Plaint for Provence Chapter 9

CHAPTER

EIGHT

Primrose (hymelsloszel) is hot. All its vital energy is from the sharpness of the sun… whence it checks melancholy. When melancholy rises in a person, it makes him sad and agitated in his moods. It makes him pour forth words against God. Airy spirits notice this, and rush to him, and by their persuasion turn him toward insanity. This person should place primrose on his flesh, near his heart, until it warms him up. The airy spirits dread the primrose’s sun-given power and will cease their torment.

Physica, Plants

H

ad she not overheard the conversation, Estela would not have noticed that Dragonetz was a little abstracted in their practice, a little too easy to convince of changes to phrasing or tempo. He hid it well but his thoughts were elsewhere and it didn’t take a genius to guess where. She too fumbled a line, missed a note, was less than her best, while she wondered,

‘Is he thinking about it? Lord of Les Baux? Is that why he’s backing Hugues and his mother? Provence and legitimate heirs? And who would blame him! What do I offer instead, that won’t turn to dust

?’

‘Will you sing with me in the Great Hall one evening?’ she asked. ‘Lady Etiennette would like that, I’m sure.’ She kept all inflection out of her voice and watched anxiously for his reaction. Maybe there was a slight tightening of the jaw. Maybe.

‘I’m sorry, my Lady. It might be misinterpreted.’ His gaze was steady, telling her to trust him, but the ink-black of his eyes was fathomless.

Misinterpreted as open support for Les Baux? Wasn’t he already showing that? Or misinterpreted as showing his love for Estela and rejecting Etiennette’s proposal?

‘We’ll talk later.’ She flushed at the tone, the one he used with his men.

And they didn’t. In the days and nights that followed, they made love and they sang together, and they spoke of Musca and Prima but they didn’t talk. The closest Dragonetz came to opening his mind was to repeat, ‘There is justice in both claims to Provence but one must cede. I will do what must be done to make a lasting peace.’

Even marry Etiennette?

Of which nothing was said, by either of them.

Estela threw herself into composition, knowing full well that entertainment must perform the same balancing act as all else in this fortress. She’d been invited by Etiennette to entertain the widow’s guests, so her audience would take for granted her sympathies to Les Baux. In which case, she would please everyone with some reference to history further south, to the lands of Barcelone, Aragon and Zaragoza.

Playing the gracious hostess would win hearts and remind all of Les Baux’s nobility and largesse. In sheer courtesy, Barcelone had already been forced to thank the son; now he would be forced to thank the mother. At the same time, perhaps he could be moved by the words of the song, by love of a land, to understand Les Baux.

Perhaps Estela could play her own part in Dragonetz’ private war; the balance that kept peace. It would take a very careful lyric though, something from the past that spoke to the present day, that woke every man’s love of his terroir and that crossed barriers in friendship. There was only one way of finding such a lyric: she would have to compose it herself. And only one person could tell her all she needed to know.

Every time Dragonetz excused himself from their musical interludes, Estela interrogated Malik on his past and on his homeland. Her Arabic was not as fluent as Dragonetz’, nor anywhere near as good as Malik’s Occitan, but she wanted to improve and it seemed fitting to hear Malik’s stories in his own tongue. All of them used Latin with ease, as was civilized.

‘Why do you wish to dwell on the past, my Lady?’

‘I want to understand,’ she told him.

Once he started talking, Estela was lost in a world of dry mountains and magical gardens, scimitars and poetry.

‘My grandfather, Abd-al-Malik, the last Huddid King of Zaragoza, fought alongside Aliénor’s grandfather at the Battle of Cutanda. You’ve heard tell of it?’

Estela shook her head.

‘So fierce it was that there is a saying in my country ‘Peyor est quam illa de Cotanda’; ‘This is even worse than Cutanda.’ They won a hard victory and sang together in celebration, each of them a noted troubadour in his own language. As a token of brotherhood, the King gave Aquitaine a rock crystal bottle, multi-faceted like their alliance but holding the most precious substance of all – water, the life-giver.

As you know from your reading, crystal is made from air touching cold water when it coagulates into a solid, as if it were the heart of water. It has many healing powers. Perhaps William of Aquitaine thought of this and wished to balance too much heat in Aliénor’s nature when he presented it to King Louis of France, for their wedding gift. But it was not enough.’

‘No,’ agreed Estela, thinking that it would take more than a crystal bottle to dampen Aliénor’s combination of ardour and ambition. Medicine could only work so much change on a person’s given nature.

‘When we were in Narbonne, I made inquiry. In one of his many acts to gain forgiveness from the church, Louis gave the bottle to Archbishop Suger and it now resides, cold and useless, in Saint-Denis Abbey.’

Hearing the song of the crystal bottle, Estela murmured, ‘Where once there was love, an empty place. Old alliances and pledges replaced with … with what?’ She pictured the bottle on a shelf in the abbey reliquary, dust dimming the sparkling treasure that had crowned a friendship, sealed a marriage. She had never even seen a crystal bottle but if she were ever given something so beautiful, so rare, no-one would take it from her. And if it commemorated her marriage to Dragonetz, she would set Nici to guard it! If only...

