The Lute Player (21 page)

I licked and wiped my sticky fingers, brushed a crumb or two from my gown and went in to Berengaria, who was sitting bolt upright on a stool in front of a silver mirror but not looking into it. Her hands, half hidden by her long trailing sleeves, were clasped across her bosom so that each hand gripped the upper part of the opposite arm. Her expression was just as usual, one of sweet, calm, almost blank placidity, but there was something almost triumphant about her pose, the lift of her head, the folded arms. I have seen successful jousters draw back and sit their horses in somewhat the same manner.

She rose from the stool as I entered and invited me to sit but I motioned her back and took a seat on the bed whose covers had not yet been shaken and spread anew. And rather than attack her too suddenly on the matter of her entourage I asked:

‘And did the duchess approve of your gown?’

‘I did not show it to her. We had something else to talk about.’ And again, although her face remained expressionless, there was that look of triumph.

I tried another opening.

‘It is agreed, then, that we set out tomorrow?’

At that she smiled her small, sweet smile.

‘Tomorrow. We are to lodge at Vecchia and then Jaca. There Father will turn back and we shall go on. Madam, how long will it take us to reach Marseilles?’

‘That is almost impossible to say. So much depends upon the state of the road and what pace we can keep.’ Here was my chance. ‘With regard to that, my dear, there is something which I feel compelled to say and if it is distasteful to you I beg you to remember that I speak out of long experience and from a concern for the good of all concerned.’

‘What is it?’

‘I think the Duchess of Apieta should not accompany us.’

‘Has Anna been talking to you?’ she demanded. Out of the sweet blank face the voice came suddenly, shrewd, a little vicious.

‘No indeed. Why? Surely her incapacity to take such a journey was obvious when she returned from Apieta in such a state of exhaustion. On that comparatively short journey she was obliged to take to a litter and two days’ time was lost. We are settling out on a journey five hundred times as long and the loss of time may well be proportionate.’

‘Anna is far stronger than she appears. That delay on the journey and her retirement to bed were not due to exhaustion, madam. She was afraid to face me with her nonsensical proposal. You know how one postpones an unpleasant task.’

It was not the first time that Berengaria, who so often seemed inattentive, unobservant, a little blank of mind, had surprised me by making a remark that was shrewd and perceptive.

‘And what was her proposal?’

‘Nothing new. For a long time now she has been thinking of building a house in Apieta—her duchy—and ever since she discovered that my minstrel could draw and plan she has been fretting for him to go and supervise its building. Before you arrived she “borrowed” him and naturally as soon as she had him out of my sight she bribed and cajoled and flattered him into saying at he would stay in Navarre and build it for her. She came in this morning to tell me that, with ny permission, both she and Blondel would stay at home.’

Relief, a most comfortable sense that I was lucky, flooded my mind. The two of them disposed of without any effort on my part, without any acrimony.

‘She was very wise,’ I said. ‘A woman so infirm and a minstrel who would sooner be building a house in Navarre would be poor company on a venture such as we are undertaking.’

‘I’m sorry to be obliged to contradict you, madam. They two are the only company I need. I would sooner leave everyone else behind.’

‘But why? A crippled little woman who will be nothing but a drag on us and a minstrel who will be homesick and sing songs about it and make everyone within earshot homesick too. You can have no idea of the power a minstrel wields, Berengaria. A sad song can depress, a gay one enliven the spirits of a whole camp. Sometimes, I’m told, when things go wrong with Richard’s men he takes a lute and plays a rousing song.’

That reached her real attention, as any mention of Richard could always do. She asked quite eagerly what his favourite songs were and we chatted for a moment with intimacy and animation. Then, at her remark that Richard would appreciate Blondel’s playing, I was forced to say:

‘I wish you would think over what I have said and be persuaded to leave them behind.’

‘I shouldn’t consider doing so for a moment.’

‘But why?’ I asked again.

‘I couldn’t explain. You would never understand, madam. For reasons of my own they matter to me more than anyone else—in Navarre. And you concern yourself needlessly. I would sooner have Anna’s company, especially in a crisis, than that of anyone I know. She has sharp wits and great spirit. And as for Blondel, he only gave way to Anna’s nagging. He’ll come gladly enough.’

