All Things Are Lights | Page 7

as if someone had already called on him to play. "I am lucky just to be hearing him." The Combret jongleur, Guacelm, who had taught him the lute and promised to start him on the vielle had said Roland's was a gift from God. But how much could Guacelm know? He was only a jongleur, not a troubadour.
Roland worked as hard as he could under Guacelm, but he never admitted, even to his teacher, that sometimes, alone in the hills, singing to rocks and trees, he dreamed of being a troubadour. He saw himself commanding words and verses as kings commanded their barons, holding seigneurs and their ladies fascinated by the power of his voice, drawing intricate music from lute and lyre and gittern by the skill in his fingers. Sometimes he forgot he was the son of a hunted outlaw and imagined himself welcomed and honored everywhere.
"I think your music is lovely." Diane's green eyes held his. He loved Diane as much as he loved Fiorela. She was another sister to him, a sister whose fragile beauty inspired protectiveness. But more: when he looked at Diane he understood why men wanted to be knights.
His sister would grow up and marry and part from him. Diane need never part from him.
The servants had cleared away the bread and meats and were bringing around silver basins so that all could wash their hands after dinner.
The Sire Etienne de Combret asked Peire Cardenal, seated at his right at the high table, if he would favor them with a song. Cardenal took his place in the center of the hall. He was a stocky man with iron-gray hair and a battered nose that spread over his seamed face. He beckoned, and Guacelm came out and sat with a vielle between his knees. The hall fell silent, and Cardenal sang a lament for a lady who had died young. The sweet notes of his voice soared above Guacelm's bowed accompaniment, and when the song died away at last, Roland glanced at Diane and saw there were tears in her eyes.
The applause was vigorous, but Cardenal smiled and cleared his throat. "I get merrier as we go along," he said, and everyone laughed.
And he did. He sang songs of heroic deeds in battle, and comic songs. A servant placed a silver goblet set with jewels on the table within his reach and kept it refilled, Cardenal drinking deeply after each song. He began to sing sirventes about happenings of the day, about the rumor that the widowed Queen Mother of the present King of France had taken the Count of Champagne as a lover, about the Pope threatening to excommunicate Frederic, the Holy Roman Emperor, for failing to lead a crusade to the Holy Land. He sang a tenson with Guacelm, a debate on whether a man could truly love two women at once. Cardenal took the affirmative, and the applause of the de Combrets' guests declared him the winner. Much as he admired Cardenal, Roland, who shyly abstained from applauding either side, was sure that a man could love - truly love - only one woman. Roland's own father, he knew, had never loved anyone but his mother.
The wine affected Cardenal's singing not at all. If anything, it sweetened his baritone voice. He sang a duet with Diane's mother, Madame Maretta, who wrote poems of her own and had taught the forms of rhyme and meter to Roland.
Then Cardenal sang of love, songs which, Roland knew, were of his own making. He sang of love that lasted forever, love that defied human laws and even the commands of God, love that consumed men and women like a fire, love that blinded with its light.
Roland found his hand tightly gripping Diane's delicate fingers.
When Cardenal had sung his last song, the applause was muted, but only because all were so moved. Roland felt limp, drained. His hand, still holding Diane's, trembled. Reluctantly he released her, afraid someone might see, and tease him.
After a silence Sire Etienne pushed the jeweled goblet across the table toward Cardenal.
"Drink from this tonight and keep it with you always, Master Peire. A poor thing, compared to your music. But a remembrance of one of the most beautiful evenings of my life."
Cardenal bowed. "A handsome present, monseigneur."
What a power he has, Roland thought. He must have sung for hours, and everybody wishes he would go on for the rest of the night. I could never hold people spellbound like that. It is foolish of me to dabble in music.
The diners stirred. Sire Etienne, Sire Arnaut, and Cardenal stood talking at the table. Guacelm, the jongleur, joined them. And then Roland saw that Guacelm was pointing down the table at him. The terror came back, and he wanted to run out of the