按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
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； with so many e willingly in a spirit of shared sorrow and memory； Signe had felt profoundly unwilling to pel the presence of anyone； even two of the most powerful…and therefore most dangerous…men in her land。 How could she be blamed for wanting the spirit of the yearfast and its rituals to be unmarred by the long wrangle between Miraval and Talair？
The problem； and the reason she was still dwelling upon this； was that she knew what Guibor IV； count of Arbonne； would have done in her place。 In terms admitting of no possible ambiguity her husband would have demanded their presence before him during any remotely similar event； whether of mourning or celebration； in Barbentain itself or in the temples of god or goddess in Lussan town beside the river。
On the other hand； she thought； and the smile on her still…lovely face deepened almost imperceptibly； had she herself been the one being mourned instead of Guibor； Bertran de Talair would have been with the others in Barbentain for her yearfast； e feud or river flood or fire or blight to the grapes。 He would have been there。 She knew。 He was a troubadour as much as he was anything else； and it had been Signe de Barbentain who had begun the Court of Love and shaped with her own personality the graceful； elegant world that had let the poets and the singers flourish。
Aelis her daughter might have inspired Bertran's passion and his youthful springtime song； still sung after more than twenty years； Ariane her niece might be queen of the Court of Love now； but Signe had had a hundred verses and more written for her in fire and exaltation by a score of troubadours who mattered and at least twice as many who didn't； and every song written for every noblewoman in Arbonne was； at least in part； a song for her。
But this was unworthy； she thought wryly； shaking her head。 A sign of old age； of pettiness； peting in this way…even in her own mind…with Ariane and the other ladies of Arbonne； even with her poor； long…dead daughter。 Was she feeling unloved； she wondered； and knew there was truth in that。 Guibor was dead。 She ruled a court of the world now； not a simulated； stylized court named for love and devoted to its nuances。 There were differences； great differences that had altered； and not subtly； the way the world dealt with her and she with it。
She should have ordered the two dukes to e last month； Roban； as usual； had been right。 And it might even have been good for her； in the usual； strange； slightly hurtful way； to see Bertran again。 It was never a wise idea in any case to let him go too long without a reminder that she was watching him and expecting things of him。 No one alive could truthfully claim to have a large influence on the duke of Talair and what he chose to do； but Signe thought she had some。 Not a great deal； but some； for many reasons。 Most of which led back those twenty…three years or so。
He was said to be in Baude Castle now； of all places； high in the south…western hills。 The situation had stabilized…for the moment…between Talair and Miraval； and Signe could guess how the story of Evrard of Lussan and Soresina de Baude would have been irresistible for Bertran in his endless； disruptive career。
It was a delicious piece of gossip。 Beatritz had already sent private word of what Mallin de Baude had done； abducting the aggrieved poet from Rian's Island。 She should have been outraged at the tidings； Signe knew…and Beatritz should certainly have been…but there was something so amusing in the sequence of events； and the poet had clearly been wearing out his wele on the island by the time the corans had e and taken him away。
Not that any of that tale would reach the ears of most of the people in Arbonne。 Mallin would hardly want word of his impiety to spread…which is undoubtedly why he'd not led the mission himself…and Evrard of Lussan would scarcely be thrilled with a public image of himself knocked unconscious and carried back like so much milled grain in a sack to the castle from which he'd fled in such high dudgeon。
On the other hand； the story of Soresina's very public contrition and her open…armed； kneeling wele of the