ggk.asongforarbonne-第30节

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　the　slowly　quieting　crowd　and　said；　pitching　her　voice　carefully；　〃Here　is　a　liensenne　of　the　troubadour　Alain　of　Rousset。　I　sing　it　tonight　in　honour　of　the　goddess　and　of　the　Lady　Ariane　de　Carenzu；　who　has　graced　us　with　her　presence　here。〃　Better　that；　she　thought；　than　trying　to　sort　out　some　kind　of　precedence。　She　was　conscious　though；　very　conscious；　that　she　was　wearing　En　Bertran's　cloak。　It　was　scented　with　an　elusive　fragrance。　She　didn't　have　time　to　decipher　what　it　was。　What　she　did　realize；　as　she　always　did　before　she　sang…a　fleeting　awareness　but　real　as　the　stones　of　a　wall…was　that　moments　like　this；　with　music　about　to　follow；　were　why　she　lived；　what　made　her　feel　most　truly　alive。
　　She　began　with　the　harp　alone；　as　Gaetan；　her　father's　brother；　had　taught　her　years　ago；　letting　the　audience　settle；　and　then；　when　the　stillness　was　deep　enough；　she　sang。
　　When　you　came　into　my　garden；
　　When　you　came　to　tell　me　of　your　love；
　　The　one　moon　in　the　sky
　　Seemed　brighter　than　the　sun
　　And　a　white　light　was　shining　in　my　heart。
　　When　you　took　me　in　your　arms；　
　　To　whisper　words　of　a　long　desire；　
　　The　scents　of　the　garden　
　　Were　my　garments　in　the　dark　
　　And　day　a　distant　rumour　of　despair
　　It　was　a　well…made　song；　if　not　a　brilliant　one。　Alain　knew　his　craft　and　he　was　young　enough　to　be　maturing　still。　The　special　thing　though…the　gift　this　song　offered　Lisseut…was　that　it　was　written　for　a　woman's　voice。　There　weren't　many；　which　was　why　the　female　joglars　of　Arbonne　spent　much　of　their　time　transposing　tunes　written　for　male　voices　and　ignoring　as　best　they　could　the　obvious　inappropriateness　of　most　of　the　themes。
　　In　this　piece　Alain　had　changed　a　great　many　elements　of　the　traditional　liensenne；　shifting　the　narrative　to　the　woman's　point　of　view；　while　keeping　enough　of　the　familiar　motifs　to　leave　the　audience　in　no　doubt　as　to　what　they　were　hearing　and　appraising。　Lisseut；　keeping　her　instrumental　ornamentation　to　a　minimum；　took　them　through　it；　serving　the　song　as　best　she　could；　in　simplicity。　It　was　a　long　tune…most　of　the　formal　liensennes　were；　for　audiences　would　balk　and　plain　at　the　absence　of　elements　they　were　expecting。　The　troubadour's　challenge　in　this　kind　of　song　lay　in　using　all　of　the　familiar　motifs　while　making　them　vivid　and　new；　in　whatever　ways　his　art　allowed。　Lisseut　sang　the　rising　of　the　second　moon；　the　customary　menace　of　jealous；　prying　eyes；　a　formulaic；　if　rather　clever　stanza　on　the　three　flowers　that　traditionally　sheltered　lovers；　another　on　the　trusted　friend　watching　out　from　beyond　the　wall　with　his　mood…shattering　warning　of　sunrise；　and　the　lovers'　parting　words。
　　It　was　honest；　professional　work；　and　she　knew　she　had　the　listeners　with　her。　Even　here；　with　an　audience　as　profoundly　versed　as　this　one　was；　Lisseut　knew；　the　way　she　sometimes　did　in　the　midst　of　performing；　that　she　was　doing　justice　to　Alain's　words　and　music。　She　was　holding　something　in　reserve；　though；　for　the　ending；　for　the　place　where　Alain　of　Rousset　had　surprised　even　himself　by　reaching　for　something　more　than　the　usual　closing　platitudes　of　love　triumphant　and　enduring　and　had　found　instead　the　rather　more　painful　integrity　of　art。
