ggk.asongforarbonne-第12节

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　　Some　mornings；　as　today；　she　woke　feeling　amazingly　young；　happy　to　be　alive　to　see　the　spring　return。　It　wasn't　altogether　a　good　thing；　this　brief　illusion　of　youth　and　vitality；　for　its　passage…and　it　always　passed…made　her　too　achingly　aware　that　she　was　lying　alone　in　the　wide　bed。　She　and　Guibor　had　shared　a　room　and　a　bed　after　the　older　fashion　until　the　very　end；　a　little　over　a　year　ago。　Arbonne　had　observed　the　yearfast　for　its　count　and　the　ceremonies　of　remembrance　scarcely　a　month　past。
　　A　year　wasn't　very　long　at　all；　really。　Not　nearly　enough　time　to　remember　without　pain　private　laughter　or　public　grace；　the　sound　of　a　voice；　resonance　of　a　tread；　the　keen　engagement　of　a　questioning　mind　or　the　well…known　signs　of　kindled　passion　that　could　spark　and　court　her　own。
　　A　passion　that　had　lasted　to　the　end；　she　thought；　lying　in　bed　alone；　letting　the　morning　e　to　her　slowly。　Even　with　all　their　children　long　since　grown　or　dead；　with　an　entirely　new　generation　of　courtiers　arising　in　Barbentain；　and　younger　dukes　and　barons　taking　power　in　strongholds　once　ruled　by　the　friends…and　enemies…of　their　own　youth　and　prime。　With　new　leaders　of　the　city…states　of　Portezza；　a　young；　reckless…sounding　king　in　Gorhaut；　and　an　unpredictable　one　as　well；　though　not　young；　in　Valensa　far　in　the　north。　All　was　changing　in　the　world；　she　thought：　the　players　on　the　board；　the　shape　of　the　board　itself。　Even　the　rules　of　the　game　she　and　Guibor　had　played　together　against　them　all　for　so　long。
　　There　had　been　mornings　in　the　year　gone　by　when　she　had　awakened　feeling　ancient　and　bone　cold；　wondering　if　she　had　not　outlived　her　time；　if　she　should　have　died　with　the　husband　she'd　loved；　before　the　world　began　to　change　around　her。
　　Which　was　weak　and　unworthy。　She　knew　that；　even　on　the　mornings　when　those　chill　thoughts　came；　and　she　knew　it　more　clearly　now；　with　the　birds　outside　her　window　singing　to　wele　the　spring　back　to　Arbonne。　Change　and　transience　were　built　into　the　way　Corannos　and　Rian　had　made　the　world。　She　had　accepted　and　gloried　in　that　truth　all　her　life；　it　would　be　shallow　and　demeaning　to　lament　it　now。
　　She　rose　from　her　bed　and　stood　on　the　golden　carpet。　Immediately　one　of　the　two　girls　who　slept　by　the　door　of　her　chamber　sprang　forward…they　had　been　waiting　for　her…carrying　her　morning　robe。　She　smiled　at　the　young　one；　slipped　into　the　robe　and　walked　to　the　window；　drawing　back　the　curtains　herself　on　the　view　to　the　east　and　the　rising　sun。
　　Barbentain　Castle　lay　on　an　island　in　the　river　and　so　below　her；　down　past　the　tumbling　rocks　and　forbidding　cliffs　that　guarded　the　castle；　she　could　see　the　flash　and　sparkle　of　the　river　rushing　away　south　in　its　high　spring　torrent；　through　vineyard　and　forest　and　grainland；　by　town　and　hamlet　and　lonely　shepherd's　hut；　past　castle　and　temple　and　tributary　stream　to　Tavernel　and　the　sea。
　　The　Arbonne　River　in　the　land　named　for　it…the　warm；　beloved；　always　coveted　south；　sung　by　its　troubadours　and　joglars；　celebrated　through　the　known　world　for　its　fruitfulness　and　its　culture；　and　for　the　beauty　and　grace　of　its　women。
　　Not　the　least　of　which　women；　not　by　any　means　the　least；　had　been　she　herself　in　the　lost　days　of　youth　and　fire。　The　nights　of　music；　with　a　many…faceted　power　in　her　every　glance　and　lifted　eyebrow；　when　candlelight　cast　a　warming　glow　on　silver　and　gold　and　a　glittering　pany；　when　the　songs　were　always　of　love；　and　almost　always　about　love　of　her。
　　Signe　de　Barbentain；　countess　of　Arbonne；　stood　at　her　bedchamber　window　on　a　morning　in　spring；　looking　out　over　the　sunlit　river　of　the　land　she　ruled；　and　the　two　other　women　in　the　room　with　her；　preparing　to　attend　to　her　needs；　were　far　too　young；　both　of　them；　to　have　even　a　hope　of　understanding　the　smile　that　crossed　her　face。
　　In　fact；　for　no　reason　she　really　knew　herself；　Signe　was　thinking　of　her　daughter。　Not　of　Beatritz；　wielding　power　within　her　own　domain　on　Rian's　Island　in　the　sea；　not　of　Beatritz；　her　last　child　living；　but　of　Aelis；　her　young　one；　so　long　dead。
　　Even　the　birds　above　the　lake　
　　Are　singing　of　my　love；　
　　And　even　the　flowers　along　the　shore　
　　Are　growing　for　her　sake。
　　Twenty…two；　no；　twenty…three　years　now　since　young　Bertran　de　Talair…and　he　had　been　very　young　then…had　written　those　lines　for　Aelis。　They　were　still　being　sung；　remarkably；　in　spite　of　all　the　verses　the　troubadours　had　spun　since　those　days；　all　the　new　rhyme　schemes　and　metres　and　the　increasingly　plex　harmonies　and　fashions　of　today。　More　than　two　decades　after；　Bertran's　song　for　long…dead　Aelis　was　still　heard　in　Arbonne。　Usually　in　springtime；　Signe　thought；　and　wondered　if　that　had　been　the　early…morning　half…awake　chain　of　associations　that　had　led　her　to　remember。　The　mind　did　strange　things　sometimes；　and　memory　wounded　at　least　as　often　as　it　healed　or　assuaged。
　　Which　led　her；　predictably；　to　thoughts　of　Bertran　himself；　and　what　memory　and　loss　and　the　unexpected　shapes　they　had　taken　had　done　to　him　in　twenty…odd　years。　What　sort　of　man；　she　wondered；　would　he　have　bee　had　the　events　of　that　long…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；