ggk.asongforarbonne-第47节

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　　He　shook　his　head。　〃I'm　sorry。　No。〃
　　〃The　youngest　child　of　Signe　and　Guibor。　Heir　to　Arbonne　because　her　sister　Beatritz　went　to　the　goddess　and　the　two　brothers　died　of　plague　quite　young。　Wedded　to　En　Urté　de　Miraval　when　she　was　seventeen　years　old。　My　cousin。〃　She　hesitated；　but　only　briefly。　〃Bertran's　lover；　and　I　think　the　only　real　love　of　his　life。〃
　　There　was　a　silence　again。　In　it；　Blaise　heard　once　more；　as　if　the　speaker　was　actually　in　the　room　with　them；　Bertran's　words　on　a　dark　stairway　in　the　depths　of　another　night：　The　god　knows；　and　sweet　Rian　knows　I've　tried；　but　in　twenty…three　years　I've　never　yet　found　a　woman　to　equal　her。
　　Blaise　cleared　his　throat。　〃I　think；　actually；　that　last　will　be　true。　He　said　something　to　me　in　Baude　Castle　that　would　fit　。。。　what　you　just　said。〃
　　Ariane　lifted　her　head　to　look　at　him。　〃He　must　have　been　in　a　strange　mood　to　say　anything　about　it　at　all。〃
　　Blaise　nodded　his　head。　〃He　was。〃
　　〃He　must　have　trusted　you；　too；　oddly　enough。〃
　　〃Or　known　the　words　would　mean　nothing　to　me。〃
　　〃Perhaps。〃
　　〃Will　you　tell　me　the　story？　It's　time　I　began　to　learn。〃
　　Ariane　sighed　again；　feeling　ambushed　almost　by　this　entirely　unexpected　question。　She　had　been　thirteen　that　year；　a　bright；　quick；　laughing　spirit；　still　a　child。　It　had　taken　her　a　long　time　to　recapture　laughter　afterwards；　and　the　child　in　her　had　been　lost　forever　the　night　Aelis　died。
　　She　was　a　grown　woman　now；　with　plex　roles　on　the　world　stage　and　the　burdens　that　came　with　those：　queen　of　the　Court　of　Love；　daughter　of　one　noble　house；　wedded　into　another。　She　was　not　a　risk…taker　by　nature；　not　like　Beatritz　or　Bertran；　she　thought　things　through　more　slowly　before　she　moved。　She　would　not　have　devised　the　scheme　they　had　for　this　son　of　Galbert　de　Garsenc；　nor　had　she　approved　when　she　was　told　of　it。　But　by　now　she　had　made　her　own　decisions　about　this　man　whose　hard　shell　of　bitterness　so　clearly　served；　like　armour　on　a　battlefield；　to　defend　something　wounded　underneath。
　　So　she　told　him　the　story；　lying　beside　him　after　love　on　a　bed　in　Bertran's　palace；　travelling　back　to　the　rhythm　and　cadence　of　her　own　words　into　the　past　as　darkness　outside　slowly　gave　way　to　grey　dawn。　She　told　him　all　of　it…quietly　spinning　the　tale　of　sorrow　from　that　long…ago　year…save　for　one　strand　of　the　old　weaving；　the　one　thing　she　never　told。　It　was　not　truly　hers；　that　last　secret；　not　hers　to　offer　anyone；　even　in　trust　or　by　way　of　binding　or　in　great　need。
　　In　the　end；　when　she　was　done　and　fell　silent；　they　did　not　make　love　again。　It　was　difficult；　Ariane　had　always　found；　to　sustain　any　desires　of　her　own　in　the　present　day　when　Aelis　was　remembered。
　　
