ggk.asongforarbonne-第14部分

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that…whether　it　was　the　elderly　joglar's　art　or　Bertran's…what　they　were　listening　to　that　night　was　of　an　entirely　different　order　from　the　music　of　Evrard　of　Lussan　that　had　been　his　own　first　introduction　to　the　troubadours　of　Arbonne。
　　Even　so；　he　found　this　writing　of　verses　a　silly；　almost　a　ludicrous　pastime　for　a　nobleman。　For　Evrard　and　those　like　him；　perhaps　it　could　be　understood　if　one　were　in　a　tolerant　mood：　poetry　and　music　seemed　to　offer　a　unique　channel　here　in　Arbonne　for　men；　or　even　women；　who　might　never　otherwise　have　any　avenue　to　fame　or　modest　wealth　or　the　society　of　the　great。　But　Bertran　de　Talair　was　something　else　entirely：　what　possible　use　were　these　verses　and　the　time　wasted　in　shaping　them　for　a　lord　known　to　be　one　of　the　foremost　fighting　men　in　six　countries？
　　The　question　was　still　vexing　Blaise；　despite　the　fact　that　he'd　allowed　himself　an　extra　cup　of　wine；　when　he　saw　de　Talair　lean　across；　setting　down　his　own　wine　goblet；　and　whisper　something　in　Soresina's　ear　that　made　her　flush　to　the　cleavage　of　her　pale　green　gown。　Bertran　rose　then；　and　Ramir　the　joglar；　who　had　evidently　been　waiting　for　such　a　movement；　stood　up　neatly　from　the　stool　he'd　been　sitting　upon　while　he　played　and　held　forth　his　harp　as　de　Talair　stepped　down　from　the　dais。　The　duke　had　been　drinking　steadily　all　night；　it　didn't　seem　to　show　in　any　way。
　　〃He's　going　to　play　for　us　himself；〃　Maffour　whispered　excitedly　in　Blaise's　ear。　〃This　is　rare！　A　very　high　honour！〃　There　was　a　buzz　of　anticipation　in　the　hall　as　others　evidently　came　to　the　same　awareness。　Blaise　grimaced　and　glanced　over　at　Maffour　disdainfully：　what　business　had　a　fighting　coran　to　be　growing　so　agitated　over　something　this　trivial？　But　he　noted；　glancing　at　Hirnan　on　Maffour's　far　side；　that　even　the　older　coran；　normally　so　stolid　and　phlegmatic；　was　watching　the　duke　with　undeniable　anticipation。　With　a　sigh；　and　a　renewed　sense　of　how　hopelessly　strange　this　country　was；　Blaise　turned　back　to　the　high　table。　Bertran　de　Talair　had　settled　himself　on　the　low　stool　before　it。　Another　love　lyric；　Blaise　thought；　having　had　a　season　of　Evrard；　and　having　noted　the　glances　that　had　already　begun　to　pass　between　hostess　and　noble　guest　during　the　meal。　As　it　happened；　he　was　wrong。
　　What　Bertran　de　Talair　gave　them　instead；　in　a　highland　hall　at　the　very　beginning　of　that　summer；　amid　candles　and　jewels　and　silk　and　gold；　with　early　lavender　for　fragrance　in　bowls　along　the　tables；　was　war。
　　War　and　death　in　the　ice　of　winter；　axes　and　swords　and　maces　clanging　on　iron；　horses　screaming；　and　the　cries　of　men；　eddies　of　snow　beginning　to　fall；　breath…smoke　in　the　bitterly　cold　northern　air；　a　wan　red　sun　setting　and　the　chill　pale　light　of　Vidonne　rising　in　the　east　over　a　field　of　death。
　　And　Blaise　knew　that　field。
　　He　had　fought　there；　and　very　nearly　died。　Far　to　the　south；　here　in　woman…ruled；　woman…shaped　Arbonne；　Bertran　de　Talair　was　singing　to　them　of　the　Battle　of　Iersen　Bridge；　when　the　army　of　King　Duergar　of　Gorhaut　had　beaten　back　the　invaders　from　Valensa　in　the　last　battle　of　that　year's　fighting。
