Plaint for Provence Chapter 7

CHAPTER

SIX

Steel (calybs) is very hot and is the very strongest form of iron. It nearly represents the divinity of God, whence the devil flees and avoids it. If you suspect there is poison in food or drink, secretly place a hot piece of steel in moist food, such as broth or vegetable puree. If there is poison present, the steel will weaken and disable it.

Physica, Metals

‘L

es Baux – people find it impressive the first time they see it!’ Hugues declared loudly, as he halted to allow Dragonetz the splendour of the view.

‘Indeed.’ Dragonetz grinned. From the broad southern approach, the château still seemed part of the rock, a hazy illusion, but the view did not catch your breath like looking down across the valley from the Col du Sarragan.

They’d blown trumpets and hunting horns loudly enough to wake the creatures rumoured to lurk in the Val d’Enfer and certainly enough to wake everyone in the château, judging by the welcome party Etiennette sent to accompany her son and his men on the last stretch of their return home. Hugues and Dragonetz played to their new audience, much to the amusement of Hugues’ men.

The eastern gate was already open for them and a scattering of townsmen had paused in their business to cheer their lord home. Hugues rewarded them with a handful of alms and glared at the man in his band, who muttered, ‘Moorish gold, I bet.’

By the time they reached the castle, the gate was raised there too and a line of nobles awaited them, as they dismounted. Men and horses went to their respective lodgings and Hugues threw himself to his knees before a small woman in a grey wimple and widow’s black. Dragonetz followed suit, pressing his lips to the hand offered him, a hand mottled with age and more manual work than was customary for the lady of such a house.

‘My Lady des Baux,’ Dragonetz confirmed, looking up at a face lined with old worries and eyes that could not hide a plea. Younger, Etiennette might have had vivacity but she had never been a beauty and there was a solidity to her now, in both physique and manner, that spoke plain.

‘Courtesy will serve in the banquet-hall my Lord Dragonetz but you know why you’re here and time is short. Are you with us?’

Dragonetz held her gaze. ‘I serve Provence,’ he told her. ‘And I like your son.’

Her mouth pursed in disappointment but all she said was, ‘Then that must do for now.’ She raised him and included those around her with a gesture. ‘Let me present my court to you. Our special guests, the Comte de Barcelone and his lady, are resting after their journey, which was not without incident –’ A suspicious glance at her son was met with an innocence that Dragonetz suspected had been perfected to hide stolen cakes and kisses during Hugues’ growing-up years, if his own experience of mother-son relationships was anything to go by.

Dragonetz concentrated on the names of those being introduced to him. D’Uzès, Châteaurenard, de Saint-Rémy…

Etienntte murmured, ‘I believe one or two of the jewels who adorn my château are known to you already…’

‘Lady Sancha,’ murmured Dragonetz, bending low over a large-boned, impeccably manicured hand half-covered in peach silk, a colour that was not flattering to the over-rouged complexion of its wearer. The knight could not have cared less about her appearance or what lay beneath; their friendship was a rare treasure from the Holy Land.

‘My dear boy, it is good to see you again. But you shouldn’t be here, you know. Of course you know.’ Another pair of worried eyes. If Dragonetz had not already known of the tensions in Les Baux, he would have realized now.

He just nodded and squeezed that big hand. ‘I have some brocade for you, from Damascus. When you can spare the time to select some.’

‘Ooh,’ she squealed, all feminine avarice. ‘What colours?’

‘I thought the emerald would appeal.’

Her eyes lit up. ‘I find myself at a loose end this very afternoon,’ she told him.

Dragonetz bent over her hand, as if pressing his lips to it and murmured, ‘Then we shall make up for lost time, my Lady.’

‘Naughty tease,’ she twitted him, pulling her hand away, as someone else joined the assembly, in a rustling of gown and joyful yelp of dog. A horribly familiar yelp of dog. Lady Sancha said, ‘I was going to warn you…’ just as Dragonetz straightened in time to avoid being bowled over by something big, white, furry and yes, definitely familiar. ‘Nici,’ he said with resignation, as the dog presented an ear to be scratched then shambled off, having done his duty.

‘I believe you two know each other,’ said Etiennette des Baux as she presented Dragonetz to the latecomer, a tall beauty with tawny skin and green-gold eyes, strands of raven hair slipping out of her demure linen coif. The baby in her arms gurgled on seeing Dragonetz and said ‘Icky’.

‘My Lord Dragonetz.’ She curtseyed one-handed, the other holding the baby…

‘My Lady Estela.’ He bowed over her hand. She was married. But not to him. What on God’s earth she was doing here at all he had no idea until the Lady of Les Baux enlightened him.

