As it happened, Estela barely had time to find out that the newcomers were from Oltra mar before one of them sought her out. She was just concluding a music lesson with Bèatriz in an alcove of the Hall when a page brought his message that a lord sought permission to wait on Estela.
Eyes sparkling at the prospect of distraction, Bèatriz told the page to bid the man enter.
‘We have finished for this morning anyway,’ she told Estela. ‘I need to work on that second strophe myself before I try it again with the melody.’
‘My lady, you are moving beyond my capacity to teach you,’ Estela replied gravely, standing up to make sure that the visitor would give respect as due, to the seated Comtessa-to-be.
‘But I have much yet to learn -’ Bèatriz broke off from the mutual compliments to observe the young man entering the room. His garb immediately marked him as recently returned from abroad, partly from the extravagant fabrics used, partly from the fact that their cut was outmoded. His bliaut, the outer tunic, was shorter than was now fashionable and bloused over a simple belt instead of being cut tight to the body with the belt wrapped at the waist and knotted. However, the quaint cut of his clothes did nothing to detract from the strong, pleasing form of the body underneath them.
When he threw himself to one knee in a fluid, extravagant gesture, in front of the two young women, the movement was elegant and controlled. His courtier’s pose, one knee on the ground, one bent at the perfect angle to his upright torso, showed off the calf muscle strongly delineated in his perfect silk hose. When he took the hand Bèatriz daintily offered him and pressed his lips to it, the sleeve of his bliaut fell back to reveal contrasting silk and the striped inner tunic, the chainse, underneath.
‘My Lady Bèatriz,’ he smiled up at her and gave Estela the chance to admire an open face, weathered browner than its natural colour, curly brown hair like a bird’s nest framing a teasing mouth and the most remarkable eyes she’d ever seen. Some trick of the light played their hue from grey to green to blue to brown, dancing the colours into a medley.
‘My Lord de Rançon,’ Bèatriz rebuked him playfully, ‘this is not the court of Jerusalem and we do not ask that our courtiers prostrate themselves on a morning visit.’
‘You should.’ The mouth twitched. ‘For the view from here is decidedly worth the suffering of my kneecap.’ There was no ambiguity about the way he looked at the stone flag and ran his gaze slowly from the tip of Estela’s slipper peeping out her gown, slowly slowly curving his way up her invisible ankle, her knee, her thigh, her cinched hips, her swelling breasts, her throat and then she took the full brunt of those remarkable eyes.
Estela flushed crimson, wondering whether such a look could really strip her, see the very dagger sewn into her underskirt, but she held his gaze steadily. She would not give this man, impudent as he was, the satisfaction of outstaring her. She concentrated, unblinking, on those eyes, in each of which she saw not one, not two but three reflections of herself. Reflections of reflections of reflections, as in a sorcerer’s crystal ball. A young woman curving thin and wispy, losing form and substance, vanishing into blue, brown, green, grey. Was this all she was? De Rançon smiled, blinked and looked away. She almost sat down, as if her legs had given way when the contact was broken.
‘He told me you were beautiful,’ de Rançon murmured, his Poitiers accent overlain with sun-tones from elsewhere, ‘but how could I have imagined...’
Estela waited. She was familiar with such play-acting in the troubadour world and, now that he was no longer looking into her eyes, she had regained her poise. It was, after all, not unpleasant to watch an attractive man pretend to be smitten with instant love, teasing her with what he was not saying.
‘Of course he is in love with you,’ de Rançon continued. ‘Who would not be? Such beauty, such grace, and such talent, I am told. It all makes sense now.’
It was Bèatriz’ patience which cracked first, no doubt weakened by the fact that the extravagant compliments were not aimed in her direction. ‘I’m glad it all makes sense to you, Sir, but it makes none whatsoever to me! God’s body, get off your knees and speak like a man, not like a puzzle! I have no wish to solve you and neither does my Lady Estela!’
Rather than objecting to Bèatriz speaking for her, Estela queried softly, ‘He?’
Those eyes fixed her again. ‘My friend, Lord Dragonetz. He has sent me to you with urgent messages.’ This time she did sit down, on the stool against which her lute was propped.
Bèatriz was clearly disappointed. Dragonetz was old news and of little interest compared with guest lists and dowry coffers. Her pout suggested that the prospect of romance and intrigue had removed itself Oltra mar and so she had better things to do. ‘Then I must leave you to discuss your business. Make sure you also prepare the duets we discussed,’ Bèatriz ordered grandly and she fitted action to words, leaving Estela alone with Geoffroi de Rançon, while castle life fussed around them, through chambers and passages, past the open doors that led to them and from them.