　　Elisse　of　Cauvas　was　vain；　with；　perhaps；　some　reason　to　be。　She'd　a　ripe　figure　and　a　pleasing　voice　to　go　with　the　long…lashed；　laughing　eyes　that　made　men　feel　wittier　and　more　clever　in　her　pany　than　they　normally　did。　ing　from　the　town　that　prided　itself　on　being　the　birthplace　of　the　first　of　the　troubadours；　Anselme　himself；　she　often　felt　that　she'd　been　destined　to　be　a　joglar　and　follow　the　life　of　the　road；　castle　to　castle；　town　to　town。　She　considered　herself　miraculously　released…and　counted　her　blessings　almost　every　morning　when　she　awoke…from　the　tedium　and　premature　ageing　she　associated　with　the　life　she　might　have　expected　as　an　artisan's　daughter。　Marry　the　apprentice；　survive…if　you　were　fortunate…too　many　childbirths　in　too　few　years；　struggle　to　feed　a　family　and　keep　a　leaking　roof　intact　and　the　cold　lash　of　the　winter　wind　from　ing　in　through　chinks　in　the　walls。
　　Not　for　her；　that　life。　Not　now。　With　perhaps　a　single　irritating　exception　she　was　almost　certainly　the　best…known　of　the　women　joglars　following　the　musicians'　circuit　about　Arbonne。　As　for　that　single　exception；　until　very　recently　the　only　recognition　Lisseut　of　Vezét　ever　received　seemed　to　occur　because　her　name　was　similar　to　Elisse's！　Jourdain　had　told　an　amusing　story　about　that　a　year　ago；　and　they'd　laughed　together　over　it。
　　The　latest　touring　season　had　changed　things；　though；　or　started　to　change　them。　In　two　or　three　towns　and　a　highland　castle　in　the　hills　near　Gotzland　she　and　Jourdain　had　been　asked　their　opinion　of　the　wonderful　music　being　made　by　Alain　of　Rousset　and　the　girl　who　was　his　new　joglar。　And　then；　outrageously；　Elisse　had　been　asked　by　a　fatuous　village　reeve；　after　a　performance　in　a　wealthy　merchant's　home　in　Seiranne；　how　the　olive　trees　were　faring　back　home　in　Vezét。　When　she　realized　what　the　man's　mistake　was；　who　he　took　her　for；　she'd　been　so　furious　she'd　had　to　abandon　the　merchant's　hall　for　a　time；　leaving　Jourdain　to　amuse　the　guests　alone　while　she　regained　her　posure。
　　It　wouldn't　do；　she　thought；　lying　in　an　extremely　fortable　bed　on　Midsummer　Night；　to　dwell　upon　such　things；　or　the　unsettling　success　Lisseut　had　had　with　Alain's　song　earlier　that　evening…a　frankly　mediocre　piece；　Elisse　had　decided。　Where　had　Jourdain's　wits　been；　she　thought；　fighting　a　returning　fury；　when　that　glorious　opportunity　had　arisen？　Why　hadn't　he　been　quick　enough　to　propose　his　own　music　for　Ariane　and　the　dukes；　with　Elisse　to　sing　it？　Only　later；　on　the　river；　in　the　silly　games　men　insisted　upon　playing；　had　her　own　troubadour；　her　current　lover；　pushed　himself　forward…to　bee　an　object　of　general　amusement　shortly　afterwards；　as　he　splashed　into　the　water　downstream。
　　Though　'current　lover'　might…it　just　possibly　might…be　an　inappropriate　phrase　after　tonight。　Elisse　stretched　herself；　cat…like；　and　let　the　bedsheet　fall　away；　leaving　her　mostly　uncovered　in　her　nakedness。　She　turned　her　head　towards　the　window；　where　the　man　she'd　been　lying　with　in　the　aftermath　of　love　was　now　sitting　on　the　ledge；　picking　at　her　lute。　She　didn't　really　like　her　lovers　leaving　her　side　without　a　word；　as　this　one　had；　and　she　certainly　didn't　like　other　people　handling　the　lute　。。。　but　for　this　man　she　was　prepared　to　make　exceptions；　as　many　exceptions　and　in　whatever　dimensions　as　proved　necessary。
