Plaint for Provence Chapter 10

CHAPTER

NINE

Nutmeg (nux muscata) has great heat and good moderation in its powers. If a person eats nutmeg, it will open up his heart, make his judgement free from obstruction, and give him a good disposition. Take some nutmeg and an equal weight of cinnamon and a bit of cloves, and pulverise them. Then make small cakes with this and fine whole wheat flour and water. Eat them often.

Physica, Plants

D

ays turned to weeks, and Estela lost any hope that she would be told about Etiennette’s proposal to Dragonetz. The sun still shone. Dragonetz still stepped over Nici and came to her bed each night, leaving before dawn to protect her reputation. As if there were anyone in that court who didn’t know they were lovers!

They rarely touched in public but when they did, the contact lingered a second too long, the alchemy too evident. They circulated among Etiennette’s guests at opposite sides of the hall and still invisible ties linked every word they spoke. Even the way they avoided catching each other’s eye exposed their feelings to the most casual observer. When their eyes did meet, there was no-one else in the hall.

No, Estela could not accuse Dragonetz of loving less. Her fears were more practical. She was no green girl mistaking ballads for reality. A man like Dragonetz could have as many lovers as he chose and he chose her. But he had to take a wife. The one thing she could never be to him. If she really loved him, should she not encourage him to accept the proposal? If he spoke of it, perhaps she could find the strength to encourage him. He didn’t speak of it. He threw Musca in the air and tickled him. He stroked the muzzle of the great white dog, who blocked the entire doorway to the chamber but only snored when Dragonetz made his night visits. He sought peace in her arms from whatever troubled him by day and Estela held nothing back but her thoughts.

The sun always shone. Blistering brains with relentless heat. What it must be like for men practising sword-strokes, wearing armour, Estela could only imagine. She sought refuge in the cool stone interior, with the other women at their sewing, or in the Lesser or Great Halls, as required for hearings and meal-times. Amid the usual tenant disputes over land and legitimacy, was a steady flow of land-owners, lords and castellans come to pay homage to their liege. Although they’d been summoned by Les Baux to kneel to Barcelone in public, their private allegiance could be detected in the way they spoke first to Etiennette and Hugues, or held hand to hilt.

That same impartial observer who would know that Dragonetz and Estela were lovers, would know that Etiennette was summoning her supporters, a few at a time, to surround her Barcelone guests with carefully chosen company. Moustier and Avignon were among the old guard who’d resisted Barcelone back in their fathers’ time. From the recent wars came the Baux supporters; de Simiane, de Cabannes, de Trinquetaille and de Beaufort, all bending the knee to Barcelone and then ranging themselves beside Etiennette. Her cohort grew daily.

Not all the guests were chosen by Les Baux however. Porcelet was quick to spot the growing partiality in invitations and he sent out a few of his own, on Barcelone’s behalf. Etiennette could not veto them so she graciously welcomed d’Orgon and de Rochebrune, de Trans and de Volonne, gritting her teeth. The Comte de Toulouse was busy with a convenient local insurrection but would send lesser castellans in his stead.

Toulouse had his own lands bordering Provence and everyone knew that he had greedy eyes on the whole, so his support for Etiennette would be tactical and temporary. But it was still support. The same could be said of Forcalquier, the third ruler of Greater Provence, who held the north as far as Savoie.

Let Barcelone and Etiennette weaken each other enough, then Toulouse and Fourcalquier would be quick enough to divide the remaining spoils. Support the weaker now and clean up afterwards. Etiennette knew this well but it was still support for her, now.

Ermengarda of Narbonne was also unable to attend in person but sent her oath of loyalty to Barcelone (who was unlikely to doubt her support, given that he had rescued her from an inappropriate marriage to Toulouse when she was four years old). Estela was relieved that Ermengarda was not coming: Dragonetz’ love life was complicating her life enough without without having to take into account the sophisticated and beautiful Viscomtesse of Narbonne. Although it would have been theoretically interesting to match Ermengarda against Etiennette, not just as political opponents. At one time, Estela could have said so to Dragonetz and they would have laughed. Not now.