With the same muscled grace, Geoffroi de Rançon pulled a stool up beside Estela, close enough to be unsettling without being so close as to be impolite. The angle between them meant that she could comfortably look at the doorway, only sneaking glances at his face from time to time. She suddenly found the doorway extremely interesting.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said disarmingly. ‘I feel that I know you from the way Dragonetz has described you to me, the black silk of your hair, the gold of your eyes, every ... feature of your body. I forgot that I am a stranger to you while I know you as well as if you were the love of my life, not of my friend’s.’
Estela was uncomfortable at the idea of being discussed in such a manner, and she could not prevent the colour in her cheeks but she was used enough to courtly compliments to control her voice, with a hint of rebuke. ‘As my Lord Dragonetz’ friend, you are welcome, my Lord de Rançon, and I am impatient to hear your news. But duty comes first. The Comtesssa spoke of duets?’
‘She wishes us to sing together. I am no Dragonetz but in his absence I am thought adequate. Would you sing with me?’
Sing. With someone else. Estela felt sick at the thought, her ribs squeezing away her breath in refusal. ‘Of course I shall perform as the Comtessa wishes,’ she replied tonelessly.
If de Rançon was disappointed at the manner of her response, he was too smooth to show it. ‘The honour is mine. But of course you want to know about Dragonetz.’
Estela waited, her hands clasped lightly in her lap, betraying nothing.
‘He is well,’ smiled de Rançon. ‘He has spent some time in Damascus.’ Estela knew nothing of Oltra mar geography but she assumed this was on Dragonetz’ route from St Jean d’Acre, where he would land - that much she knew - to mission’s end in Jerusalem. ‘I met him there, being on business from my Queen, and we passed the time together sportingly, as you can imagine.’ He laughed, a young man’s laughter, suggesting late nights, wine and poetry, gambling and girls.
Estela could indeed imagine. Dragonetz had never promised faithfulness with his body, but she’d been worrying, wondering if his enemies had caught up with him, killed him even. She’d been carrying Musca, growing ever lumpier, then facing the threat from Miquel, protecting his family, while he’d been, while he’d been ... ‘Go on,’ she said.
Apparently oblivious to his effect, de Rançon continued gaily. ‘You know Dragonetz! He was poking into everything, wanting to know how steel and silk were made, how roses grew, what the difference was between the Syriac language and Arabic, so he could speak both better.’
Estela smiled, despite herself. ‘Yes, that sounds like Dragonetz.’
‘He even got into a horseback contest with two guardsmen, had all the locals betting on the outcome. I heard the whole city turned out to watch.’
‘And he won.’ Estela stated the obvious. What had Arnaut asked him that time on the river bank, when they’d competed to retrieve her token? Why do you always have to win?
‘Not just the contest,’ confirmed de Rançon, ‘but hearts too, men and ... everyone.’ He changed his intended sentence after only the slightest hesitation but Estela missed nothing. ‘I was gone ahead of him to Jerusalem but word reached me even there of the show he put on, some story of risking death against a raging bull.’
‘Yes, that sounds like Dragonetz,’ repeated Estela, like a mechanical figurine, one of the wire characters on the water-clock he had sent her as a present, striking a tinny brrring each time she was made to surface.
‘I’ll get the full story out of him when he gets to Jerusalem.’
‘He’s on his way there? Or was when you left him?’ Jerusalem was the end of Dragonetz’ road Oltra mar, the end of his road away from her. He was safe, he could return. Then they would be together again and everything would be the way it had been before.
‘Yes, all was well and he was on his way to Jerusalem, where we shall meet up.’
‘You’re going back?’ Estela looked at him, wondering. The way he spoke of such vast distances as if they were a trip to market.
‘Better than that, my Lady.’ Eye contact was still a shock. Green today, reflecting her own pale, bemused expression. Perhaps it was his diamond buttons that made strange mirrors of those irises. ‘Much better than that!’ he teased her. ‘All goes so well that Dragonetz wants you to join him in Jerusalem, to sing with him for Queen Mélisende, to be at his side. You are to return with me, after we perform for the Comtessa and as soon as you have prepared your baggage. We need to embark before the autumn weather disturbs the seaways.’
‘It is not possible,’ Estela murmured. Then the doubts hit her. What did she know of this de Rançon. It was all too easy. Dragonetz well, successful, wanting her beside him. A dream come true, even if it did mean travelling to the ends of the earth to be with him. Dreams didn’t come true.