　　She'd　brought　the　lute　because　she　hadn't　been　entirely　sure　what　was　wanted　from　her。　When　Marotte；　the　owner　of　The　Liensenne；　had　approached　her　with　a　whispered　confidence　earlier　in　the　evening；　telling　her　she'd　be　anxiously　expected…those　were　his　exact　words…in　the　largest　of　the　upstairs　rooms　after　the　third　of　the　temple　night　chimes　had　sounded；　Elisse　had　wondered　if　her　singing　days　with　Jourdain　might　possibly　be　winding　to　their　close。
　　When　she　tapped　at　the　room　door　though；　wearing　her　best　tunic；　with　a　flower　in　her　hair　for　Midsummer；　the　man　who　opened　it　gave　her　a　slow；　appraising　smile　that　made　her　knees　feel　weak。　It　was　Midsummer；　and　very　late　at　night。　She　ought　to　have　known　it　was　not　an　audition　she　was　being　invited　to。　And；　being　honest；　she　didn't　at　all　mind；　there　were　many　avenues　to　success　in　Arbonne　for　a　woman　of　passion　and　spirit　and　some　confidence　in　herself；　and　one　of　them　was　in　this　room。
　　One　of　them；　in　fact；　was　sitting　on　the　window　ledge；　watching　the　eastern　sky；　his　back　to　her；　idly　making　music　on　her　lute。　He　played　very　well；　and　when　he　lifted　his　voice…so　softly　she　had　to　strain　to　hear；　as　if　the　words　weren't　meant　for　her　at　all…it　was　oddly　sorrowful；　though　the　song　was　not。
　　The　song　was　his　own；　a　very　old　one。　A　charming　enough　tune；　Jourdain　had　dismissively　called　it　once；　tired　of　the　endless　springtime　requests　for　it；　even　after　all　these　years；　and　in　preference　to　his　own；　far　more　musically　intricate　shapings。
　　Elisse；　listening　now　to　the　quiet　music　and　words；　was　prepared　to　disagree　pletely；　if　required…to　regard　this　as　the　quintessence　of　all　troubadour　love　songs。　Lying　in　the　wide　bed　alone；　though　with　no　plaint　to　offer　about　the　hour　just　past；　she　had　a　feeling　that　her　opinion　would　not　be　solicited；　that　it　was；　in　fact；　irrelevant。　The　man　on　the　window　ledge；　she　realized；　had　probably　forgotten　she　was　here。
　　That　bothered　her；　but　not　unduly。　In　another　man　it　might　have　been　infuriating；　cause　enough　to　send　her　storming　from　the　room；　but　this　one　was　a　different　proposition　from　any　other　in　her　world；　and　Elisse　of　Cauvas　was　perfectly　willing　to　take　her　cues　from　him；　and　only　hope　she　was　quick　enough　and；　well；　enjoyable　enough；　to　make　an　impact　of　her　own。　She　had　never　failed　to　do　so　before。
　　So　she　lay　quietly　and　listened　to　Bertran　de　Talair　play　her　lute　and　offer　his　own　song　to　the　ing　of　dawn　above　the　empty　street。　She　knew　the　words；　everyone　knew　the　words。
　　Even　the　birds　above　the　lake　
　　Are　singing　of　my　love；　
　　And　even　the　flowers　along　the　shore　
　　Are　growing　for　her　sake。
　　All　the　vines　are　ripening　
　　And　the　trees　e　into　bud；　
　　For　my　love's　footsteps　passing　by　
　　Are　summoning　the　spring。
　　Rian's　stars　in　the　night　
　　Shine　more　brightly　over　her。　
　　The　god's　moon　and　the　goddess's　
　　Guard　her　with　their　light。
　　It　was　really　an　almost　childishly　simple　tune；　with　words　to　match；　Elisse　thought。　Jourdain　was　right；　of　course；　pared　to　the　interwoven　melodies　he　made　her　practise　endlessly