The Passion of Dolssa (30 page)

“
Bon sẹr
, Botille,” she said. “I haven’t time to talk with you now.”

“As you wish,” I told her retreating and celebrated backside. “Any other time will do.”

It took some maneuvering to reach Na Pieret, thronged as she was, but I finally did.

“You’re late,” she said by way of greeting.

I bowed deeply, and only wobbled a little. “
Bon sẹr, ma domna
.”

“You’re drunk,” she observed.

I took another long gulp. “
Non
. I’m just a little thirsty.”

She shook her head and smiled. “Tell me, Botille,” she said, “don’t my sons look handsome tonight?”

I followed her pointing finger to locate these paragons of young manhood. There was Gui, intercepting Plazensa from Senhor Guilhem just as a song ended and asking her to dance. Senhor Guilhem looked none too happy about it. Gui, I thought, had better learn the proper order of things in Bajas, and soon. Rank was rank, and he’d best be careful.

“Now where is Symo . . . ah. There he is.” She pointed over to a corner, where Symo stood looking miserable in a tightly fitting velvet coat and tunic. A pair of older
omes
stood talking close by, and Symo pretended, badly, to attend to their conversation.

“Aren’t they handsome?” Na Pieret asked.

“Gui has a pleasing way about him.” I took another sip. “Symo’s clothes are very fine.”

Na Pieret twitched my ear with her finger and thumb. “Oh, go on about you, then,” she said. “Give him time, and Symo will grow on you.”

“Like a fungus,” I thought. Then I realized that, thanks to the wine, I’d thought my thought aloud. But Na Pieret only laughed. She breathed in deeply, savoring the tingling party air as if she’d drunk a thirsty draught of excitement.

“This takes me back, Botille,” she said, “to the old, old times when I was a little girl. Such parties we had then! And dancing. Such colors, all the ladies’ skirts like flowers, and the cuts of the young men’s coats—ah, me! To be young again.” She closed her eyes, lost in remembering. “At feasts at Senhor Guilhem’s grandfather’s house, the
jocglars
would sing the songs of the
trobadors
, and we danced and danced and danced. I was a new bride, and the world was pink.” She looked like a dreaming child. “Those were happy times.”

I smiled around me at the festivity. “Has it changed so much, then?”

Her face became serious. “The war changed it all, Botille.”

I squeezed her hand. “But we’re happy tonight. You brought the old times back.”

Her eyes were sad. “Only a shadow of them.” She gave my hand a return squeeze. “But you’re right. No sense moping. I’m just an old woman reminiscing. Let us indeed be happy tonight.”

“That’s the spirit.” I planted a kiss on her cheek. “Would you like a drink,
ma domna
?”

“Not from the looks of you,” she teased. “I will get myself something to eat. Run along, and dance off some of that wine.”

It occurred to me then that I hadn’t eaten. It occurred to my stomach, too, which began to feel wobbly. I made my way to a serving table and took some bread and a wedge of cooked onion, and ate them together, then a piece of fish and some cheese. After a few moments I began to feel a bit better, so I ventured back outside for some fresh air.

I found Sazia surrounded by farmwives, who loved her fortunes. She stood near the musicians, tapping her toes to their song.

“How goes it, Sazia?” I bawled.

She clapped a hand over her head and glowered at me. “Well enough without your popping my ears.”

“Sorry.”

Just then we saw Plazensa approach Focho de Capa and gesticulate wildly to him.

“What’s she doing?” I made sure to speak more normally.

Sazia shook her head. “I don’t know. But you missed a great fuss. You should have seen Plazensa, tongue-lashing Gui for being too friendly with her. He barely knew what hit him.”

I steadied myself against the wall. “Plazi?” Maybe I still needed more food. “Why would she do that? She’s never, ever—”

“I know.” Sazia was behaving as though it took me too long to finish a thought. How rude of her. “From what I could tell, he wasn’t doing anything out of line.”

I looked over to where Gui stood watching Plazensa and looking forlorn. Perhaps it was just as well that she’d snubbed him. But why? Was it for her huge fisherman? Litgier? Was that his name?