As if he’d read her mind, de Rançon added. ‘I forgot! Dragonetz told me that you were wise and would be cautious of any supposed messenger from him. He has so many enemies! So I was to give you guarantee that these are his wishes by naming his old friends al-Hisba and Arnaut and to ask you to come in the name of Boethius. Does that make sense to you?’
Estela looked into the clear, honest eyes - blue now. Only Dragonetz could have mentioned Boethius, a reminder of a very private moment. She need have no doubts. She smiled. ‘Yes, it makes perfect sense. I will make ready to leave.’ Saying the words made them real and she felt the weight dropping from her shoulders.
She would leave the threat of Miquel, she would leave the tedium of wedding preparations - after soothing Bèatriz’ ruffled pride - she would take her lute and her voice, and adventure after Dragonetz. She could tell him about Musca and they’d return together, triumphant, a family. She must send word to Raoulf. She must find the chest, the medium size one, and pack whatever was suitable for the climate Oltra mar. What was the climate Oltra mar? Warmer than snowy Dia in winter, for sure, or there would not be peaches.
‘And you, my Lady?’ de Rançon asked. ‘You look well but a little tired. Is there some worry I could take from you? Wolf or usurer, tell me and I will dispatch him from your life in a second! What of your news, since Dragonetz last saw you? Tell me all. He sent me to you only because he can’t come himself. Pretend I am indeed Dragonetz until such time as I can re-unite the two of you.’
Silence filled with childbirth and attempted murder, a baby in safekeeping. Estela opened her mouth to share all this with Dragonetz’ friend, as she would have done with Arnaut, or even al-Hisba. But it was so complicated she didn’t know where to start. And shouldn’t Dragonetz hear of his son from her first? Maybe later, she would start to tell her story. Maybe on a long sea voyage. ‘Nothing of moment,’ Estela told him and they spent some time discussing songs before parting for the day, each with a lighter step than before their meeting.
As it turned out, explaining her plans to Bèatriz was easier than convincing Gilles that a trip Oltra mar was necessary. He did not accept the response she gave to his every objection, ‘Dragonetz requires it.’ Instead, he dwelled on the time passed since Dragonetz had sent the message; on all that could have gone wrong in between, all that could go wrong still, both for Dragonetz himself and for Estela on the journey; on the circular logic that Dragonetz wouldn’t put her in such risk if he loved her; and so on.
Until Estela lost her temper, blazed indignant over the danger she was in already from a murderous brother, so that she would in fact be safer in Jerusalem with the protection of Occitania’s finest swordsman. And as for Gilles’ mistrust of de Rançon, what could a wrinkled peasant know of courtly behaviour! Extravagant compliments were the norm, a mere politeness! As if she, Estela couldn’t look after herself, as she had done before Gilles turned up in Narbonne!
To which Gilles retorted that she didn’t need to go to Dragonetz for protection if she could look after herself. As they both knew it would, the argument finished with Estela’s bald statement that she was going anyway, and Gilles’ equally defiant riposte that he was going with her. And on that ‘Well then!’ note, they refused to speak to each other for at least a day, and then pretended there was no disagreement, Gilles continuing in his usual obedience to his Liege, albeit a Liege he had looked after since she was a baby.
Bèatriz was disappointed to lose her troubadour before the wedding but when the advantages of this were hinted to her, notably her own capacity to shine without other women songbirds sharing the limelight, it was possible for her to be pleased at Estela’s good fortune in being summoned by Queen Mélisende. For so de Rançon had presented matters to Bèatriz, and he assured Estela that it was no more than truth.
Although he’d presented Estela with the private message from Dragonetz, it was Queen Mélisende’s wish that the two of them join her court as troubadours, which had led Dragonetz to send such a message. Estela struggled to take in all that she was being told. She knew nothing of politics Oltra mar - another matter to put right on the long sea voyage, she told herself.
However, it seemed only natural that the Queen would want Dragonetz at her court, as had Aliénor, as had Ermengarda. At the thought of the golden lady of Narbonne, who had drawn Dragonetz very close to her, Estela hoped that Queen Mélisende was as wrinkled as she ought to be at the age of forty-six. It was also natural that the Queen would be happy with the partnership that Estela and Dragonetz made as troubadours but to be worthy of the court in Jerusalem, Estela needed some practice. Luck had given her someone to practice with. Ignoring every reflex that said, ‘This is no Dragonetz’, Estela threw herself into working with de Rançon.
