All Things Are Lights – Day 44 of 200

Roland dropped to one knee.

“Please stand up, Messire,” said the King, patting Roland on the shoulder. “I merely wish to thank you for that exquisite song. And to congratulate you on winning this lovely prize.”

Roland rose and studied Louis’s face. How innocent he appeared. Thirty-one, but he could as easily be twenty-one. The cross on his shoulder, Nicolette had told him, came from some mad notion the King had of delivering Jerusalem from the Turks.

A thought struck Roland. If I were at home, I would not hesitate to honor mi dons publicly. Why not here? Certainly the Queen would understand, perhaps the King, too.

What holds me back, then? Amalric de Gobignon? A hot anger rose in his chest. Shall I let him stop me from paying mi dons the tribute she deserves? After all, it will seem to be nothing more than the customary tribute a troubadour pays to the distant lady who inspires him. And I know Nicolette has the wit — and the courage — to respond as she must before King and Queen and court. Only we two will know the true meaning of the gesture. Let me do it, then.

Roland turned to Louis. “Permit me to put a question to you, sire. Who deserves this prize more, the one who made the song, or the one who inspired it?”

Louis smiled, his large blue eyes focused searchingly on Roland. “An interesting question, Sire Orlando. Well, in my opinion many have the skill to write songs, but only a few are inspired to make the best use of that skill.”

“I agree, sire. Therefore I shall present my prize to the lady to whom I dedicate my art. “And with a smile he turned toward Nicolette.

Suddenly, for him, the King, Queen, Blanche of Castile, the seigneurs and ladies, even the great stone hall, all seemed to vanish, and there was no one and nothing but the dark young woman in violet. He knelt before her, holding up the blue and gold silk.

Her fingertips touched his as she took the scarf from him and touched her lips briefly to it in a ceremonial kiss.

Keeping his eyes on her, Roland heard disapproving whispers from the sides of the hall. But there was also friendly laughter and a spattering of applause.

One man’s voice said clearly, “Charming!” It might have been Raoul de Coucy or Guido Bruchesi; he could not be sure.

But those whispered remarks undermined his confidence. Had he acted too rashly and endangered Nicolette?

There was no turning back now. He must carry it off.

“Madame,” he said with a smile and a bow, “I hope you will forgive the ignorance of an Italian trovatore. Perhaps, as Madame the Queen has suggested, the torch of poetry has passed to Italy, and what is still a respected custom among us is no longer done here at Paris. If I have been too bold, if I have offended, I beg you to forgive me.”

“Not at all, Sire Orlando,” Nicolette replied airily, and loud enough for the whisperers to hear. “Whatever is done or not done here at Paris, I am a lady of Languedoc, and it pleases me to accept this tribute from a troubadour.”

Nicolette turned inquiringly to Marguerite, as if to confirm that she had spoken aright, and the Queen smiled and nodded approval.

Roland sensed, rather than saw, a stirring at the edge of the circle around them. A flash of white, and suddenly Blanche of Castile was in their midst.

An avenging angel, she turned first upon Nicolette.

“This is scandalous. You must return the scarf to this presumptuous knight at once.”

“To give back this scarf,” Nicolette answered in a voice so low Roland could barely hear it, “would itself be a discourteous act, Madame.”

“He has compromised you. The honor of your good husband is in danger.”

And her good husband will be sure to hear about it, Roland thought. He began again to regret his audacity. It would be best for Nicolette, he thought, if she yielded to Queen Blanche and rejected my gift. He saw Nicolette turn to Marguerite with a look of appeal.

The young queen herself was trembling with controlled anger. She took the King’s arm and held it tightly.

“Who is a better judge of honor than the King?” she said. “Tell us, sire, is the Count de Gobignon’s honor threatened? Should the Countess return the scarf?”

“Take a moment to think, dear Mother.” The King spoke softly but firmly to Blanche. “For a troubadour to choose a lady and dedicate his achievements to her is an old and pretty custom. To quarrel over this would indeed cause scandal. The gesture seems to me without harm.”

Silently but fervently Roland blessed King Louis for his good will.

“You cannot imagine how these supposedly harmless gestures can spread rot,” snapped Blanche. “When I ruled this court I protected you from such corrupting influences.” She looked pointedly at Marguerite.

“But, Mother,” Louis protested, “it is not so many years since our good friend the Count of Champagne, who sang so well here today, wrote songs in your honor. And no one thinks the less of you for that.”

Oh, do they not? Roland thought with amusement. Then he hasn’t heard the rumors I have.

A lesser woman might have retired in confusion, but Blanche, though she reddened, stood her ground. “That was altogether different!”

“I am sorry, Mother,” said the King earnestly. “Lovely ladies inspire poets like this knight. Much good comes of such chivalry.”

“Louis, you are —” Roland guessed that Blanche wanted to say “a fool.” But even Blanche, with all her years of power, could not speak so to the King. She clenched her fists, and Roland could see her checking herself.

“- too trusting,” she continued. “This is great shame, my son. You should not permit it.” Tight-lipped, the White Queen turned and cut through the group around Roland. Courtiers shoved one another to make a path for her.

And now, thought Roland, a messenger will be on his way to de Gobignon.

He turned to Nicolette and saw her standing composed, drawing the scarf through her fingers. If Blanche had upset her, she had recovered quickly enough. Still, he must try to protect her if he could.

He dropped to one knee and threw out his arms in a troubadour’s stylized gesture. “Madame, I am overwhelmed by your kindness in accepting my unworthy gift. But I would not cause a quarrel between you and good Queen Blanche. Do not hesitate to spurn my offering if it causes you the slightest embarrassment.”

Nicolette gave him a look that had just the right degree of disdain in it. “Have you not heard both the King and Queen approve the giving of the scarf, Messire Troubadour? Do not be tedious.”

Delighted with her performance, Roland bowed his head. She has enough presence for an empress and enough courage for an army, he thought. What a splendid woman this is!

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