The Second Day
Terce
The same boy who had brought the Senhor’s summons and the strange instrument woke them early. He was a cocky little fellow, Jannequin thought, with something of the catamite about him, and as he rousted the musicians awake he made it clear that he was an important personage. “Senhor Bernier has made me a page, you see, and when the war starts again he promises I’ll be a squire. Might actually get knighted.”
The boy had brought the minstrels’ clothes, still a little damp, but wonderfully clean. Jannequin had made sure to keep the money-belt with him, keeping it around his waist even when he was in the vast bathtub- leather dries and silver doesn’t rust- because he didn’t trust the servants who washed him and his fellows, however polite they were. Everybody steals, given half a chance, and the only difference between nobles and commoners is that nobles steal more and get away with it. And he’d also kept his knife in its sheath in one hand as he was dunked and scrubbed. It was made of better steel than his old eating-knife, took a keen edge when he honed it, and kept it. It had proven useful, not only for cutting his meat whenever he got some, but in a few tavern discussions which turned ugly.
He’d made it from the top half of a broken sword he’d found in Carcassona after the siege. He’d been heading for the masons’ yard during their mid-day break from rebuilding the cathedral, hoping to get a few deniers from them by playing as they took their lunch and rested. When he saw the afternoon sunlight glinting off the sword-tip poking out of the unpaved dirt of the street, he’d grabbed it and hidden it hastily under his tunic. Next day he’d gone to a blacksmith who still owed him for playing at his daughter’s wedding before the battle for the city.
The smith filed down the bottom four inches of the sword-tip to make a tang, and Jannequin managed to split the leg of a short stool he’d found in one of the looted taverns. He scraped out slots for the tang in both pieces of wood and bound them together with strips of scrap leather he found in the ruins of a tannery, soaking them in water before he wrapped them as tightly as he could around the haft he had made, and tacking their ends down with small nails the smith provided. The strips shrank even more tightly as they dried, and he wound up with a six-inch knife of tempered steel. He made a rough leather sheath for it, and it had proven a good companion. Of course if it ever came out that his knife was made from the sword of a knight, he’d be beaten half to death and probably lose an ear, if not his nose, for his presumption. It had always amused him that the swords of the nobles were forged by smiths, commoners who weren’t allowed to own anything they made. But his knife, with its home-made haft, looked as crude as any villein’s cheap eating-knife, so it hadn’t attracted attention.
He put on his tunic, buckling the belt with the sheathed knife around his waist, and trying to ignore the brash boy, who was still prating about becoming a knight. But finally his patience wore out, He said, “Well, you’ll have to fight to prove you’re worthy of knighthood, no? You know anything about fighting?”
“More than you do, old man.”
Jannequin wasn’t sure exactly how old he was, although he knew his body had begun to defy his will on occasion. But after the good meal and the good sleep, he felt pretty spry. He whipped out the knife and in two quick steps he got behind the boy, pinning his arms and laying the blade across his throat.
“I don’t think you know anything about fighting,” he said. “Better settle for being a page.”
Heaulmier said, “Come on, don’t kill him. He’s only here to take us to our breakfast. I’m hungry.”
Jannequin released the boy and sheathed his knife. The little popinjay rubbed his throat, trembling, pale as whey. “Complain to your master if you want,” Jannequin said, “but I don’t think he’ll care. Right now he needs minstrels more than he does pages.” The boy turned to walk out, but even chastened, he couldn’t resist switching his hips a little. Maroc chuckled.
“I used to like a bit of that. Did I ever tell you about the chorister I met when I was playing in Narbona for the Archbishop’s elevation? That lad elevated me, by the blessed balls of God! Never been that way inclined before, but he was a pretty thing, and I was far from home. He did things my wife and I never dreamed of, told me he’d already been broken in by the Archbishop himself, so it wasn’t a sin. He had an amazing voice, up in a woman’s range, but he didn’t do thin piping like the rest of the boys. He could sing full out against the shawms, the organ, all the rest of our instruments. When I bedded him- his idea, not mine- I found out he was a lot older than he looked. The Archbishop had cut his nuts off to keep his voice high. Poor soul didn’t know if he was a man or a woman any more, and he didn’t much care. But what a voice!”