There was a break in the music. Focho looked at Plazi, who glanced up the street, then back at Focho with a nod. The musicians struck up quite a different tune then, one that drew all eyes at the party. Plazensa looked, then Focho looked, then all the musicians and all the revelers beheld the apparition approaching them from down the street.

It was a lady. As she entered the orb of light near the torches we saw that she was dressed in a flowing gown of the most delicate green, with fluttering sleeves and a sapphire sash tied about her waist. Her bodice shimmered with exquisite embroidery, mermaids and seashells. Her hair was piled high in a knot, then trailed down her neck from that peak, entwined with ribbons and beads.

My phantom noble lady had found us.

I looked to see Senhor Guilhem take a step forward. His face was flushed. He looked unsure of what to do with his hands.

The lady hesitated at the edge of the party. Almost, it seemed, she wanted to pull back. And no wonder. She couldn’t be real. She was just my fanciful story come to life. In the morning, like a fairy, she’d be gone.

Plazensa appeared at her side, took her arm, and brought her into the circle. She nodded at Focho to pick up the tempo, which he obligingly did, and then she led the strange lady straight past Senhor Guilhem and into Gui’s arms.

He led her forward for a step of the dance, then back again. The strange lady followed, and smiled at him. Other dancers stepped into the form, and I lost sight of them. I blinked, and blinked again. Had I imagined the whole thing?

“Well?” A smug Plazensa appeared between Sazia and me. “Admit it: Dolssa isn’t the only miracle worker. Did I or did I not perform a wonder tonight?”

“What are you talking about, Plazi?” I said. “Who is that
femna
?”

Plazi’s eyes bulged. “You mean you don’t know?” Her laugh trilled over the music and dancing. “You actually don’t know?”

Sazia stared at the couple as they whirled by. “It couldn’t be!”

“But it is.” Plazi was playing with me now, like Mimi with a cornered rat.

Sazia tugged my sleeve. “You’d better hang up your matchmaker’s bonnet, Botille,” she said. “That’s Sapdalina out there, rapidly making Gui fall in love with her.”

My jaw, I knew, lay on the cobblestone square. Sapdalina?

“Now, now.” Plazi smiled. “Botille is still the matchmaker. This case needed my expertise.”

I watched Sapdalina’s lips move. They were talking. She was smiling. Gui was laughing. His great teeth gleamed in the torchlight. I marveled at the sight. How could Sapdalina—squashy, nervous, sticky Sapdalina—ever hold herself so well?

“Does Gui know,” I asked my sisters, “that he’s dancing with his seamstress?”

Sazia shook her head. “If you couldn’t tell, how could he?”

“But how did you do it?” I said. “In so short a time?”

“Easiest thing in the world.” Plazi wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. “Sapdalina’s quite a wit if you get to know her. Once she stopped being so nervous, it was just a matter of teaching her how to behave, and to wipe her nose, for heaven’s sake. And fixing her clothes, of course. The poor thing has no mother.”

“Neither do you,” observed Sazia.

Plazi grinned. “I’m extraordinary.” She gave each of us a kiss on the cheek. “Well, girls, I’m off. I only came to see Sapdalina and make sure she danced with Gui. My work is done.”

I tugged on her arm. “Stay, Plazi,” I pleaded. “No one will visit the tavern tonight. Not with free wine here.”

My
s
rre
shook her head firmly. “I’ve left Dolssa too long unguarded,” she said. “You two, stay and enjoy yourselves.”

Her words made me feel fuzzy and confused. “I should come home too, then.”

“Not on your life,” said Plazi. “Stay and drink and dance and laugh. Kiss a
tozẹt
.”

“Ugh,” said Sazia. “I’m going for some plum tart.” They both left before I could object.

I danced with Dominus Bernard. I danced with Focho de Capa, who managed to match my steps while playing his
fidel
all the while. I even danced, to my great surprise, with Giacomo Arbrissi, the Italian merchant.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded.