　　The　last　battle　of　a　long　war；　actually；　for　Duergar's　son；　Ademar；　and　King　Daufridi　of　Valensa　had　signed　their　treaty　of　peace　at　the　end　of　the　winter　that　followed；　and　so　ended　a　war　that　had　lasted　as　long　as　Blaise　had　lived。　Leaning　forward　now；　his　hand　tightening　around　his　goblet；　Blaise　of　Gorhaut　listened　to　the　resonant　chords　Bertran　drew　from　his　harp　in　waves　like　the　waves　of　battle；　and　to　the　clear；　deep；　chanting　voice　as　it　came；　inexorably　indicting；　to　the　end　of　the　song：
Shame　then　in　springtime　for　proud　Gorhaut；　
Betrayed　by　a　young　king　and　his　counsellor。　
Sorrow　for　those　whose　sons　were　dead；　
Bitter　the　warriors　who　had　battled　and　won…
Only　to　see　spoils　claimed　by　their　courage　
Disposed　and　discarded　like　so　much　watered　wine。
Shame　in　the　treaty　and　no　pride　in　the　peace　
Ademar　allowed　to　vanquished　Valensa。　
Where　were　the　true　heirs　of　those　who　had　died　
For　the　glory　of　Gorhaut　on　that　frozen　field　？　
How　could　they　sheathe　their　shining　blades　
With　triumph　gained　and　then　given　away　？
What　manner　of　man；　with　his　father　new…fallen；　
Would　destroy　with　a　pen…stroke　a　long　dream　of　glory？　
And　what　king　lost　to　honour　like　craven　Daufridi　
Would　retreat　from　that　ice…field　not　to　return　？　
Where　went　the　manhood　of　Gorhaut　and　Valensa　
When　war　was　abandoned　and　pale　peace　bought
By　weak　kings　and　sons　long　lost　to　their　lineage　？
　　A　last　chord；　stern　and　echoing；　and　Bertran　de　Talair　was　done。　There　was　absolute　silence　in　the　hall；　an　entirely　different　order　of　response　from　the　grateful　laughter　and　applause　that　had　greeted　the　joglar's　earlier　offerings　of　love　and　springtime。
　　In　that　stillness　Blaise　of　Gorhaut　grew　painfully　aware　of　the　pounding　of　his　heart；　still　beating　to　the　rhythm　of　the　duke's　harsh　chords。　Men　he　had　known　all　his　life　had　died　on　that　field　by　Iersen　Bridge。　Blaise　had　been　not　twenty　helpless　strides　away；　with　frozen　bodies　piled　between；　when　Duergar　his　king　had　pitched　from　his　horse；　an　arrow　in　his　eye；　crying　the　god's　name　in　agony；　his　voice　towering　over　the　battlefield　like　the　giant　he　had　been。
　　Five　months　later　Duergar's　son；　Ademar；　now　king　in　Gorhaut；　and　Galbert；　his　Chief　Counsellor；　High　Elder　of　Corannos；　had　negotiated　the　treaty　that；　in　exchange　for　hostages　and　gold　and　King　Daufridi's　daughter　to　wed　when　she　came　of　age；　gave　Valensa　all　of　the　northlands　of　Gorhaut　down　to　the　line　of　the　Iersen　River。　The　very　fields　and　villages　Daufridi　and　his　warriors　had　been　unable　to　take　with　their　swords　in　three　decades　of　war　they　had　won　a　season　later　with　the　smooth　words　and　sly　diplomacy　of　their　hired　Arimondan　negotiators。
　　Not　long　after　that；　Blaise　of　Gorhaut　had　left　home　on　the　circuitous　journey　through　several　countries　that　had　brought　him　to　this　hall　in　Arbonne；　a　year　from　the　season　of　that　treaty。
　　His　reverie　ended　with　the　abrupt；　unsettling　realization　that　Bertran　de　Talair；　who　had　done　no　more　than　nod　when　Blaise　was　first　presented　to　him　in　the　morning；　was　staring　across　the　room　at　him　now　from　the　low　stool　where　he　sat；　one　leg　gracefully　extended。　Blaise　straightened　his　shoulders　and　returned　the　gaze　steadily；　grateful　for　whatever　masking　his　beard　afforded。　He　wouldn't　have　wanted　his　thoughts　read　just　then。
　　En　Bertran　drew　his　fingers　quietly　across　the　harp。　The　notes　hung；　delicate　as　glass；　as　the　table　flowers；　in　the　stillness　of　the　hall。　As　quietly；　though　very　clearly；　the　duke　of　Talair　said；　〃What　do　you　think；　Northerner？　How　long　will　it　hold；　this　peace　of　yours？〃
