ggk.asongforarbonne-第12部分
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Some mornings； as today； she woke feeling amazingly young； happy to be alive to see the spring return。 It wasn't altogether a good thing； this brief illusion of youth and vitality； for its passage…and it always passed…made her too achingly aware that she was lying alone in the wide bed。 She and Guibor had shared a room and a bed after the older fashion until the very end； a little over a year ago。 Arbonne had observed the yearfast for its count and the ceremonies of remembrance scarcely a month past。
A year wasn't very long at all； really。 Not nearly enough time to remember without pain private laughter or public grace； the sound of a voice； resonance of a tread； the keen engagement of a questioning mind or the well…known signs of kindled passion that could spark and court her own。
A passion that had lasted to the end； she thought； lying in bed alone； letting the morning e to her slowly。 Even with all their children long since grown or dead； with an entirely new generation of courtiers arising in Barbentain； and younger dukes and barons taking power in strongholds once ruled by the friends…and enemies…of their own youth and prime。 With new leaders of the city…states of Portezza； a young； reckless…sounding king in Gorhaut； and an unpredictable one as well； though not young； in Valensa far in the north。 All was changing in the world； she thought： the players on the board； the shape of the board itself。 Even the rules of the game she and Guibor had played together against them all for so long。
There had been mornings in the year gone by when she had awakened feeling ancient and bone cold； wondering if she had not outlived her time； if she should have died with the husband she'd loved； before the world began to change around her。
Which was weak and unworthy。 She knew that； even on the mornings when those chill thoughts came； and she knew it more clearly now； with the birds outside her window singing to wele the spring back to Arbonne。 Change and transience were built into the way Corannos and Rian had made the world。 She had accepted and gloried in that truth all her life； it would be shallow and demeaning to lament it now。
She rose from her bed and stood on the golden carpet。 Immediately one of the two girls who slept by the door of her chamber sprang forward…they had been waiting for her…carrying her morning robe。 She smiled at the young one； slipped into the robe and walked to the window； drawing back the curtains herself on the view to the east and the rising sun。
Barbentain Castle lay on an island in the river and so below her； down past the tumbling rocks and forbidding cliffs that guarded the castle； she could see the flash and sparkle of the river rushing away south in its high spring torrent； through vineyard and forest and grainland； by town and hamlet and lonely shepherd's hut； past castle and temple and tributary stream to Tavernel and the sea。
The Arbonne River in the land named for it…the warm； beloved； always coveted south； sung by its troubadours and joglars； celebrated through the known world for its fruitfulness and its culture； and for the beauty and grace of its women。
Not the least of which women； not by any means the least； had been she herself in the lost days of youth and fire。 The nights of music； with a many…faceted power in her every glance and lifted eyebrow； when candlelight cast a warming glow on silver and gold and a glittering pany； when the songs were always of love； and almost always about love of her。
Signe de Barbentain； countess of Arbonne； stood at her bedchamber window on a morning in spring； looking out over the sunlit river of the land she ruled； and the two other women in the room with her； preparing to attend to her needs； were far too young； both of them； to have even a hope of understanding the smile that crossed her face。
In fact； for no reason she really knew herself； Signe was thinking of her daughter。 Not of Beatritz； wielding power within her own domain on Rian's Island in the sea； not of Beatritz； her last child living； but of Aelis； her young one； so long dead。
Even the birds above the lake
Are singing of my love；
And even the flowers along the shore
Are growing for her sake。
Twenty…two； no； twenty…three years now since young Bertran de Talair…and he had been very young then…had written those lines for Aelis。 They were still being sung； remarkably； in spite of all the verses the troubadours had spun since those days； all the new rhyme schemes and metres and the increasingly plex harmonies and fashions of today。 More than two decades after； Bertran's song for long…dead Aelis was still heard in Arbonne。 Usually in springtime； Signe thought； and wondered if that had been the early…morning half…awake chain of associations that had led her to remember。 The mind did strange things sometimes； and memory wounded at least as often as it healed or assuaged。
Which led her； predictably； to thoughts of Bertran himself； and what memory and loss and the unexpected shapes they had taken had done to him in twenty…odd years。 What sort of man； she wondered； would he have bee had the events of that long…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；