If this were peace, Estela thought, then maybe war was preferable. The sun beat down, the pressure built up and still more local lords filled the castle with their demands for food, beds and stables. Etiennette had to send ever further afield for the wagons of spelt flour, mutton and poultry, lard for cooking and wax for candles that were needed to meet the needs of a fortress bursting at the seams. And still she sent for more people.

This was not so much peace as the drawing up of battle lines and when the storm broke, the lightning would strike without discrimination. Sancha on one side: Malik on the other. Dragonetz slipping down his see-saw towards Les Baux. And as for herself? She had a pregnant woman to look after. Usurper and bearer of the King of Aragon sounded very fancy but Petronilla was just another scared girl about to have her first baby, and Estela would give her all the care she could, regardless of sun or storm. Estela’s own personal storm was still merely distant thunder and had not yet crashed through any illusions of security that she retained.

It was easy enough for Dragonetz to avoid being alone with Etiennette in the most natural way possible: by spending time with her eldest son and heir.

In that, as in most of her observations, the Lady des Baux had been astute. Hugues was responding to training and the harder he drove himself, the more his men loved him. From a ramshackle band of vassals, the men of Les Baux had become an army. Each day as the new guests brought their followers to the fortress, Hugues slipped away from the court protestations of loyalty and forged rather different ones with swords and sweat.

Dragonetz demonstrated Sadeek’s paces in the hastily constructed manège, pole fences forming a corral over scorched summer earth. Only those knights who’d been on crusade to the Holy Land had ever seen such tricky horsemanship, and never from a Christian knight. Trained by Damascan guards, Sadeek and Dragonetz formed a new being, a centaur, side-stepping, reversing, capable of turning on a penny.

At first, men leaned on the fence and laughed at the dancing horse but then Dragonetz donned armour and still Sadeek twisted and turned. The man instructed to run at him waving an axe, fell flat on his face in the space where the horse had stood, while it was Dragonetz’ turn to laugh. And, this time, men laughed with him.

Without hesitation, Hugues joined Dragonetz. Les Baux’s sturdy mare looked stolid beside the black destrier but was soon proving her master no dullard in horsemanship. Soon, Dragonetz had volunteers being schooled in the manège and a waiting list eagerly watching. It was not an activity for mid-day sun but neither was war, and endurance might prove to be the supreme decider, whatever the men’s skills. So they worked and sweated.

As the days went by, Dragonetz delegated more of the training to Hugues and watched the young man’s confidence grow alongside his men’s respect. Leaning on the fence-posts, one eye on the movements in the ring, Dragonetz swopped stories with the other onlookers. He made them laugh at the punchlines and learn from the apparently incidental details. As did he.

A red-faced man with broken nose and hands like hams argued with his friend. ‘Nay, that would be Groms, the best armourer. Wilmen at Aurenja will charge you lands, wife, and horse with them, but for all that his chain has weak links. I’d not trust my life to his mail.’

‘Where did you get your sword, my Lord?’

Dragonetz unsheathed Talharcant, passed it round so men could admire the balance, the blade and of course the Damascan filigree, like watered silk along the steel. ‘I brought the swordsmith with me from the Holy Land. He has a smithy in Marselha if any man has the coin for his skills. Say Dragonetz sent you and you’ll get a fair price.’

Envy warred with the reality of their budgets as the men reluctantly returned Talharcant to its master.

‘Don’t be like the Castellan of le Caylar ,’ Dragonetz warned them with mock-severity.

‘I’ve not heard that one.’

‘What did he do?’ Scenting a good tale, the men round Dragonetz prodded him to continue.

‘Beitz, his name was.’ Dragonetz shook his head at the tragic fate of poor Beitz. ‘A knight fond of his armour, very fond of his armour. He wanted to make a good show in all he did. Some men can’t resist a neat ankle on a woman … well, Beitz couldn’t resist the shine of a new mail shirt, or a hawk reputed to be the keenest, or a horse with good breeding.