　　Some　things　grew　clear　to　Blaise　with　those　words；　but　even　as　they　did；　other　mysteries　took　shape。　He　drew　a　careful　breath；　aware　that　everyone　in　the　great　hall　was　looking　at　him。　Bertran's　gaze　in　the　torchlight　was　uncannily　blue；　his　wide　mouth　was　quirked　in　an　ironic　smile。
　　〃It　is　no　peace　of　mine；〃　Blaise　said；　keeping　his　tone　as　casual　as　he　could。
　　〃I　thought　not；〃　said　Bertran　quickly；　a　note　of　satisfaction　in　the　light　voice；　as　if　he'd　heard　more　than　Blaise　had　meant　to　say。　〃I　didn't　think　you　were　down　here　for　love　of　our　music；　or　even　our　ladies；　fair　as　they　are。〃
　　As　he　spoke；　the　blue　eyes　and　the　smile…not　ironic　at　all　suddenly…had　been　briefly　redirected　towards　the　high　table　and　the　lone　woman　sitting　there。　His　long　fingers　were　moving　once　more　across　the　strings　of　the　harp。　A　moment　later；　the　duke　of　Talair　lifted　his　voice　again；　this　time　in　exactly　the　kind　of　song　Blaise　had　expected　before。　But　something…and　not　merely　the　mood　of　a　night…had　been　changed　for　Blaise　by　then；　and　he　didn't　know　how　to　respond　this　time　to　an　Arbonnais　lord　singing　words　of　his　own　devising　about　the　glory　to　be　searched　for　in　a　woman's　dark　eyes。
　　
　　The　next　day　the　corans　of　Baude　put　on　a　display　in　the　fields　below　the　castle　village；　charging　with　lances　against　a　bobbing　wooden　contraption　got　up…as　it　was　everywhere…to　look　like　a　racoux　from　the　ghost　tales　of　childhood；　plete　with　whitened　face　and　jet…black　hair。　Mallin　had　declared　a　holiday　so　the　villagers　and　workers　in　the　fields　could　join　the　castle　household　in　cheering　on　the　warriors。　Blaise；　cautiously　pleased　with　the　men　he'd　been　training；　was　careful　to　seem　petent　himself　but　not　flamboyantly　so。　In　three　of　the　four　runs　he　made；　he　sent　the　racoux　rocking　properly　backwards　on　its　stand　with　a　spear　thrust　dead　on　the　target　of　its　small　shield。　The　fourth　time　he　contrived　to　miss；　but　only　by　a　little；　so　the　cleverly　constructed　adversary　didn't　spin　round…as　it　was　balanced　to　do…and　fetch　him　a　blow　with　its　wooden　sword　on　the　back　of　the　head　as　he　thundered　past。　It　was　one　thing　not　to　look　ostentatious　in　a　setting　such　as　this；　it　was　another　to　be　knocked　from　one's　horse　onto　the　dusty　ground。　In　Gorhaut；　Blaise　remembered；　some　of　the　racoux　wielded　actual　swords；　of　iron　not　wood。　Some　of　Blaise's　fellow　trainees　in　those　days　had　been　badly　cut；　which　of　course　increased　the　concentration　young　men　placed　on　their　mastering　of　the　skills　of　war。　There　were　simply　too　many　distractions　here　in　Arbonne；　too　many　other；　softer　things　a　man　was　expected　to　think　about　or　know。
　　When　it　came　time　for　the　archery　tests；　though；　and　Bertran's　cousin　Valery　joined　them　at　the　butts；　Blaise　was　grimly　forced　to　concede　that　he　hadn't　met　an　archer　in　the　north；　or　even　his　friend　Rudel　in　Portezza；　who　could　shoot　with　this　man；　whatever　distractions　to　training　and　the　arts　of　war　Arbonne　might　offer。　Blaise　was　able　to　vie　with　Valery　of　Talair　at　forty　paces；　and　Hirnan　was　equal　with　both　of　them。　The　two　of　them　were　level　with　their　guest　at　sixty　paces　as　well；　to　Mallin's　evident　pleasure；　but　when　the　marks　were　moved　back…amid　the　loud　shouts　of　the　festive　crowd…to　eighty　paces；　Valery；　not　a　young　man　by　any　means；　seemed　unaffected　by　the　new　distance；　still　finding　the　crimson　with　each　soberly　judged　and　smoothly　loosed　arrow。　Blaise　felt　pleased　to　keep　all　his　own　flights　anywhere　on　the　distant　targets