“What happened to him?” Jannequin asked.
“How should I know? Haven’t been back to Narbona recently.”
“Do you miss him?” Heaulmier asked, grinning evilly.
“Go fuck yourself. It was just the one time. You tell Jeanne and I’ll cut your own balls off. Anyway, you’ve had a bit of that stuff yourself- remember that whore in Minerve?”
“That was a woman!” Heaulmier said.
“In a pig’s eye. You were drunk as a duck in molt and horny as a stag in rut, you’d have stuck your prick in a knothole to get off. But I’m still surprised you didn’t notice the stubble under the paint on his face, and I can’t see how you could have missed his cock while you were reaming his bunghole. It was bigger than yours.”
Heaulmier turned on the shawm-player, furious, and Jannequin stepped between them. “Stop this, right now. You can settle it after this job is over, but I need you both. Get dressed, we have to play, or we won’t get paid. Clear enough?” The two big men glared at each other, but the rage seeped out of them.
“I am not a damn sodomite,” Heaulmier said.
“Never said you were,” said Maroc. “Things get confusing on the road. That whore almost fooled me, too.”
“Strange times,” Jannequin said. “For all of us.”
“Strange times,” Heaulmier said.
“God help us,” said Maroc, and offered his hand. After a moment Heaulmier took it. “God help us,” he said, and threw his arms around the man, kissing his cheeks resoundingly. Maroc laughed.
“What, you want to fuck me, now?
“Not in your dreams. You’re too ugly.”
The boy had indicated, sneeringly, that the minstrels should take their breakfast with the other castle servants, outside the kitchen on a table set up in the bailey courtyard. Being reminded of their humble station, however snidely, actually reassured Jannequin. He’d felt very awkward supping in the hall, especially after the Senhor had shown up to share the table. He had no illusions about the Senhor’s display of affection: nobles who fancied themselves musicians and dropped rank when working with their hirelings were still nobles, and not to be trusted.
So it was best to do your work well, keep your mouth shut if your noble employer wasn’t the singer he thought he was, get your pay, bend the knee, and never imagine that there was friendship involved in the transaction. These people had been raised since birth to kill anyone who violated their self-esteem in the slightest way, and they had all the weapons. Something he wished Geraut would learn quickly, before his mouth got his head cut off.
The breakfast was sumptuous, thick slabs of crisp-roasted bacon, boiled eggs still warm in their shells, actual white bread with even a firkin of butter to spread on it. There was a flagon of the same good wine, but even Heaulmier was musician enough to restrict himself to one cup. The boy came back, on his best behavior this time, as the musicians were finishing their meal, and asked them to join the Senhor in the hall. Bernier de Lissac was seated on a bench drawn up to a trestle-table, wearing a plain brown linen tunic. The minstrels’ instruments had been brought from the dormitory, removed from their wooden cases and leather bags with evident care, and laid across the broad expanse of the table. Gilles gasped and scuttled over to grab his bagpipes, clutching them to his chest like a mother whose infant had been stolen and mysteriously restored to her. “They have no right!” he said to Jannequin. “Nobody touches my pipes!”
Senhor Bernier rose and came around the table, laying his arm around the old man’s shoulders. “My apologies, Master Gilles. I meant no harm. I only thought it would be convenient for you and your friends to have your instruments ready to hand. You do me honor, just for being here.”
Gilles finally gave the Senhor his gap-toothed grin. “Ah, the world’s gone mad indeed, when lords talk about honor with common folk. What is honor, anyway? Can you eat it?”
Jannequin started to hush him, but Bernier said, “No, but you can choke on it.”
Gilles dissolved in laughter which turned into a coughing fit. He doubled over, and the Senhor patted him on the back until the racking spasms subsided. The piper straightened finally, his seamed face gray, and hawked a vast gob into the strewn reeds under the table. “I beg your pardon, lord, but what you said, can’t help it, that struck me as funny.”
