ggk.asongforarbonne-第14部分

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ago　year　fallen　out　differently？　Though　it　was　hard；　almost　impossible　really；　to　imagine　how　they　could　have　turned　out　well。　Guibor　had　said　once；　apropos　of　nothing　at　all；　that　the　worst　tragedy　for　Arbonne；　if　not　for　the　people　actually　involved；　had　been　the　death　of　Girart　de　Talair：　had　Bertran's　brother　lived　to　hold　the　dukedom　and　father　heirs；　the　younger　son；　the　troubadour；　would　never　have　e　to　power　in　Talair；　and　the　enmity　of　two　proud　castles　by　the　lake　might　never　have　bee　the　huge　reality　it　was　in　Arbonne。
　　Might…have…beens；　Signe　thought。　It　was　seductively　easy　to　wonder…on　a　winter's　night　before　a　fire；　or　amid　the　drone　of　bees　and　the　scent　of　summer　herbs　in　the　castle　garden…about　the　dead；　imagining　them　still　living；　the　differences　they　might　have　made。　She　did　it　all　the　time：　with　her　lost　sons；　with　Aelis；　with　Guibor　himself　since　his　passing。　Not　a　good　channel　of　the　mind；　that　one；　though　　inevitable；　she　supposed。　Memory；　Anselme　of　Cauvas　had　written　once；　the　harvest　and　the　torment　of　my　days。
　　It　had　been　some　time　since　she'd　seen　Bertran；　she　thought；　pulling　her　reflections　forward　to　the　present；　and　rather　longer　since　Urté　de　Miraval　had　e　to　Barbentain。　Both　of　them　had　sent　messages　and　surrogates…Urté　his　seneschal；　Bertran　his　cousin　Valery…to　the　yearfast　of　Guibor's　passing。　There　had　been　a　killing　among　their　corans；　it　seemed…not　an　unusual　event　between　Miraval　and　Talair…and　both　dukes　had　felt　unable　or　unwilling　to　leave　their　castles　then；　even　to　mourn　their　dead　count。
　　Signe　wondered；　not　for　the　first　time　in　the　month　gone　by；　if　she　should　have　manded　them　to　be　present。　They　would　have　e；　she　knew；　Bertran　laughing　and　ironic；　Urté　grimly　obedient；　standing　as　far　apart　from　each　other　in　all　the　ceremonies　as　dignity　and　shared　high　rank　allowed。
　　She　hadn't　felt；　somehow；　like　issuing　that　order；　though　Roban　had　urged　her　to。　The　chancellor　had　seen　it　as　an　opportunity　to　publicly　assert　her　control　over　the　fractious　dukes　and　barons　of　Arbonne；　bringing　to　heel　the　two　most　prominent　of　all。　An　important　thing　to　do；　Roban　had　said；　this　early　in　her　own　reign；　and　especially　with　what　was　happening　in　the　north；　with　the　peace　treaty　signed　between　Gorhaut　and　Valensa。
　　He　was　almost　certainly　right；　Signe　had　known　he　was；　particularly　about　the　need　to　send　a　clear　signal　north　to　the　king　of　Gorhaut　and　his　counsellors。　But　somehow　she　had　hated　the　thought　of　using　Guibor's　yearfast…not　the　first　one；　surely…in　such　a　bluntly　political　way。　Could　she　not　be　allowed；　for　the　one　time；　to　remember　her　husband　in　the　pany　only　of　those　who　had　freely　e　to　Barbentain　and　Lussan　to　do　the　same？　Ariane　and　Thierry　de　Carenzu；　Gaufroy　de　Ravenc　and　his　young　bride；　Arnaut　and　Richilde　de　Malmont；　her　sister　and　brother…in…law；　almost　the　last；　with　Urté；　of　their　own　generation　still　ruling　in　the　great　castles。　These　had　all　e；　and　so；　too；　had　virtually　every　one　of　the　lesser　dukes　and　barons　and　a　deeply　affecting　number　of　the　other　folk　of　Arbonne：　landless　corans；　artisans　of　the　towns；　brethren　of　the　god　and　priests　and　priestesses　of　Rian；　farmers　from　the　grainlands；　fisherfolk　from　the　sea；　shepherds　from　the　hills　by　Gotzland　or　Arimonda；　or　from　the　slopes　of　the　northern　mountains　that　blocked　the　winds　from　Gorhaut；　carters　and　smiths　and　wheelwrights；　millers　and　merchants　from　a　dozen　different　towns；　even　a　number　of　young　men　from　the　university…though　Tavernel's　unruly　students　were　legendary　for　their　aversion　to　authority　of　any　kind。
　　And　all　of　the　troubadours　had　e　to　Barbentain。
　　That　had　been　the　thing　that　moved　her　most　of　all。　If　one　excepted　Bertran　de　Talair　himself；　every　one　of　the　troubadours　of　Arbonne　and　all　the　joglars　had　e　to　share　in　the　remembering　of　their　lord；　to　offer　their　new　laments　and　make　sweet；　sad　music　to　mark　the　yearfast　of　his　dying。　There　had　been　poetry　and　music　for　three　days；　and　much　of　it　had　been　rarely　crafted　and　from　the　heart。