‘And, though my grandfather lost our kingdom, he became Imad ad-Dawla, the pillar of the state, to Alfonso the Battler, and there is no shame on his name or on the Banu Hud for serving our land as well as we can.’

As I do.

Estela heard the words as if they’d been said aloud and thought of her knight, his love for Provence and the way such warriors could fight harder for peace than some men did to grab lands and riches.

‘But if you want a story, my Lady, you should hear of the Christian El Cid of Castile. Falsely accused and banished from his homeland, El Cid was alone and rejected everywhere he sought shelter. Men were too frightened of reprisals from Castile to welcome even such a proven warrior.

Until he was found, ragged and dying of thirst, by the knights of al-Andalus who served King Yusuf ibn-Ahmad al-Mu’taman, my great-great grandfather. Zaragoza and its king welcomed the outcast and, in return, El Sidi, as we call him, served my homeland as a loyal general for many years.

When El Cid needed protection for his daughters against the treachery of his enemies, he turned to his loyal Muslim servant, Avengalvon, who took in the girls and guarded them as his own for the love he bore El Campeador, the Warrior.’

‘Which are you, Malik? Are you El Campeador or the Pillar of the state?’

‘A man can be both, my Lady, a master and a servant. But I do not seek to acquire lands that are not mine, nor even win back a crown that my grandfather ceded; not when the ruler is just.’

Ramon the Saint.

Estela sighed.

‘Castile could not let El Cid and his army continue to grow more powerful so Alfonso offered to reinstate the hero, with Valencia as his reward if he could take it, and so Zaragoza lost its famous general.’

Estela listened spellbound to the many legends of El Cid, noting what might fit her purpose in composing a lay and what might engage her audience for its own sake. She knew the part that would catch Dragonetz by the heartstrings.

‘When he came of age, Rodrigo, the young Sidi, was taken by his godfather, the monk Pedro, to the place on the mountain where a herd of Andalusian horses were grazing and he was told to choose a foal to be his warhorse,’ Malik had told her. ‘Rodrigo made his choice, a white foal and earned a cuff and a curse from his godfather, who called Rodrigo ‘Babieca’, ‘Stupid.’ Estela could feel the story finding its right threads, the parallel of her own story with Nici, the dog who’d also been named ‘Stupid’ in the language of his region.

‘And Babieca – for so Rodrigo named his horse – grew up to be the white stallion, El Cid’s warhorse, the most feared horse in any battle, with legends of his own. He carried his master’s dead body into battle, strapped onto him, and they defended Valencia together one last time.

The besiegers were so terror-struck they fled and so Babieca won the day, just by his presence. He lived to see his fortieth summer’s grazing and in the two years after El Cid’s death, no man rode him. No man could take El Cid’s place.

When his spirit left this world, he was buried by his master’s request, beside El Cid, at the monastery of San Pedro de Cardana. There, they were later joined by Rodrigo’s courageous lady wife Ximena.’

If only… a family burial: Dragonetz, Estela, Sadeek and Nici, at the end of a song worth singing. A foolish thought. Estela swallowed. Thought instead about Malik’s ancestors, kings, philosophers and – so Dragonetz had told her – renowned mathematicians.

When the three of them were together, the two men would sometimes lose Estela with their discussion of mathematics. She could understand most of what applied to music but knew nothing of the pure Arab disciplines. Dragonetz would tease his friend, suggesting that he should continue with his ancestor al Mu’tamen’s geometry proof, compete with his ancestor for pride of place in Maimonides’ update of the ‘kitab al-Istikmal’, ‘the Comprehensive Treatise in Mathematics’. Malik would respond in kind, saying that he fully intended to do so in the time left from serving his Prince and mentoring ill-disciplined Christian musicians.

Listening to their banter, Estela realized how far their friendship had come, that Malik could appreciate such humour at all, never mind respond. He had always been self-contained, reserved, mistaken for mute on many occasions. To let his guard down in such a way was a gift, a treasured moment for all three of them.

Should we let our guard down as we do? Can anyone be trusted completely?

Estela wondered, newly sensitive.

How did Malik feel about the castle’s Saracen Tower, built as a look-out when Moorish armies were invading from the south, pushing ever further into Occitania. One battle different and the language of Les Baux and its songs would have been Arabic. If there really was Moorish treasure in the caves, it belonged to Malik.

Wasn’t he tempted to search for and claim what was his by right? As heir to the Banu Hud, he had as much right to Zaragoza as did Les Baux to Provence. And yet here he was, commander and physician to the Christian Prince who had conquered his homeland, accepting whatever fate brought his people and himself. Was that the way to live well: acceptance? Or was it better to fight to the death for what – or whom – you loved?

‘Estela,’ Malik broke into her reverie, which Dragonetz seemed not to have even noticed. ‘You have been treating Petronilla. How do you find her?’