Every smith and armourer in the Causses, every knight wanting to reap some coin knew his weakness and, if he were visiting, the prettiest, most expensive goods were on display.’

‘Ay, that’s the way Wilmen at Aurenja plays it. And they’re not always the best goods, neither. Just polished up a bit and set in the light.’

Dragonetz nodded. ‘So, with his pretty armour and weapons, Beitz was bound to win in any contest, wasn’t he. Or so he reasoned. To pay for all these purchases, he’d bet one of them against another.

He bet his hawk would drop the rabbit before another man’s and he lost his prized hound. He bet that he’d win against all-comers in duel and he lost his helm.

Then of course he’d seek better accoutrements, convinced that he could win it all back if he bought better armour. He grew deeper and deeper in debt, gambling all he had and sometimes winning.

This only made him bet more and lose all. In his cups, and he was often in his cups, he’d place a bet on which duck would rise first from a lake or that a certain maid would smile at him.’

‘This will go ill with Beitz,’ the men predicted, with knowing smiles.

‘And so it would have …’ Dragonetz teased them. ‘But as it turned out, his debts grew smaller. His favourite sellers told him he was such a good customer that they would wipe out his debts for the sake of future custom.’

The men laughed sceptically. ‘I thought you were telling a story of this world not the next!’

‘Would that such a miracle came my way!’

‘Ay, Wilmen would break out in boils at the very thought!’

‘Nevertheless,’ Dragonetz insisted. ‘So it was. From then on, when he saw goods he wanted, he was pleasantly surprised at how little they cost. He gambled less now he no longer had heavy debts and he found the same excitement in betting trinkets that he used to have in larger stakes. You are wondering how this came to pass?’

‘Nay. We

know

it couldn’t happen,’ was the blunt reply.

‘I should tell you that there had been a ten-fold increase in the flocks grazing the Causses during this time.’

‘They were Beitz’ flocks?’ hazarded one man.

‘No, or he would have bet them too.’ The men were stumped for answers and waited for the solution to the riddle.

‘Beitz had one treasure that he never wagered. His Lady was neither fair nor young but she was shrewd and loved her Lord, for all his faults. Unbeknownst to him she had acquired flocks of sheep and with good husbandry, they had multiplied.

She paid his debts from her flocks and allowed her Lord to enjoy his habits without either of them suffering from the consequences.’

There was the silence then sigh of satisfaction that follows a good ending to a story.

‘Would that I had such a wife.’

‘I’d rather have a sword like my Lord’s.’

‘Or both. A good wife

and

a sword like my Lord’s.’

Dragonetz let them indulge in good-natured banter and the word ‘wife’ merely skimmed the surface of his thoughts, reminding him of the widow’s proposal. He had promised his sword to protect widows and orphans but his own person was not available.

He’d evaded offers of marriage before and Les Baux held less attraction than Tripoli or Antioch, either of which could have been his if he’d accepted a widow’s hand. Etiennette’s marriage plans for him added a complication to the balance in Provence but nothing important. The place of a wife in his life was taken and he smiled at how good it felt, to trust and be trusted. Then his attention returned to what was most important for Provence; the training of these men.

Hugues was looking to him for the next instruction. ‘Now with spears,’ Dragonetz called to the two men taking their turn in the manège. Their squires ran out to them and equipped each with a spear. ‘Show me the first position.’ The men continued wheeling around the ring in the same direction but giving each other enough space to avoid harm. ‘Jax – arm out further. That’s it. Feel the point of balance. Remember you’re going to strike under the arm.’

Dragonetz checked the grip of each knight, right arm extended, carrying the spear. ‘Second position,’ he shouted and the knights switched to over-arm.

‘Third!’ The arms went back, ready to use the spears as projectiles. ‘Good. Take the spears to the far end and practice one at a time with the target. From a stand then moving left, then moving right. Increase the difficulty as you get better. Next two – in the manège.’

Dragonetz nodded to Hugues, knowing that the younger man was eager to take over again, now he knew the drill. Dragonetz headed off to the weaponry. He had an idea for improving the design of their lances.