Plaint for Provence Chapter 13

CHAPTER

TWELVE

The best grain is spelt (spelta). It is hot, rich and powerful. It is milder than other grains. Eating it rectifies the flesh and provides proper blood. It also creates a happy mind and puts joy in the human disposition. In whatever way it is eaten, whether in bread or in other foods, it is good and easy to digest.

Physica, Plants

T

he horse’s movement gave the illusion of a breeze and Estela breathed in the scents and sights of Provence in summer. Heat had its own smell and shimmer, skies hazy or blown sharp by the mistral, that wind which etched the white-stone mountain crests to whetted blades and which drove men mad or made them poets, so said the legends.

Today was still and hazy, perfect for an escapade. Nici didn’t need asking twice to come out for a run, his plumed tail waving enthusiasm as he tracked and backtracked alongside the two horses. Gilles had been more reluctant but well aware that his disapproval was water off a duck’s back. Estela knew perfectly well that her man wouldn’t let her ride anywhere without him and he knew she wouldn’t change her mind. She really needed to escape from Les Baux. Her finger was callused and sore from plucking chords for a melody that she could hear but not capture; her eyes ached from penning the words to her ballad.

She could have visited Petronilla again, and listened to the girl’s unworthiness until boredom lulled her to sleep. She could have taken needle to cambric in whatever monogram was the choice of the day in the solar with the ladies but, in addition to her hatred of chain stitch, her eyes were tired of close work, and conversation with Sancha drew more blood than the needle. Estela could not listen to the demonization of Ramon and Petronilla any more than Sancha would hear of their rights.

If Sancha had been interested in healing or music, they might have found safe ground, as did Malik and Dragonetz, but Sancha was ready to faint at the mere word ‘swelling’, never mind naming of parts. If ever Estela wished to torture her friend, she only had to read aloud parts of Trota’s ‘Treatments for women.’

Sancha preferred romances, tales of unattainable ladies and their gallants. From personal experience, Estela found the whole business of sneaking around bedchambers to protect a lady’s reputation rather tedious. Even the perpetrator of said sneaking seemed of less interest to Sancha than in the past.

When Estela mentioned Dragonetz, desperately seeking a topic on which she and her friend could agree, Sancha was interested in a friendly way but without the more tender feelings she’d shown in the past. Something had changed in Sancha and the only passion aroused by mention of Dragonetz was over his support of Les Baux, which was exactly what Estela did not want to talk about.

As for music: Sancha had the voice of a crow with the ague and as much appreciation of the finer points as she had dress sense. Estela caught herself short, ashamed. She knew full well why Sancha shaved her forehead too high, cluttered her garish robes with clashing lace furbelows and ribbons, wore shoes so pointed they were lethal weapons.

Estela also knew why she was indulging in this spiteful line of thought. She felt guilty. And she’d really had enough of being torn apart by Provence’s civil war

. If it was like this during a truce, what would happen if the killing started again? Friend against friend; brother against sister; vassal against liege.

She dug her heels in savagely and startled her placid mare into a few quickened steps.

And for what? Both sides are in the right and neither of them can see it!

‘My Lady?’ her man Gilles queried anxiously, pulling his mount into step by her side. The pathway south curved downwards, opening up once they’d left the citadel and the rocky passes.

She couldn’t hide much from someone who’d known her since childhood so she didn’t try. ‘This truce is wearing,’ she acknowledged. ‘Every day, new lords come to swear fealty to Barcelone and some do so with their hearts; others with their fingers crossed behind their backs. God might forgive them but Ramon won’t.’

‘Dragonetz is no oath-breaker, my Lady.’

‘At the moment, he’s no oath-

maker

! He trains Hugues’ men, he kneels to Lady Etiennette in her ante-chamber,’

and the less said about that the better!

Gilles showed no awareness of Estela’s more personal anguish at the latter fact and she continued quickly, ‘and yet his respect for Barcelone grows each day. I can feel how torn he is and I am worried he will break in two. All he will say is that he has chosen already and his choice is Provence. Whatever will keep the peace. But it doesn’t feel like peace!’

‘No, my Lady,’ agreed Gilles. ‘It feels heavy and the storm must break some time.’

‘Well, I’d rather it broke when my family was five hundred miles away!’

Gilles pointed out the obvious but it was good for Estela to hear it said. ‘That is not Dragonetz’ way. If there’s a storm, he’ll be the lightning. And you wouldn’t want him any other way.’