With an easy smile Dragonetz told them, ‘If you two are going to discuss deer-hide belts and dried crane’s blood, my delicate sensibilities are better off shouting at men who hack when they should parry.’ He excused himself as if a proposal of marriage happened every day and he had more important matters waiting his attention.

Equally light in tone, Estela chivvied him. ‘Dried crane’s blood is indeed recommended to aid childbirth, by von Bingen herself, but I won’t tell you where it should be put…’

‘No...’ Dragonetz crossed himself and left quickly.

His absence was a relief, allowing Estela’s mind to cease its self-torture and discuss the care of a pregnant woman with a physician who knew so much more of medicine than she did but who might learn from her insights all the same. It would be better for Petronilla if she learned to trust her Moorish doctor, even on women’s matters, as Estela would not be there when the Regent’s progress ended.

Her mind skated over where exactly she would be if Dragonetz married Etiennette and war erupted. Even if Dragonetz didn’t marry Etiennette, what if war recommenced, with Dragonetz leading Les Baux and Malik commanding Barcelone’s men? Turning her thoughts resolutely away from the possibility, Estela assumed peace, Barcelone secure and the entourage returning home after the display of force. Indeed, the sooner that happened, the better for the chances of an heir being born without mishap. Travel would be safest between the fourth and seventh month, agreed the two healers.

‘Has she told him yet?’

‘I fear not,’ Estela replied, sighing. ‘I have encouraged her to but she finds the evidence of her sin difficult to speak of, even though she knows Ramon longs for an heir. There is only one way to cut through this tangle of ignorance and church teaching.’

Malik nodded. ‘You have told me nothing I did not observe myself so you’ve broken no oath. I have not been asked to treat her for this so I break no oath if I tell my Lord that I am wondering whether the signs suggest… he is wise enough to say the words for her and let her tell him in such a manner.’

‘What is he like, Malik? I cannot imagine a man who’d plight his troth to a baby, bring her up like his daughter then marry her for the sake of two kingdoms.’

Malik was silent. ‘I have only known one other man be Ramon’s equal as a general. He will not lose.’

‘Even if Dragonetz leads Les Baux?’

‘It would be my duty to take down Dragonetz.’ It was just a fact. ‘And there is no-one of any stature behind him. I have Ramon behind me and his reputation was not gained from pretty games in mountain passes.’ So they knew the truth of the ambush. Of course they did. And if Dragonetz continued on his present course, war would mean one leader against two.

Not just any two leaders either. Could Dragonetz really make peace or was he just diving headlong into another crazy fight, one that he could only lose. She knew her man well enough to know that he would give his life rather than surrender and she felt a surge of anger at his lack of concern for her and for his son.

‘I can do nothing, Malik,’ she told their friend frankly.

‘I know. He must be himself. Be patient. Allah’s will is not clear to any of us in this matter.’

‘But as a man, what is Ramon like?’ pursued Estela.

‘Not as you imagine.’ Malik smiled indulgently. ‘Petronilla is his meaning in life; he was twenty-four and she was three when he accepted her as a sacred charge, betrothed her to protect her. He was there when she read her first verse, was father, mother, brother and mentor as she grew. They played hoops and ball together, read Latin together, danced courtly steps together. By law, he could have married her when she was twelve but he waited till her first flowers.

He is her entire world and she is the reason behind his every act. He refused to call himself King of Aragon for fear he would forget that the land is hers and their son’s. He is the same way as Regent of Provence: he holds it in trust for his nephew and will stand down the moment he feels he can. There is an integrity in him that is rare. He is nicknamed El Sant with reason. He weighs his acts to decide what is right by his God.’

This was not what Estela wanted to hear so she sniffed and thought of Lady Sancha’s opinions of the usurpers. And of Petronilla, surrounded by saintliness. Much good had it done her! But then again, she didn’t want to hear too much praise of Lady Etiennette’s indomitable spirit and fierce pride in her inheritance, not at the moment.

‘Provence should have belonged to Les Baux.’ She made one loyal attempt to defend Dragonetz’ stance.

‘

Should have

is not law, my friend. Provence

does

belong to the young Berenguer and so to his uncle Barcelone, as regent. By decree of the Holy Roman Emperor, Conrad, who holds jurisdiction over the province.’

‘But it’s not fair. These people know nothing of Provence. Conrad’s never even been here.’ Unwittingly, Estela echoed Hugues.

‘You want things to be fair, don’t you.’

Estela gazed at him mutely. The need to judge fairly

should have

been obvious.

‘Much hurt lies that way. Sometimes you cannot make things be as you wish.’

It was as if he’d read her heart and Estela’s eyes brimmed with unshed tears.

Malik quoted the poet al-Mutannabi.

‘Al-haylu wa-l-laylu

Wa-l-bayda’u ta’rifu-ni

Wa-s-saifu wa-r-rhumhu

Wa-l-qirtasu wa-l-qalamu.’

‘The desert knows me well

The knight and the mounted men

The battle and the sword

The paper and the pen.’’

Inshallah,’ he said softly and left her.