　　Lisseut　allowed　herself　the　briefest　pause；　no　more；　for　more　would　be　to　point　the　change；　the　new　thing；　too　greatly　and　mar　the　effect；　then　she　pitched　her　voice　upwards　towards　sorrow　and　sang　the　last　verse　of　the　song。
　　When　you　e　to　say　goodbye；
　　When　you　e　to　say　that　you　will　wed；
　　Do　one　thing　for　me
　　In　memory　of　love；
　　Bring　balm　for　the　breaking　of　my　heart。
　　She　looked　at　Bertran　de　Talair　for　a　moment　as　she　began；　then　at　the　bearded　coran　behind　him；　but　she　ended　gazing　out　over　the　heads　of　her　listeners　at　the　doorway　beside　the　bar　through　which　Remy　and　Aurelian　had　gone。　A　reprise　of　the　opening　notes；　as　an　echo　of　what　had　passed；　a　chord　for　the　watchman；　a　chord　for　the　garden　nights　that　were　gone；　and　she　was　done。
　　
　　In　Bertran's　blue　cloak　the　brown…haired　girl　looked　delicate　and　fragile；　not　exalted；　Blaise　thought。　She　was　more　clever…looking　than　formally　beautiful；　but　there　was　no　missing…even　for　him…the　purity　of　her　voice；　and　the　unexpected　sadness　at　the　very　end　of　the　song　caught　him　for　a　moment。　He　didn't　know　the　new　thing　that　note　of　sorrow　represented；　but　he　could　hear　the　sound　of　it；　and　the　meaning　of　the　words　took　his　mind　down　unusual　channels。　Not　for　long　of　course：　he　wasn't　inclined　to　that　sort　of　thing；　by　background　or　experience…but　for　just　a　moment　Blaise　of　Gorhaut；　looking　at　the　slender　woman　sitting　on　the　low　stool　with　Bertran　de　Talair's　cloak　around　her；　held；　in　his　mind's　eye；　a　clear　image　of　a　woman　in　a　garden；　weeping　for　the　loss　of　love。
　　〃Oh；　wonderful；〃　Ariane　de　Carenzu　said　in　an　oddly　wistful　voice；　far　removed　from　her　imperious　tones　of　before。　The　words　carried　clearly　in　the　stillness　that　followed　the　last　notes　of　the　harp；　and　with　them　came　the　release　of　a　tautness　like　the　tension　of　a　drawn　bow　in　the　room。　Blaise　drew　a　long　breath　and　noted；　with　some　surprise；　that　most　of　the　people　around　him　were　doing　the　same。
　　There　would　have　been　other　cries　of　approval　doubtless；　a　swelling　of　applause　to　honour　the　singer　and　the　troubadour　who'd　written　the　song；　but　just　then　the　door　to　The　Liensenne　banged　loudly　open；　letting　in　raucous　noises　from　the　darkening　street　outside。　Blaise　turned　quickly　to　look　and　saw　who　was　standing　there；　and　the　shape　and　nature　of　the　evening　changed　entirely　in　that　moment。
　　He　was　looking　at　the　man　he　had　killed　on　the　black　horse　by　Lake　Dierne。
　　
　　CHAPTER　5
　　It　wasn't；　of　course。　It　wasn't　the　same　man；　the　dead　remained　dead；　even　here　in　Arbonne；　even　on　Midsummer　Eve。　But　the　dark…skinned；　arrogant　look　was　the　same；　the　heft　and　build；　the　muscled；　dangerous　quality　of　the　Arimondan　was　exactly　as　Blaise　remembered　it　from　that　afternoon　by　the　lake　with　the　Arch　of　the　Ancients　just　beyond。
　　And　the　man　was　gazing　at　him　with　a　look　pounded　equally　of　hatred　and　fierce　joy。