There was so little time to prepare that it made sense to choose from the traditional lays that they both knew well, rather than adventure into Estela’s work, which of course was new to de Rançon. Although no troubadour, happily admitting that he composed nothing himself, de Rançon was no mean musician and his singing voice was an agile tenor, capable of runs and trills that would have defeated Dragonetz’ rich baritone.
Humming as she stitched another infernal piece of linen for Bèatriz’ trousseau, Estela smiled to herself, remembering some twist of the lyric they had contrived to amuse the audience, or an unexpected split of strophes between the two of them, which changed the meaning along with the voice. She knew the alchemy of music would work between them and Bèatriz would have a farewell performance from her troubadour to prepare the way for all the celebrations planned for the coming months.
There had been only one sour note in their rehearsals. Estela had lost herself in Rudel’s beautiful song, eyes tight shut, thinking how soon she would be in Dragonetz’ arms. As the last notes died, Estela still dreaming of her ‘amor de lonh’, de Rançon laughed and said conversationally, ‘As Dragonetz tells the story, Rudel died in the arms of a whore, paid to play the lady of Tripoli so the poor fool could die happy. The illusions of love!’
‘But everyone knows the story, how he loved the Comtesse de Tripoli just from hearing about her, how he fell ill on his way Oltra mar but reached the shore, only to die in his lover’s arms.’
‘My sweet, romantic Estela, I am sure you must be right,’ de Rançon had teased. ‘It would certainly spoil the story if the man had died of the dysentery in a whore’s arms. No, the more I think on it, the more I am sure you must be right and Dragonetz wrong. You know what Dragonetz is like!’
The ground on which she walked seemed suddenly shaky to Estela, as if the small cracks in the paving were growing large. Did she know what Dragonetz was like? Sometimes, listening to de Rançon, she felt she was hearing about a stranger. Was this what men were like when alone together? Cynicism and crude jokes? What had Dragonetz really said about her, Estela? That she was a whore playing the lady? She flushed. Suddenly anything seemed possible.
‘I’ve changed my mind. We’ll leave ‘amor de lonh’ out of the programme. Everyone sings it,’ she told de Rançon, who looked sharply at her but said nothing. She liked his sensitivity. She was growing used to his manner, the way he adapted his company to her mood, the luminous gaze. When she was with him, she felt like she was the centre of his universe, beautiful, talented. Of course, he was merely representing his friend, but it was only human to enjoy such attentions. He had even won over Gilles, by sheer practicality.
‘You can’t take coffers. Not even one coffer,’ Gilles told her bluntly. ‘De Rançon has told me what’s involved in this journey and if you take half of what you want, you won’t see Dragonetz for another two years. We want you to ride light, a real horse not a palfrey, and just saddle-bags on pack-horses, no wagons. If we camp overnight that will save time too. I told him you were game for it. Are you, Roxie?’
‘Of course!’ she told him, silently dismissing gowns and jewels, presents to smooth her way Oltra mar. She would not leave her healing box, nor the pathfinder runic brooch, but she could not take her water-clock, the only memento of Dragonetz remaining to her. She would take the little paper book, a present from Malik in which her songs were written, and a quill. She could use the charcoal from their campfires for ink. She had so few personal possessions for one of her age and status.
‘De Rançon says you can buy clothes in Acre, or in Jerusalem, and the climate will be mild so there is no need of your Dia wools, just some light gowns, underthings, a few toiletries and your cloak.’ It made Estela feel strange to think of the two men discussing her so intimately.
‘Riding,’ she said. Obviously, with a ‘real’ horse she would be riding astride, her usual custom, although she had ridden side-saddle in the company of a baggage-train, and on a suitably docile palfrey. Riding astride required full, circular skirts, and they dirtied so from horse sweat. A long journey would rub her legs raw too. She made her mind up. ‘I want a thick pair of men’s hose,’ she told Gilles. In response to his air of startled query, she explained, ‘To wear underneath a riding gown. It’s not just horses who get saddle-sore.’ He nodded.
She considered the journey. Aboard ship, there would be no problem. Ordinary day clothes would suffice and she saw no need to pack anything for performance or show. She would indeed need coin to purchase court clothes once she was Oltra mar. She mentally put the jewels back in her saddle-bags - she would need the wherewithal to barter.
‘How will we travel from Acre to Jerusalem?’ she asked Gilles, feeling more comfortable at showing her ignorance to her man than to her new friend. ‘Camel train’ was the short reply. Estela concluded that there was only so much planning that a woman could do in advance and she concentrated instead on something she did know about. Her voice had fully recovered from emotional strain and lack of use, her eyes were no longer melancholy pits above purple shadows. She was ready to sing for the Lords of Dia one last time.