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Estela’s table companion, a wine-merchant, was loud and irritating, much to Dragonetz’ amusement. Not invited to the top table, they had found places as far from it as possible, the better to gossip freely. This was their chance to catch up on news and glut on good food before suffering shortage of both.
Sucking the meat from frog legs, the merchant showed gobbets of spittle as he told her, ‘The best way to catch frogs is with a rod and line. Bait the hook with a little meat and hop! You’ll get a basketful! You need to cut them down the middle, near the thighs. Gut them, of course.’
He paused to wipe his shining mouth on the back of his hand and helped himself to more legs. ‘Cut off the feet, rinse them in cold water – and this is the real secret – soak them for a whole night in cold water. That’s how these are so tender.’ He smacked his lips. ‘Then rinse them in tepid water, dry them with a cloth and roll them in flour. Fry them in goose fat and serve them in a bowl, sprinkled with spices.’ He pointed at the bowl on the table in front of them, which was emptying rapidly, and then he helped himself to another pair of legs.
‘Thank you,’ said Estela, aware of the tilt to Dragonetz’ mouth. ‘A sophisticated man like you must meet many travellers from the north? Hear wondrous tales of the Isles of Albion?’
The merchant’s face darkened. ‘You can barely do business with them, so thick is their speech.’
‘That must be very difficult for you,’ Estela sympathised. ‘But you manage to trade with them?’
He preened, nodded. ‘Wool,’ he told her, ‘and salt. That’s what they bring me so they can have my wines.’
‘And,’ she lowered her voice, ‘is trade difficult while King Henri is not yet on the throne? I’m sure you know so much about what’s really going on.’
‘Our King,’ he said loudly, then dropped his voice, ‘between you and me, he could take ten years to reach the throne if he doesn’t die of the bloody flux in the bogs where he keeps his armies, waiting. A wise man sends good cases of wine to Eustace as well as,’ he raised his voice again, ‘supporting King Henri and his armies.’
Estela frowned. ‘I’m from the south. Who is Eustace?’
‘The Usurper’s nephew, his heir.’ He must have seen that Estela was lost. ‘The Usurper – King Stephen,’ he whispered. Estela could well imagine that Stephen was not to be named ‘King’ in this Hall, despite the fact he’d ruled England as such for decades.
‘A man must be careful which port he sends to, with which instructions, but there is money to be made from conflict.’
This was all very interesting to Estela but unfortunately the next course proved too strong a diversion for the merchant. The venison was mouth-watering; bloody and tender.
‘You know the best time to hunt stag?’ he asked her, chewing with relish. ‘Mid-May, mid-head, as they say, because the antlers are only half out. But the best time to hunt is from the fête de la Croix in May to the day of St Madeleine – the deer just get fatter and fatter. You can hunt right up to the fête de la Croix in September but then the season’s over.’
Estela then suffered a detailed account of how to dismember a deer and serve its different parts and was grateful when the flagon of wine started her neighbour on a different track.
He took a slurp and then confided, ‘This isn’t red wine.’
Estela looked at the rose-coloured wine in her goblet and wondered if he was crazed.
He laughed. ‘I know what you’re thinking – but it looks red.’
‘Well, yes,’ Estela admitted.
‘And it does!’ he reassured her. ‘But it is a white wine, turned red by powdered flowers.’ Triumphant, he said, ‘I know by the taste.’
‘Which flowers,’ asked Estela, genuinely interested now. She could write this up in her travel guide. Perhaps he wouldn’t want to share his secrets? She need not have worried. Discretion had no chance against pride.
‘Red flowers of the field,’ he told her. ‘Corncockle, nigella, hollyhock. Dry them, crush ’em to powder and slip ’em into white wine. Easy to do with one glass.’ He shook his head in admiration at the work which had turned the contents of a hundred flagons from white to red.
Rose-coloured indeed, thought Estela, sipping, tasting different flavours now she knew what made the drink so light and floral. She managed to glean some more titbits about England and its ways but paid for the knowledge with much unwanted detail about jellying calves’ trotters and setting blancmange.