It was a deadlock. I was anxious not to offend her, if for no other reason than that she had been so complaisant and amiable about her train and her baggage; but I found myself wishing most heartily that she had been obdurate about everything else and tractable now. I looked at her sitting there, so beautiful, so unruffled and so stubborn, and rage rose in me. I should have liked to set my hands on her shoulders and give her a good shaking. But argument seemed useless and to lose my temper would be disastrous, so there was no point in prolonging the interview. I said:

‘I hope most earnestly that you will think over what I have said. Time is short.’

She smiled.

I went away to seek Sancho. He was her father and he had impressed me as being a reasonable man.

Sancho and his son, known respectively as Sancho the Wise and Sancho the Bold, were out in the stable yard inspecting the horses and mules with which we were to set out next day. It was a scene of great activity; grooms and pages were running to and fro with pieces of baggage, animals were being trotted round the yard, harness being tested and polished. Sancho, made aware of my presence, turned, took my elbow in the cup of his hand and said:

‘Come and drink wine with me, madam. This is a sad day for me, albeit a happy one too. Let us drink to our sorrowful joy.’

He conducted me to a part of the castle I had never penetrated before and into his own room which, in contrast with the general appointments of the place and especially of the women’s quarters, which were extremely luxurious, was bleak and bare to the point of austerity. His wine, however, was excellent and when we had drunk to a successful journey and to Berengaria’s happiness and to Richard’s well-being, my temper was smoothed and sweetened and Sancho’s sorrowful joy considerably mitigated. Talk ran easy and free and when the time came for me to mention what was on my mind I found myself speaking the words with just the right touch of light detachment.

Sancho’s hand went to his beard.

‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘Pray believe me, madam, when I say that I understand your point of view. As you put it, a cripple and a malcontent do appear to be unwelcome additions to any party but Berengaria has reason on her side. She and Anna have been inseparable since childhood and the boy Blondel once rendered us a signal service. I can understand that, setting out on such a venture—for it is, you know, marriage, for a young innocent girl, even when she has the good fortune to be marrying the man of her choice—she wants with her the tried and familiar companions of her youth. Added to which Anna is most excellent company. I shall miss her very much. I have often’—he smiled at me engagingly—‘been glad to take Anna’s advice. And, as you say, she could always travel in a litter if necessary.’

He smiled at me again but it was plain that no support could be expected from him. All I could hope now was to investigate, as far as possible, the mystery of how much Blondel knew and how much he had told. I drained my wine cup and held it out for refilling, hoping that Sancho would drink with me,
in vino veritas
. I talked of the journey for a few minutes and then said casually:

‘And the minstrel once proved himself useful. In what way, sire?’

The wine was in his blood now and he laughed. ‘In a manner of speaking he and Anna between them made the match, madam. You have seen my daughter when her mind is set—and this, remember, is a matter comparatively trivial—impervious to argument, deaf, blind, obstinate as an iron mule. Well, some time back…’ And he proceeded to tell me the story of Berengaria’s falling in love, refusing other offers and finally despatching the boy to discover what he could about Alys and Richard.

‘And he came back,’ he concluded, ‘having travelled night and day, with the news that the betrothal was at an end. Such early information, madam, enabled me to reopen negotiations before every other father in Christendom could do so—with the happy result that you are here today.’

I mixed truth with falsehood and said, ‘At that time I was in Winchester, completely cut off from all communications, and Richard was never one to be explicit about his own affairs. What exactly did your lute player tell you? I have so often wondered.’ Now I should hear the ugly words. My hands knew the need to clasp themselves together, braced. But I kept them hanging loose, the hands of the idly curious.

‘Of all the mysteries, that is the greatest,’ Sancho said, reaching for the flagon. ‘If Blondel knew, he never would tell. He said that he was certain of his information; where and how he had gained it he would not say and short of putting him to the torture which, in the circumstances, would have seemed ungrateful to say the least, I could extract nothing but the bare facts from him. In the desperate case which I have described to you I was ready to snatch at the most unlikely chance, so I acted upon the information without more ado. With the happiest results.’

Was he deceiving me as successfully as I hoped I had deceived him? Or had the boy shown discretion beyond belief? I thought for a moment and began to feel more kindly towards the minstrel, for it seemed to me that if he had told anyone it would be Sancho and if Sancho knew he would assume that I knew, too, and would be unlikely, especially in his present mood, to attempt to conceal his knowledge. Why the minstrel should behave with such peculiar delicacy and reticence I did not try to explain even in my thoughts. I could only be grateful that he had.

However, even my gratitude could not make me welcome him as part of our company. And as for the hunchback! But what more could I do?

‘I’m afraid you must be thinking, madam, that I have sadly spoiled my daughters and, indeed, I often think I should have taken a stick to them long ago.’