‘I know,’ she conceded, ‘and I will listen and love, and say nothing to shake him from whatever he decides. But I need a moment out of that atmosphere. Come, let’s see what it is that all these lords are squabbling over. Let’s see Provence!’

They rode in companionable silence. Nici disappeared after scent trails and reappeared ahead of them, checking on where they were before following his own distractions once more. Estela listened in the way Dragonetz had taught her, reaching for the song that was always there for those who were open to it.

Cicadas pulsed shrill with summer urgency; house-martins and swallows swooped their joyous loops; a skylark’s solo soprano rose to heaven. Birdsong was replaced by the work-songs and shouts of peasants threshing the spelt, their jointed whips flailing at the cut sheaves. Estela couldn’t see the golden grain falling onto the threshing sheets but she knew the precious harvest was there. Behind the men, the fields were scythed stubble, dry and golden under relentless blue skies.

‘Stop!’ she told Gilles, whose instinctive protest turned into a sigh. He had indeed known her a long time. He dismounted, caught Nici and attached him with a length of rope to the peasant’s cart. They would not be popular if a giant dog joined in the threshing.

Careful to keep her mare from straying onto the threshed spelt, Estela called to the nearest men. ‘Good-day.’ Reluctant to break their rhythm, the men nevertheless recognized her rank and paused. Sweat glistened on their shoulders and in the V of their leather jerkins and Estela flinched from the memory of another young peasant in leather, the smell of sweat and straw, and the terrible harm her young ignorance had caused. Such memories helped no-one but served as a reminder that her rank carried responsibilities. Any words she spoke would have the weight of her standing. Her deeds would take on a life of their own.

‘I mean no harm,’ she said quickly, stupidly, prompted by the past instead of the present. One of the youngest there laughed and was immediately clouted by his fellow, at the same time as Gilles threw his reins to Estela and dismounted, the better to draw sword with his one good hand. ‘No!’ she said. ‘There was no disrespect meant.’

‘No my Lady, no disrespect,’ said one of the older men, glancing at her quickly as the boy who’d laughed was shoved roughly behind his elders, away from Gilles’ half-unsheathed sword. If he still smiled, it was from nerves.

‘I serve Les Baux,’ Estela told them, stumbling on, ‘and I wanted to know how the harvest goes? What preparation should be made at the castle for the winter? And for our people? For all of you.’ As she spoke, Estela felt her mother’s presence: the visits they’d made together, checking on flocks and grain, vines and babies. This was grain and vine country, some goats but not sheep. ‘The spelt has ripened well and you’ve got the harvest in while it’s dry and without storm damage but I wondered whether the quantity was down because we’ve lacked rain this springtime?’

This time the man looked at her with genuine respect and more warmth. ‘Aye my Lady, that’s it, exactly. Good in quality and none ruined but growth was stunted and not as much grain as some years. Middling, I’d say.’

‘Too early to say for the grapes,’ she mused aloud. ‘If the storms bring hail, there’s always a risk.’

He nodded. ‘Till the last moment there’s a risk.’

‘The grape harvest here is in two months? Three?’

‘Aye, thereabouts, depending on the weather. End of August.’

‘And your goats are milking well?’

Another man spoke up. ‘You won’t find better milk or cheese anywhere my Lady. My daughter’s the goat girl and she’d fight that Barcelone army single-handed to protect the village well and her goats. They get water before we do.’

‘That’s a fact!’ the others agreed.

The goat girl’s father said, ‘By your leave, my Lady,’ and, watched closely by Gilles, he went to the pouches piled together and pulled out an object wrapped in dried leaves, which he presented to Estela, saying ‘You don’t have to take my word for it, my Lady. This be for your break fast.’

Picking open a leaf, Estela studied the contents. Her home region produced exceptional sheep cheese, both the strong blue-veined from the caves and the soft creamy white, but this was a small, firm round. She sniffed and approved. Just a tang of goat and the look of crumpled parchment. The neatness of its form, a perfect round nestled in its carefully interleaved protection, told of a cheese-maker who took pride in her work.

All eyes were on Estela as she evaluated the gift. And found it beyond price. Her eyes glistened as she spoke. ‘You speak truth. Surely, there can be no better cheese than this, for it was made with love and skill, and given with the true spirit of hospitality to a stranger. No money could buy what you have freely given me but please do me the honour of accepting a gift for the goat girl.’ Gilles followed Estela’s quiet instructions. From the saddle-bag he pulled out the silk scarf and linen wimple she’d abandoned there once out of sight from Les Baux, and he took a penny from the purse.