Bernier kept his arm around the old man. “Are you all right? Do you think you can play?” Gilles gently removed the Senhor’s arm and stood fully upright. The color was already returning to his face, and he set the bag firmly under his arm, stuck the blow-pipe in his mouth, took a deep breath, and inflated it fully with one long exhale, his cheeks popping out as if he had twin apples in his mouth. He squeezed his elbow down, and without waiting for the brief discordance which showed the air from the bag was coursing into the pipes, his fingers got nimble on the chanter and he started a stampides in quick time, the drone pipe stopped and unstopped so that its low note served as a sort of percussion. He did two choruses, ended with a flourish on the chanter, and stopped the music suddenly by releasing pressure on the bag, so that the pipes barely whined as the remaining air escaped from them.
He tucked the pipes under his arm and grinned at the Senhor.
“I’m not dead yet,” he said. “But it won’t be long, and not just for me. There are signs, oh yes, and portents.”
Bernier regarded him gravely for a moment and finally shrugged. “There always are,” he said. “So let’s get on with our music while we can.”
His music was challenging, especially the wild lament he’d written as his farewell to love. But Jannequin realized quickly that the Senhor was as interested in the New Art as he was, and wanted the instruments playing cross-harmonies. The other minstrels caught the excitement, suddenly understanding that Bernier de Lissac, unlike any troubadour they’d ever served, was actually more interested in the music than in his lyrics. He’d begun with his own harp – he played well, Jannequin noticed, but all troubadours had to show some skill with the harp when they accompanied their own songs – but he put it aside as the minstrels settled in, urging on the delicate, impelling interweave. The tunes he taught them were simply variations on modal melodies the minstrels had known forever, but by breaking from monody and improvising, they knew they were making something never heard before. Geraut’s viele, in perfect tune at last, took the high line, Maroc’s shawm, played for once at a subtle volume (he seemed to have stuffed something into its mouth) anchored it, Gilles’ pipes skirled above and below, and the oud flashed in and out of the music like a weaver’s batten, while Heaulmier, all his tambours deployed, tickled and thumped and boomed, driving on the bottom of the blend. He’d set up his rack of tuned bells, but he used them sparingly, only adding silvery notes to the weave where they fit, rather than clashing his steel baton across them for flashy effect.
They kept on playing, stopping from time to time when the Senhor wanted to go over a passage. He obviously knew the way he wanted the music to sound, but he deferred to Jannequin about how to get there. And when he sang, Jannequin could hardly make out the words. It was as if his voice was just another instrument. It was warm in the hall, and after an hour or two- Jannequin lost track of the time- the Senhor called a halt. He was sweating and breathing hard, but his grin cracked his long, hard face as spring thaw breaks up the ice in a mountain stream.
“My friends, that was good enough to eat with a spoon.” Jannequin laughed out loud. It was a common expression among musicians, but he’d never heard one of the gentry use it. Bernier cast a sharp eye at him. “Unless you disagree, Master Jannequin?”
“Not at all, lord,” Jannequin said, still chuckling. “But it’s still ‘wait-and-see’ pudding so far. Hasn’t entirely set yet- maybe we need more of your voice. I couldn’t hear the words clearly.”
“Maybe I don’t want my guests hearing them too clearly either,” the Senhor said. “Please stay with me awhile longer. I need your advice. The rest of you, much thanks. Rest a bit- there’s food and drink for you on the table outside. By God’s eyes, we’re making music here!”
“It’s a new music,” came Gilles’ raven caw. “A new music for a new time.”
“I hope you’re right,” said the Senhor.
“Yes, but will the new time be better?” The old man cackled and bowed deeply. “May God be at your table, lord,” he said, straightening, still chuckling. The other musicians followed him out of the hall,
“Did that old zany just put a curse on me?” the Senhor asked. He didn’t look angry, but he wasn’t smiling any more.