She’d accepted that she could wring no more out of him that was useful when one of the top table rose to his feet, bowed to the Queen and took up a pose in a clear space under a sconce, where stool and lute awaited him. He wore a long, drab tunic, like that of a university student, brightened by a drape of green cloak, pinned on one side and edged in gold. His hair fell just below his shoulders in golden waves, a halo in the flickering torchlight.
‘That’s Bernart de Ventadorn,’ her neighbour informed her, needlessly. No other musician would have such assurance at Aliénor’s court. Except of course... She looked at her lover but he seemed merely curious about this troubadour who was ‘better’ than him. Maybe Aliénor no longer meant to him what she once did. Estela felt the little stab of jealousy and dismissed it.
Ventadorn had picked up his lute, all his attention on its notes as he tuned the strings, as if he were alone in the Great Hall. Estela judged him with a professional eye, noting his deft handling of the instrument and his audience. Rumour said he was a baker’s son, allowed to learn a different trade in the chateau of Ventadorn, in the Limousin. There was no trace of his lowly origins in his clothes or demeanour. His talent and Aliénor had seen to that.
Rumour also said that he’d had to leave the chateau speedily, when the Lady of the household showed too much appreciation of the troubadour. Estela considered this aspect of his reputation with a more than professional interest. Ventadorn was of middling height but very slim and looked tall in his long tunic. He still had a boyish fineness of face, at odds with the severe scholar’s cap he wore.
Estela judged that he was young enough to still assume garb that would make him appear older, and talented enough that he could forget such posturing when he performed. She hoped so. And yes, he was a pretty enough boy to justify the rumours about him and an equally young, pretty castellan’s wife. Especially when his themes were beautiful women and lovesick men.
Her neighbour was whispering again and she had to lean close to him, her ear against his mouth, to catch the words. ‘They say he’s her lover, you know. That he wrote the songs for her.’
Her mouth a perfect O of shock, Estela whispered back, ‘Do you think it’s true?’
‘Not while she’s pudding-shaped!’
‘One reason she’s here is because her mother-in-law won’t have her in the same house, not when she’s bedded father and son.’ A coarse laugh spluttered into a cough and a swig of wine. Estela instinctively glanced at Dragonetz. How would he feel about such a slur on Aliénor’s character? He was studiously looking the other way, involved in some deep conversation about roses with the lady beside him. Which probably meant that he’d heard every word. As Aliénor’s vassal, he could not take part in such a conversation without taking his sword to the speaker, but she could, and it was all useful information.
If such confidences were his usual style when his tongue was loosened with wine, she wagered he’d not keep that tongue much longer. Aliénor didn’t hesitate when an example was needed. Estela shivered. She’d come close to being one of Aliénor’s examples, on their first encounter.
The merchant took her shudder as the horror natural at such lewd behaviour and he clarified, ‘Not at the same time, of course, but you can understand a wife wouldn’t take too kindly to her son marrying his father’s whore!’ The merchant gave another coarse laugh and was shushed by those around, as Ventadorn finished tuning his lute, and prepared himself to begin.
Undeterred, Estela’s neighbour continued, sotto voce, ‘Mark my words, she bet on the wrong horse if she thinks she can keep her pet when Henri returns. If her husband comes home, the troubadour will be playing his instrument somewhere far away! If he doesn’t, well then!’ was the cryptic prediction.
Ventadorn struck a pose, one green, leather-clad slipper pointed forward, ready to tap the rhythm. Then he opened his mouth and Estela was swept into the magic of song. His voice was sweeter and higher than she’d imagined, very different from Dragonetz’ baritone.
Songs new to Estela overwhelmed her senses. Disconnected phrases lingered, disinherited by love or madder than he who sows in sand, imprinting themselves on her memory. Double meanings made her smile; a clever rhyme pleased her. She would seek copies of the songs she liked and practise them until she made them part of her own repertoire.
When Ventadorn sang the lyrics familiar to her, she mouthed every word, appreciating where the stress or the mood fell differently from her own interpretation.
‘Genius,’ she murmured, when the troubadour bowed several times to his audience and waited for those who wished to speak to him and show their appreciation personally. Estela wished. She was out of her seat and hovering as close to Ventadorn as she could get, as she had years earlier with Marcabru.