‘Perhaps,’ I said, anxious to part from him on an agreeable note. ‘But I frequently took stick to my brood and all but Joanna grew very headstrong.’ A sudden thought struck me. ‘I hope to God,’ I said, ‘that Berengaria never sets herself to oppose Richard’s will, because then the sparks will fly.’

‘Don’t worry about that.’ He laughed. ‘She will be wax to his hand.’

V

She seemed, in fact, to be wax in anyone’s hand during the following weeks as we made our weary and sometimes painful way towards Marseilles. A better-tempered, less demanding princess never travelled out to meet a husband. She seemed to move in a dream and to be oblivious to the discomforts and inconveniences that are inseparable from travel.

Even at Marseilles, where we met the disappointing news that Richard and the English fleet had sailed for Sicily a week earlier, she kept her composure.

‘A little longer to wait, that is all,’ she said.

A little longer. Poor girl! There were times when I almost forgave her obduracy over Anna and Blondel.

Richard had left me a letter which was typically his. It opened with a brief formal greeting to me, the princess and all her company; he trusted our journey had not been too arduous and that we were well. He said that it seemed likely that he would have to winter in Sicily, as there was more to do than Michael and all his angels could attend to in a twelvemonth. (Richard Plantagenet, singlehanded, would finish it in six was the implication!) He directed me to go to Naples where Joanna, my daughter, the widowed Queen of Sicily, would meet us and then I was to take the princess to Brindisi and ‘rest her there contented’ until such time as he should send for us.

Having thus disposed of us in a few lines, he proceeded to write volubly upon a matter weightier on his mind, if not nearer his heart—the business of prising Joanna’s dowry from the new King of Sicily, Tancred, who had given proof that nothing short of violence should wrench from him the golden table, the silken canopy, the two dozen or so gold cups and platters and the sixty thousand mules’ burden of corn, oil, and wine. If Tancred wanted war over such a petty matter, war he could have and in plenty. I was to assure Joanna that when Richard had finished with Tancred not a barrel of oil would be withheld from the count and every slight and insult which she had suffered would be adequately avenged.

Berengaria was with me when the letter was delivered to me; and when I had perused it I felt obliged to hand it to her, though it embarrassed me that she should find herself and her affairs dismissed in a few lines and so many devoted to the disputed property. I could tell by the set of her shoulders and the way in which she let her hands fall into her lap with the letter that she was disappointed. Her face being so expressionless, her gestures had a peculiar eloquence, I had noticed. She was disappointed but not in the least affronted. There was no doubt about it, at that time she had no will but Richard’s and was so infatuated by the idea of him that she could not see a fault in him. I found myself saying apologetically that if the whole muster of the crusade was to gather in Sicily the place would be vilely overcrowded and that it was considerate of Richard to arrange for us to be accommodated elsewhere. But I knew why we were being sent to Brindisi. Richard was busy and he didn’t want a clutter of women about him.

So we proceeded to Naples where I was overjoyed to see Joanna, whom I had not seen since her wedding, and to whom Berengaria showed such instant and unquestioning affection that I suspected she was all the time seeing Richard in Joanna—than whom no two people could be less alike, save for the hair. Joanna’s hair was the same bright colour and of the same texture as Richard’s and time, bereavement and worry had neither dimmed nor thinned it. I noted a little cynically that though Berengaria never brushed her own blue-black tresses she was always eager to brush Joanna’s. However, wryness apart, that was all very pleasant and commendable; though from my point of view it had one great disadvantage. Berengaria’s taking such a fondness for Joanna, their sharing a piece of tapestry, huddling together on the same settle, going to Mass together and so on, threw me and the crippled duchess more than ever into one another’s company.

I tried. For my own peace of mind’s sake, I tried to overcome my aversion to the little hunchback but I failed; and that was not her fault for she tried too. Everything that Berengaria and Sancho had said about her was true. She was self-contained and independent, making claims upon nobody’s pity; she was shrewdly intelligent and her wit was just on the sour side, so her conversation was extremely entertaining. If she had only been made in normal human shape I should have found her a fascinating person as she, for a time, seemed to find me. It sometimes seemed a little hard that the one person whom I had lately met who took an active, vivid interest in me as a character, who had evidently heard and remembered things about my past and was eager to talk of my doings, should be a woman with whom I found ordinary easy conversation well-nigh impossible and whose company I was bound to avoid as much as was compatible with good manners.