Estela cut short the effusive thanks with one last question. ‘Do you have enough for yourselves, for the winter?’

Honest men, they told her that they could pay their dues without fear of starvation – this year – as long as there was no more war. Fighting would mean fire and destruction, with grainstores and barns the victims, whichever side won. Estela understood. In war, the peasants never won. She nodded, apologised for the interruption and rode on. Gilles walked his horse back to where Nici, sullen, watched from a tethered distance. He’d already started chewing through the rope. With only one regretful look at the men working, he bounded after his mistress and Gilles, mounting, followed suit.

When they were hungry, they found a copse, tied their horses to a tree and sat on the grass together, as they had when Estela was a motherless little girl and Gilles her only protector in a cold household. She broke the cheese and gave him half. He sliced the bread and the dried sausage with his knife. They shared the wineskin. It was the best meal Estela could remember eating in days and she spoke with her mouth full of goat cheese. ‘This,’ she mumbled, ‘this is what Dragonetz is fighting for. And it’s worth it!’

After lunching, they lay in the shade, pleasantly sleepy with wine and full stomachs, a long way from court formalities. Stretched out in a most unladylike way, eyes shut and idly masticating a dry grass blade, Estela murmured, ‘Do you remember teaching me how to choose a dagger.’

‘Mmm. Your brother never did understand. But you, quick as a fox with a rabbit.’

‘I still get it wrong,’ she confessed. ‘Petronilla. She’s not a pretty one. But she’s strong and true.’

‘Ay, a man’s eyes can never be trusted. But the second lesson is the more difficult, once you’ve learned the first.’

Estela sighed. ‘Pretty

can

be strong and true. Like Talharcant. And Dragonetz.’

‘And you, my Lady. Beware men’s eyes, especially those who’ve not learned the second lesson. ’

Estela instinctively felt her side, the leather sheath a hard lump beneath her kirtle. ‘Don’t worry. You taught me to look after myself. And I have you. And Nici.’ The dog opened one eye at his name but saw no reason to get excited and drooped back into his sprawling doze.

‘Maybe one day I will have my own lands and fiefs,’ Estela mused aloud. ‘I will oversee the harvests, protect my people, heal the ailing and help the women birth their babies. I will supervise the accounts and ensure that the coin is spent for the good of all. Our land will have the best markets in the whole world. I will hire the goat girl and we will have the best cheeses! Musca will grow to be a man in the sunshine of his people’s love. And of his parents’ love for him and each other.’

‘You would like that, my Lady.’

‘I would like that. Yes, I would like that very much.’

After lazing an hour or two in this manner, they pursued a circular route that would take them back through the plain, with its fields and vineyards, to the narrow canyon that took them back to Les Baux. At the point where fields changed to rock, a bizarre figure set Nici barking.

‘A scarecrow?’ Estela wondered aloud but no scarecrow stood straight beside a stone wall, then bent over, walked a few steps with the aid of a stick, and repeated the movement. The creature was swathed from top to toe in what looked to be a bundle of random cloths, all brightly coloured. The human inside was well hidden and as the riders approached, they could see that the face too was covered, but with mesh, like fishing net. As they grew closer and recognised the clouds of insects making angry protest round the invader, the figure’s purpose was clear. Six niches in the stone wall each contained a wicker basket.

‘A beekeeper! Gilles, take Nici further on and I’ll get us some honey.’

‘My Lady, you’ll get stung!’ was spoken with the resignation of a man who expected to be ignored and Gilles was already leading horse and dog into the canyon when Estela called out to the worker. ‘Good man. Do you have honey I could buy?’

She thought the man hadn’t heard her as there was no change in his rhythm. He put the lid back on the basket beside him, waved the smoking torch along the wall. Estela was close enough to hear the enraged buzzing change to mere irritation and she stored the sounds in her song of the day, along with the stream bubbling nearby and the man’s strange chant in a foreign tongue. Then she realised from the voice that this was no man.

The female beekeeper walked slowly and steadily, towards Estela, leaning on her stick, lumbering and anonymous in her protective clothing.

‘I have been waiting for you, my Lady,’ she said. ‘Please, be my guest. I have comb in my shelter. Follow me. You may bring your man and hound. They will come to no harm.’ She remained veiled and Estela followed her own curiosity and the strange woman, into the canyon, where Gilles and Nici accepted their mistress’ madness, and followed too.