‘We are honoured that Lady Estela de Matin accepted the invitation to perform for our guests during the stay of the Comte de Barcelone. As we are honoured that you accepted our invitation too. I believe you have sung together. Perhaps you will do so for us?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Dragonetz between gritted teeth at the same time as Estela commented brightly, ‘Quite a coincidence.’

He looked at her, unable from courtesy either to throttle her or take her in his arms, and knowing from the laughter in her eyes that she could read his thoughts. She should have been at home, safe!

‘It seems I wasted a good pigeon,’ he told her.

‘You always over-rated home-loving birds,’ she teased.

‘Now I think on the matter, I have something new in mind that would suit your voice, my Lady. Perhaps we

should

sing together.’

No-one else would have caught the spark of desire but he did as she replied, ‘Perhaps we should, my Lord. I look forward to something new.’

‘Hussy,’ he whispered, as he bent over her hand in leave-taking. Her smile warmed him throughout the necessary practicalities of the day before he could slip through the sleeping château to her bedchamber and punish her as they both deserved.

Morning found Dragonetz kneeling at the back of the Chapelle-St-Blaise, a small, plain sanctuary placed between the château wall and the village. Forced to leave Estela sleeping, early enough to avoid being seen in her chamber, Dragonetz had sought the peace of stone walls to prepare his thoughts for the public audience with the Comte de Barcelone later that day.

The details that Sancha and Estela had added to his knowledge of Provençal politics had merely made him more confused about what was right and what he should do. He liked Hugues and was prepared to like the forthright mother but liking should not shape the future of a realm.

Sancha’s family had been among the sixty-four who backed Etiennette during the recent war rather than the sixty-three who backed Dolca’s heir. Etiennette had been badly treated by her father, who had no right to make Dolca heir to Provence while the younger sister was given only Les Baux and Trinquetaille.

No-one could have predicted that Etiennette’s father would be murdered and that Dolca would inherit Provence only to leave it to Barcelone. Dolca hadn’t been married to anyone when Etiennette and Raymond had signed away their rightful inheritance. And the sequence of deaths had left Dolca’s grandson, a seven-year-old at the time, an orphan and heir to Provence, the titular Comte, even though his uncle-guardian was Regent.

In Sancha’s eyes, Etiennette should have been heir by right when her sister died, and Barcelone was usurping her realm, using his nephew as an excuse. No-one doubted that it was the Regent from faraway Barcelone who held all the power. No-one even doubted that the law was on his side – but many in Provence believed that the law was not justice in this case. They wanted their land in the hands of one of their own lords – the Pons family. Unless of course they were among the sixty-three families who would prefer some Comte from Barcelone to anybody from the Pons family.

The question of rights was complex enough but even more troubling was the question as to which of the contenders could best rule Provence. For Sancha, the stakes were high, as her family lands had been in Provence as long as records existed. In her opinion, there was little chance of peace with an overlord who could not be present and had his own fiefdom of Barcelone to maintain plus the prospect of Aragon.

With power came responsibility and at this point Dragonetz had to disagree with Sancha. No-one could accuse the Comte de Barcelone of taking his responsibility lightly. He had taken his nephew in as a son when the lad lost his father. Then, in the same year, Barcelone had defended the boy’s rights against armed attack from Les Baux and all those who must seem rebels in his eyes. Dragonetz’ previous patron, the astute Viscomtesse de Narbonne, was Barcelone’s close ally and spoke highly of him. Their friend Malik rode with Barcelone and would not do so if he thought ill of him.

Even Barcelone’s marriage showed his self-discipline. He’d become betrothed to Petronilla, heir to Aragon, when she was a year old and he twenty-four. They’d married as planned, last year, when she had reached womanhood at fifteen. Dragonetz tried to imagine himself betrothed to someone Musca’s age, watching baby grow to girl, and girl grow to wife, all to unite two realms. He could not do it, but he had to respect someone who could. Combining Aragon with Barcelone was a masterstroke, creating a power in the north to balance Castile in the south. Where power was balanced, there was peace.

Could Barcelone balance Provence? Even if Sancha was right and the nephew was merely an excuse for Barcelone to claim the region, he was experienced in battle and in government, so famed for piety and restraint that he was known as ‘El Sant’, ‘the Saint’. Not only was he a force to be reckoned with; he was here, in Les Baux, and, according to Malik, he wanted Dragonetz among those who rode with him.

‘Guide me,’ prayed Dragonetz, his thoughts whirling fruitlessly. A channel of daylight came through the chapel door as three men in robes entered, passed Dragonetz in a swish of skirts and stopped to pay their respects before the altar. One was surely the Chaplain and the other two Benedictine monks, judging by their black garb. They knelt, crossed themselves, then moved to the choir and prepared their voices for song.