“Gilles…I’m sorry, my lord. He’s getting old, he talks off his head sometimes.”
Bernier paused, looking away. The hammering of the workmen in the meadow below the castle slackened, and Jannequin could hear a distant susurrus of voices and the creak and jingle of harness.
“Well, he can still play, thank God,” the Senhor said finally. “My guests are arriving. We have little time.” He leafed through the small stack of vellum sheets before him on the table and shoved one over to Jannequin. “You can read?” It was more a statement than a question.
“Lengua d’òc, langue d’oïl, a touch of German and Anglian, and some Latin,” the jongleur said. Bernier nodded.
“There might be a problem with this song. You know the forms, Master Jannequin – do I go too far? The lady in question will not complain, but her husband might. Please be honest.” And for a moment all pride and mastery dropped from him. He searched Jannequin’s eyes with his own, looking almost fearful.
Jannequin scanned the page quickly, noting the marks of words rubbed out and hastily scrawled back in. It seemed an entirely conventional troubadour lyric, praising a lady’s physical charms while lamenting that the poet could not enjoy them, for reasons of honor. Of course Jannequin remembered the tavern gossip about Bernier and the woman, but more than ever, looking at the Senhor’s haunted face, he knew the rumors no longer applied.
“I see nothing that could offend, lord. The lady has slim white limbs, a throat like a swan, round alabaster breasts tipped with rosebuds, the voice of a nightingale, and when she walks she flows like water over the ground. No wonder the poet adores her. But there is nothing here which suggests that the poet has ever lain with her. Amor de lonh, passion from a distance, all very correct. In fact, if you will forgive me, it’s even a little old-fashioned in its courtesy.”
Bernier relaxed and the smile reappeared. “That will please her husband,” he said. “He’ll take it as an homage. Jaufré de Roncaisle, does the name mean anything to you? He was at the courts of love in Troyes when the Countess Marie made all this up.”
“Of course, lord. Every jongleur knows his songs. And he wrote in Latin as well, didn’t he? A sexy bit about giving up all the world for one night in bed with the Queen of Angleterra. But he must be very old, no? Queen Eléanor died before I was born.”
The Senhor’s face became wintry again. “Time has told on his body, but he’s not doddering yet. And he knows he married a much younger woman to sire a son on her while he can still act the stallion. He also knows the lady and I… well, none of your business, is it? He’ll be listening to my songs keenly, and there is nothing wrong with his hearing. He is also my new liege lord. It’s a delicate situation, Master Jannequin. I want to please the lady with my poem, remind her about things that happened and can never happen again. But I dare not offend her husband.”
Jannequin tapped the parchment. “Nothing in it that will anger him, lord, if I’m any judge. And anyway, unless you really sing out, the music we are working on will astonish your noble company so much they probably won’t pay much attention to the words.” He regretted what he’d said the moment it came out of his mouth, and braced himself for the troubadour’s rage. But the Senhor just sliced a thin smile. “You speak better than you know, Master Jannequin. The music may be more of a problem than my lyrics. What did the old piper say? ‘A new music for a new time.’ He meant it as a warning, no?”
Jannequin was still having trouble getting used to talking with a nobleman, a hard warrior who held his continued health and that of his fellow musicians in the leathery palm of his hand, as if he were chatting with a friend over a cup of wine in the Turk’s Head. He was glad the Senhor hadn’t offered more wine after dismissing the rest of the minstrels, because he knew he needed a clear head to figure out what the man was really worried about. He had an inkling: the disappointed expression on the face of the villein woman in the village had told him more than he wanted to know about which way the religious wind blew in Bernier de Lissac’s demesne. And he began to wonder just why the Senhor- a prosperous nobleman but hardly a great magnate- had spent so much money arranging a tournament and feast for such a throng, many of whom were certainly richer than he was.
Finally he said, “Lord, all we have is our music, and I think we have to go wherever it takes us.” The Senhor regarded him stonily for a long moment. Finally he broke into a wide grin that took ten years off his age. “Now that is a good answer, Master Jannequin.”