said hopefully, ‘Evvybody happy now?’ and his father laughed, threw him in the air, replied, ‘Everybody is very happy now!’
The next day, Nici was bored. His favourite people had gone somewhere without him. So when he caught sight of another stranger walking onto to his territory, he took great pleasure in repeating the previous day’s behaviour.
The man was carrying some object in front of him, which he waved above his head as Nici warned him to stay where he was. This time, there was nobody to help Nici defend his family’s home so he added a few menaces to his routine barking and snapped a bit closer to the man’s legs.
This was very effective. The man shrieked, dropped what he was carrying and ran back to the horse he’d tethered at the entrance.
Nici let him go, more interested in the leather bag on the ground. Underneath a top note of mint, citrus and a spice new to him, his perceptive nose detected the mouth-watering smell of decay and dead things.
The dog lay down and held the package firmly between his paws. He chewed on the leather for a while, sucking the flavour out. One part of the bag gave way between his teeth and he investigated the interior with his tongue, then tore the bag a little more. Some parchment rolled out but smelled of little interest.
The musty smell was stronger though so Nici ripped apart more of the bag until he could pull out its contents: a small wooden box. The smell was inside the box so he chewed on it for a bit but the wood resisted his teeth.
So he did what he always did with a carcass that needed to mature. He kept it for later and buried it between the roses.
When his family came back from their outing, Nici’s world livened up again and he had so many treats passed to him under the table as they dined, that he completely forgot the one he’d buried.
The next day, he was anxious to see preparations for travel again and he chased his tail, worried at spending another day unable to guard his people. When he was summoned to join them, and allowed to run alongside the wagon, his tail nearly lifted him off the road in excitement. This was new!
It was too good to be true so he checked again. Everybody he loved, his whole family, was under his guard. He could see Dragonetz, a squawking bird on his shoulder, riding up and down the train, giving orders to Raoulf, and to other men, who didn’t matter; Estela riding her palfrey beside Gilles; Prima and the two little boys in the wagon.
Nici settled into a lope. He could sense this would be a long journey. He was many lopes from home when his stomach reminded him of pleasure postponed but it was too late now to dig up the box and bring it with him. He forgot about it and kept running.
In all the packing to leave for Arle, nobody had noticed the small parchment scroll carried by the wind to catch on a thorn, waving from a rose bush like a small pennant. Only the breeze read the message before the rain washed it away.
Dearest Estela,
My heart is yours, in life and in death.
Geoffroi.