Dragonetz knew well the way they hummed, warmed their throats with scales, tested a high note and a harmony. Idle thoughts stopped completely when the brothers started to sing. Dragonetz felt his heart stop too, then soar, as he heard music as close to the divine experience of his opium dreams as any he’d heard before or since.

From the very first words, the Latin chant spoke to him as if each word were for him alone, and the music of the combined voices carried the words of the mystical hymn deep into his psyche.

‘O ignee spiritus laus tibi sit

qui in timpanis et citharis operaris

‘Praise be to thee O spirit of flame

who speaks through lyre and tambour…’

Dragonetz shut his eyes to better conjure up the spirit of flame, better hear the lyre and tambour that he would have used in performing such music. Whoever had transcribed this piece for men had surely heard the voices of angels, whether his dreams were inspired by opium or other means.

‘Intellectus te in dulcissimo sono

advocat ac edificia tibi

cum rationaliate parat

que in aureis operibus sudat.’

‘Intellect calls to you

with sweetest sound

and teams you with Reason

to make works of great worth.’

Dragonetz didn’t know whether he aspired to works of great worth but he was open to the advice that he should build on reason in choosing between Les Baux and Barcelone. Maybe the choice would become clear; maybe there would be no need to choose.

‘Tu autem semper gladium

habes illud abscidere

quod noxiale pomum

per nigerrimum homicidium profert.

Quando nebula voluntatem

et desideria tegit

in quibus anima volat

et undique circuit.’

‘Sword e’er in hand

to cut out

what the apple poisons

through blackest murder.

When mists cloud the will

and its desires,

the soul takes flight

in circles, rudderless’

Blade in hand and swinging wildly!

Dragonetz wanted to cut out what was poisonous to the body politic but how could he determine exactly what – or whom – should be removed? He knew only too well how the sword-bearer could turn murderer if a knight forgot his vows and lost his way, which was why he was here, praying for guidance. No ordinary sword but one of Damascene steel, it was forged with the secret skills of that city. Dragonetz had named it Talharcant, ‘Bladesong’ in his native Occitan, and he vowed here before God that its song would be worthy of the hymn he heard.

An awkward transition from one phrase to the next jarred on Dragonetz’ ear and reminded him these were no angels. He imagined Estela singing the verses but it sounded wrong. Not just the richness of her experience, confusing the spiritual qualities. The hymn demanded choral singing. Perhaps several women… but then the sensual associations would intrude and of course, women choristers would never be permitted in any church but a convent. Boys, then.

In his mind, he replaced the deep chant with the ethereal quality of young boys’ voices and smiled. One particular boy’s voice blended with the others but could not hide its exceptional quality. Muganni, thought Dragonetz, remembering the little Arab boy who’d served him and saved him. By now, Muganni should be with his people in the mountains, free forever. His beautiful voice was lost to the court of Jerusalem and some might consider Dragonetz’ training wasted on camels and dervishes but maybe ‘God’s creatures praised Him’ and that was enough. Singing could be for pure pleasure.

‘Tu eam citius in igne

comburis cum volueris.’

‘Your fire purges all ill

as is your will’

Dragonetz nearly murmured ‘Inshallah’ from old habit but luckily the blasphemy stopped in his mind. Perhaps he had lived in Arabic too long when captive in Damascus, to return to unthinking Christianity. It had been a shock at first to see the human faces in a church, the Christ-figure hunched in suffering on the cross, after the purity of Muslim tesserae. So close in origin, the two religions, and yet so divided. Another blasphemous thought, unsuited to his setting!

‘Nunc dignare nos omnes ad te colligere

et ad recta dirigere. Amen.’

‘Gather us to you now

and set us on the right path. Amen.’

‘Amen!’ said Dragonetz aloud, fervently. Sometimes, asking the right questions was more important than being given answers and he now knew what he needed to find out, about Les Baux and about Barcelone, and about Provence. His intellect would determine

how

he found out. And his sword would serve its proper purpose on the right path.

When the singing ceased and the Chaplain was lighting a candle, alone, Dragonetz approached him. And so was Talharcant, the sword forged by a Saracen smith in Damascus, blessed in the chapel of Les Baux, as was the knight who wielded it.

‘Bless this sword so that it may be a defence for churches, widows and orphans, and for all servants of God, against the evil one.’ The statue of St Blaise watched from his niche, adding to the blessing his skills of healing and calming wild beasts, of which there were many prowling the darkness of Dragonetz’ soul.