　　In　such　a　mood；　with　so　many　e　willingly　in　a　spirit　of　shared　sorrow　and　memory；　Signe　had　felt　profoundly　unwilling　to　pel　the　presence　of　anyone；　even　two　of　the　most　powerful…and　therefore　most　dangerous…men　in　her　land。　How　could　she　be　blamed　for　wanting　the　spirit　of　the　yearfast　and　its　rituals　to　be　unmarred　by　the　long　wrangle　between　Miraval　and　Talair？
　　The　problem；　and　the　reason　she　was　still　dwelling　upon　this；　was　that　she　knew　what　Guibor　IV；　count　of　Arbonne；　would　have　done　in　her　place。　In　terms　admitting　of　no　possible　ambiguity　her　husband　would　have　demanded　their　presence　before　him　during　any　remotely　similar　event；　whether　of　mourning　or　celebration；　in　Barbentain　itself　or　in　the　temples　of　god　or　goddess　in　Lussan　town　beside　the　river。
　　On　the　other　hand；　she　thought；　and　the　smile　on　her　still…lovely　face　deepened　almost　imperceptibly；　had　she　herself　been　the　one　being　mourned　instead　of　Guibor；　Bertran　de　Talair　would　have　been　with　the　others　in　Barbentain　for　her　yearfast；　e　feud　or　river　flood　or　fire　or　blight　to　the　grapes。　He　would　have　been　there。　She　knew。　He　was　a　troubadour　as　much　as　he　was　anything　else；　and　it　had　been　Signe　de　Barbentain　who　had　begun　the　Court　of　Love　and　shaped　with　her　own　personality　the　graceful；　elegant　world　that　had　let　the　poets　and　the　singers　flourish。
　　Aelis　her　daughter　might　have　inspired　Bertran's　passion　and　his　youthful　springtime　song；　still　sung　after　more　than　twenty　years；　Ariane　her　niece　might　be　queen　of　the　Court　of　Love　now；　but　Signe　had　had　a　hundred　verses　and　more　written　for　her　in　fire　and　exaltation　by　a　score　of　troubadours　who　mattered　and　at　least　twice　as　many　who　didn't；　and　every　song　written　for　every　noblewoman　in　Arbonne　was；　at　least　in　part；　a　song　for　her。
　　But　this　was　unworthy；　she　thought　wryly；　shaking　her　head。　A　sign　of　old　age；　of　pettiness；　peting　in　this　way…even　in　her　own　mind…with　Ariane　and　the　other　ladies　of　Arbonne；　even　with　her　poor；　long…dead　daughter。　Was　she　feeling　unloved；　she　wondered；　and　knew　there　was　truth　in　that。　Guibor　was　dead。　She　ruled　a　court　of　the　world　now；　not　a　simulated；　stylized　court　named　for　love　and　devoted　to　its　nuances。　There　were　differences；　great　differences　that　had　altered；　and　not　subtly；　the　way　the　world　dealt　with　her　and　she　with　it。
　　She　should　have　ordered　the　two　dukes　to　e　last　month；　Roban；　as　usual；　had　been　right。　And　it　might　even　have　been　good　for　her；　in　the　usual；　strange；　slightly　hurtful　way；　to　see　Bertran　again。　It　was　never　a　wise　idea　in　any　case　to　let　him　go　too　long　without　a　reminder　that　she　was　watching　him　and　expecting　things　of　him。　No　one　alive　could　truthfully　claim　to　have　a　large　influence　on　the　duke　of　Talair　and　what　he　chose　to　do；　but　Signe　thought　she　had　some。　Not　a　great　deal；　but　some；　for　many　reasons。　Most　of　which　led　back　those　twenty…three　years　or　so。
　　He　was　said　to　be　in　Baude　Castle　now；　of　all　places；　high　in　the　south…western　hills。　The　situation　had　stabilized…for　the　moment…between　Talair　and　Miraval；　and　Signe　could　guess　how　the　story　of　Evrard　of　Lussan　and　Soresina　de　Baude　would　have　been　irresistible　for　Bertran　in　his　endless；　disruptive　career。
　　It　was　a　delicious　piece　of　gossip。　Beatritz　had　already　sent　private　word　of　what　Mallin　de　Baude　had　done；　abducting　the　aggrieved　poet　from　Rian's　Island。　She　should　have　been　outraged　at　the　tidings；　Signe　knew…and　Beatritz　should　certainly　have　been…but　there　was　something　so　amusing　in　the　sequence　of　events；　and　the　poet　had　clearly　been　wearing　out　his　wele　on　the　island　by　the　time　the　corans　had　e　and　taken　him　away。
　　Not　that　any　of　that　tale　would　reach　the　ears　of　most　of　the　people　in　Arbonne。　Mallin　would　hardly　want　word　of　his　impiety　to　spread…which　is　undoubtedly　why　he'd　not　led　the　mission　himself…and　Evrard　of　Lussan　would　scarcely　be　thrilled　with　a　public　image　of　himself　knocked　unconscious　and　carried　back　like　so　much　milled　grain　in　a　sack　to　the　castle　from　which　he'd　fled　in　such　high　dudgeon。
　　On　the　other　hand；　the　story　of　Soresina's　very　public　contrition　and　her　open…armed；　kneeling　wele　of　the