Her height gave her the advantage, she told herself, when – wonderful! – Ventadorn noticed her and summoned her to his side with a wave of his hand.
‘That was a magistral performance of such beautiful songs!’ she told him, from the heart, earning a dazzling smile.
‘I’m glad I pleased such a beautiful woman,’ he told her, taking her hand and holding it to his lips. ‘When I least expect inspiration, there you are, standing before me. Miracle!’
Estela flushed, not unhappy with such attention, but she would have little time with such a master, and no intention of wasting it on flirtation. ‘The echo of no sai on is so clever, fits with the allusions to Narcissus and placed as a cobla then the tornada, itself an echo – genius!’
Again, that winning smile. He released her hand with a sigh. ‘Ah, I am doomed to sigh in vain and give my heart where there can be no hope. Beautiful stranger, your words tell me that you already have a lover, a troubadour of some renown, is that not so?’
‘Well, yes,’ said Estela, ‘but–’
‘But he asked you to praise me on his behalf. I guessed as much!’
Estela flushed and this time not from being paid compliments. She tried again to find out some of the technical detail she wanted. Perhaps if she showed understanding of the themes first? Then approached the meter indirectly? ‘The fool on the bridge,’ she began, ‘another marvellous image. The way he holds the high ground, is not willing to get down from his high horse – you imply so much for those who know the old story, without spelling it out.’
Those wishing to speak to Ventadorn were growing impatient with Estela for hogging his attention and she received at least one ‘accidental’ elbow in the ribs as people, mostly women, jostled to get past her.
The troubadour was no longer smiling. Indeed, his brows were knit in a petulant frown as he looked past Estela. ‘You must tell your gallant that he is quite wrong. He has quite missed the point. Sometimes I wonder why I write at all when people have not the wit to understand my lines! Excuse me, I have others seeking a word.’ He cast his smile wider, bestowing the vision of even, white teeth equally on his admirers.
He focused briefly on Estela again, or rather on her cleavage, his golden voice a caress again. ‘It seems we are both unlucky in love, my Lady. Should you wish instruction in the art of song, from a real expert, I would be happy to deploy my instrument in your service.’
Luckily, some neat footwork, by one of the most determined admirers, caught Estela off-balance even more than had the troubadour’s remarks. Before she could recover and speak her mind (which might involve destroying tableware) she had been forced to the back of the crowd around Ventadorn. Still flushed, she returned to her place at table, where Dragonetz had not moved, unless it was to stretch out his long legs and cross them at the ankles.
Real boots, Estela noted with approval, not cross-laced slippers but black boots. Dusty, serviceable, made for adventures and made to last.
‘How,’ she asked him, ‘can such a gifted troubadour be such a donkey’s arse of a man?’
Dragonetz’ smile was not only one to melt gaggles of admiring geese; it was genuine. And it was for her. ‘I don’t need Talharcant?’ he enquired gently.
‘I would dearly like to see you take that boy across your lap and use the flat of your blade on him,’ she admitted.
‘But?’ he enquired.
‘But there are some battles I must either fight myself or walk away from.’
‘Women’s battles?’
So, he had been watching and understood quite enough of what was going on! ‘You didn’t come and rescue me?’
‘I had a better view from here.’ His gaze raked her from top to toe and returned to meet her eyes. ‘He’s good. I liked three of the songs very well so I allowed him three times.’
‘Three times?’
‘He could kiss your hand three times before I considered my honour slighted. Then you would have had your wish regarding the flat of my blade and the donkey’s arse.’ He shrugged.
‘Which three?’ Estela asked. Dragonetz’ response led to a deep discussion of canzos, coblas and tensos that made Estela quite forget that Ventadorn was even in the Hall.
‘He’s good. But he’s not better,’ she told her lover, much later that night.
‘Because?’
‘Because he cares only about how good he is. He could never partner somebody. Nor teach somebody.’
‘Perhaps he merely lacks maturity, and an experienced tutor,’ suggested Dragonetz, wickedly.
‘Let me show you just how mature I have become, under your tuition!’ replied Estela, matching actions to words.