ggk.asongforarbonne-第15节

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ing　one　of　the　men　handling　the　winches；　and　Blaise　had　assembled　with　the　corans　and　most　of　the　household　in　the　forecourt。　Mallin　and　Soresina；　splendidly　jewelled　and　attired　（a　great　deal　more　expense　there；　Blaise　happened　to　know　exactly　what　fur…trimmed　Portezzan　samite　with　gold　thread　in　the　weft　would　have　cost）；　rode　out　to　honour　the　arriving　trio。
　　Blaise　saw　a　brown　horse；　a　grey；　a　rather　magnificent　black。　An　elderly　joglar　with　the　by　now　familiar　harp　and　lute　was　riding　the　brown；　a　broad…shouldered　coran　of　middle　years　sat　the　grey　with　the　ease　of　many　seasons　in　the　saddle。　Between　the　two　of　them；　bareheaded　in　the　sunshine　and　the　wind；　clad　in　nondescript　brown　fustian　without　adornment　of　any　kind；　rode　Duke　Bertran　de　Talair；　e　to　pay…inexplicably…a　visit　to　the　appropriately　overwhelmed　young　baron　and　baroness　of　Castle　Baude。
　　As　the　small　party　rode　into　the　castle　forecourt；　Blaise；　staring　with　frank　curiosity；　saw　that　de　Talair　was　a　man　of　slightly　more　than　middle　height　with　a　lean；　ironical　face；　clean…shaven　in　the　Arbonnais　fashion。　He　was　almost　forty…five　years　old；　Blaise　knew　from　the　corans'　reports；　but　he　didn't　look　it。　His　eyes　were　indeed　as　blue　as　the　gossip　had　them；　even　at　a　distance　the　colour　was　disconcerting。　There　was　a　scar　on　his　right　cheek；　and　he　wore　his　hair　cropped　unfashionably　short；　revealing　that　the　top　part　of　his　right　ear　was　missing。
　　Most　of　the　world；　it　seemed；　knew　the　story　of　how　he　had　e　by　those　injuries；　and　what　he　had　done　in　turn　to　the　hired　assassin　from　Portezza　who　had　inflicted　them。　As　it　happened；　Blaise　knew　the　son　of　that　man。　They　had　served　a　season　in　Gotzland　together　two　years　back。
　　As　events　unfolded　over　the　next　hours　and　days；　it　swiftly　became　apparent　to　Blaise　that　the　duke's　reasons　for　being　there　were　at　least　threefold。　One；　obviously；　was　Mallin；　and　a　wide…ranging；　many…faceted　attempt　to　enlist　the　emerging；　ambitious　young　baron　to　Bertran's　allegiance　in　the　long　power　straggle　with　Urté　de　Miraval　for　preeminence　in　the　western　part　of　Arbonne；　if　not　the　country　as　a　whole。　That　much；　in　fact；　Hirnan　and　Maffour　had　guessed　well　before　the　duke　had　arrived。
　　The　second　lure　for　Bertran；　almost　as　evidently；　had　been　Soresina。　En　Bertran　de　Talair；　never　wed；　though　linked　to　an　extraordinary　number　of　women　in　several　countries　over　the　years；　seemed　to　have　an　almost　pulsive　need　to　personally　acquaint　himself　with　the　charms　of　any　celebrated　beauty。　Evrard　of　Lussan's　verses；　if　they　had　done　nothing　else；　had　clearly　piqued　the　curiosity　of　the　duke。
　　Even　Blaise；　who　didn't　like　her；　had　to　admit　that　Soresina　had　been　looking　quite　magnificent　of　late；　as　if　Evrard's　proclamation　of　her　charms　had　somehow　caused　her　fair…haired　beauty　to　ripen；　her　dark；　flashing　eyes　to　bee　even　more　alluring；　that　she　might　e　to　equal　in　reality　the　elaborate　fancies　of　his　verse。　Whatever　the　cause；　there　was　something　almost　breathtaking　about　the　young　baroness　of　Castle　Baude　that　week；　and　even　men　who　had　lived　in　her　presence　for　some　time　would　find　themselves　turning　distractedly　towards　the　sound　of　her　lifted　voice　and　laughter　in　a　distant　room；　forgetting　the　path　of　their　own　thoughts。
　　Blaise　would　have　spent　more　time　wondering　how　Bertran　de　Talair　sought　to　reconcile　an　attempt　to　cultivate　the　friendship　of　Mallin　de　Baude　with　an　equally　fervent　if　slightly　more　discreet　pursuit　of　the　baron's　enticing　young　wife　had　it　not　emerged　very　quickly　that　the　third　reason　for　the　duke's　presence　among　them　was　Blaise　himself。
　　On　the　very　first　evening；　after　the　most　elaborate　and　expensive　repast　Baude　Castle　had　ever　seen…there　were　even　spoons　for　the　soup；　instead　of　the　usual　chunks　of　bread…Bertran　de　Talair　lounged　at　his　ease　beside　his　hostess　and　host　and　listened　as　Ramir；　his　joglar　for　more　than　two　decades；　sang　the　duke's　own　positions　for　the　best　part　of　an　hour；　Even　Blaise；　jaundiced　as　ever　on　this　subject；　was　forced　to　concede　privately　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；