“I just arrived in port tonight, from Narbona,” he said. “Storm’s brewing. I wasn’t planning on stopping, since I was just here, but I had a passenger who insisted on taking shelter in Bajas. And anyway, I didn’t like the looks of the weather.”

I hitched up my skirts and skipped round him with the dance. “Lucky for us, then,” I said. “Stay a day or two. Did you pick up any good wares in Narbona?”

“A few things,” he said. “But tell me, what’s the occasion? What are we celebrating?”

I explained about Na Pieret’s nephews, and danced another round with my jovial merchant friend until I could barely keep to my feet. I found a dim corner of the house with a stool to sit on, and another cup of wine, which I sipped much more slowly this time, and munched on a piece of raisin cake. It was a wonder there was any food left at all, with swarms of hungry peasants invited to help themselves, but Na Pieret’s cooks kept on producing dishes from an apparently limitless store.

I slowly became aware of a pair of feet stationed a short distance from me. I looked up to see Symo towering over me, watching me with a bored expression.

“Oh,” I said.
“Bon sẹr.”

“Bon sẹr.”

Having gotten that out of the way, I wasn’t sure where else to take the conversation. I wasn’t feeling at the peak of my verbal abilities just then.

“What are you doing here?” I asked him.

“I live here.”

I favored him with a scathing look. “I know that,” I said. “I mean,
here
here.”

“What are
you
doing here, then?” he asked me.

I held up my cup and my wedge of cake. “This,” I told him with great hauteur, “is what I am doing.”

“Have you had enough to drink?” he asked in his most sneering tone. “Because I could always get you some more.”

“I’ll have you know,” I said, “that I don’t usually drink much at all.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, it is so.” I nodded. “No sense drinking up all the profits at the tavern.”

Symo pulled over a chair and seated himself. “Makes more sense to drink all of ours.”

I raised my cup. “To your health.” I took a sip. “It’s a party, isn’t it?”

He shrugged. “So they tell me.”

“Don’t be sour.” I took a bite of raisin cake, but some of it crumbled onto my lap. “It’s a party for you.”

“I didn’t ask for one,” said my surly companion. “It’s a great waste if you ask me.”

“Nobody asked you.” I eyed his fancy clothes. His head seemed to bulge from his tight collar. “If you’re so uncomfortable, you could loosen your top button.”

He fidgeted with the button, then left it as it was to spite me. “Who says I’m uncomfortable?”

I took another sip of wine. “You look like the fatted hog, all trussed up for roasting.”

It might have been the wine, but I thought I saw thunderbolts shoot from his eyeballs at me then. He peeled off his velvet jacket and loosened his shirtsleeves.

“There,” I said. “That’s better. Don’t you think that’s better?”

In answer, he merely folded his arms across his chest. I took another sip.

“You’ve done a fine job,” he said, “keeping your runaway hidden.”

My body tightened in spite of the wine. “I’m not the one who—”

“How long will it take for all Provensa to know her name and her fame?” He was ruthless. “The Comtessa of Tolosa is probably hearing a report of her tonight as she takes her supper.”

“She’s in God’s hands,” I told him. “Would you rather Garcia and his son had died?”

He said nothing then.

I leaned in closer to him and tapped his knee. “Tell me this,” I said—
tap-tap-tap
—“why does your tanta Pieret like you?”

He glared at me. “You’re drunk.”

“Possibly,” I admitted. “But just a little.”

“You should go home.”

I thought about it. “That’s not an altogether bad idea,” I said. “I think, though, that I’ll just wait here a bit. Before I go.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

“You still haven’t answered my question,” I said. “Why does Na Pieret like you?”

He snorted. “I should ask the same of you.”

I sat back. “Why, we’re friends,” I said. “Everybody knows Na Pieret and I are friends.”

He said nothing. I call that being a poor conversationalist.

“You make sure,” I said, “that you always treat Na Pieret with great courtesy. Because if you don’t”—here I rose to my feet, and found them rather shaky—“all Provensa’s not big enough to hide from me.” I leaned against the wall to steady myself. “Want to dance?”

“No.”