　　Beside　Blaise；　Valery　said　quickly　out　of　the　side　of　his　mouth；　〃I　did　mean　to　tell　you　before。　I　should　have。　His　brother；　same　birth。　Be　very　careful。〃
　　Blaise　registered　this　without　taking　his　eyes　off　the　Arimondan　by　the　door。　The　man　was　clad　in　the　green　livery　of　Miraval　and　he；　too；　wore　a　sword；　the　curved　blade　of　his　own　country。
　　Urté　de　Miraval　rose；　without　haste；　so　too；　on　the　other　side　of　Ariane　de　Carenzu；　did　Bertran。　The　lady　remained　sitting；　though　she　had　turned　in　her　chair　to　glance　over　her　shoulder　at　the　door。
　　〃Quzman；〃　said　the　duke　of　Miraval；　〃I　wondered　where　you　were；　and　so　long。　See；　as　I　promised　you；　there　is　a　Gorhautian　coran　here　you　have　expressed　a　desire　to　meet。〃
　　〃I　do　see　that；〃　said　the　Arimondan。　His　voice　was　deep；　almost　musical。　He　smiled。　〃I　am　most　pleased。　In　my　country　we　have　a　saying：　murderers　must　be　dealt　with　swiftly　lest　the　green　grass　wither　beneath　their　tread。　Will　you　e　outside　with　me；　or　do　you　only　fight　from　a　distance？〃
　　〃It　was　not　murder；〃　said　Valery　sharply　before　Blaise　could　reply。　〃The　priests　and　priestesses　of　Rian's　Isle　were　witnesses　and　have　told　their　tale。〃
　　The　man　called　Quzman　seemed　not　to　have　heard。　There　was　something　uncanny　about　his　smile；　the　way　his　entire　being　seemed　focused　upon　Blaise。　Once；　in　a　Gotzland　castle；　Blaise　had　seen　a　man　look　at　another　in　that　way；　and　death　had　followed　before　the　night　was　done。　Now；　in　response　to　the　nakedness　of　this　challenge；　Blaise　felt　his　own　anger　rekindling；　a　memory　of　the　encounter　by　the　lake；　the　luxuriously　articulated；　ugly　words　of　the　Arimondan　on　the　black　horse。
　　〃You　do　seem　distressed；〃　he　said　to　the　man　by　the　door；　keeping　his　own　voice　relaxed；　almost　lazy；　in　the　way　his　friend　Rudel　or　even　Bertran　de　Talair　would　say　this　thing。　〃Tell　me；　did　I　kill　your　brother　or　your　lover　there？　Or　were　they　one　and　the　same？〃
　　〃Careful！〃　Valery　whispered　urgently　again。　But　Blaise　had　the　pleasure　of　seeing　the　Arimondan's　smile　stiffen　into　something　harsh　and　artificial；　a　rictus；　as　of　death。
　　〃You　have　a　foul　murderer's　tongue；　Northerner。〃　It　was　Urté　de　Miraval。　〃I　do　not　see　why　we　should　suffer　it　to　wag　freely　among　us；　and　then　carry　back　a　spy's　tale　to　Ademar　of　Gorhaut。〃
　　So　that　was　brought　into　it　too；　now。　Predictably。
　　〃That　last　is　the　thought　of　a　fool；〃　said　Bertran　calmly。　〃And　as　for　murder：　this　man　was　set　upon　by　while　riding　in　peace　on　the　countess's　high　road。　His　pony　was　slain　and　his　horse；　and　six　cowards　in　your　service　sought　to　kill　him。　I　would　not　speak　so　glibly　of　murder；　my　lord　of　Miraval。　I　might；　instead；　give　a　passing　thought　to　the　petence　of　my　corans　were　it　my　own　six　killers　who　were　slain　by　one　man　alone。〃
　　〃These　are　words；〃　said　Quzman　of　Arimonda　contemptuously。　〃Words　and　posturings；　the　sad　vices　of　Arbonne。　This　man　and　I　can　end　this　alone　outside；　no　one　else　need　be　part　of　it。　Unless　he　is　truly　afraid。　As　for　the　new　law　you　mention　。。。　〃
　　He　took　two　strides　i