ggk.asongforarbonne-第67章
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e damaged her new vest in any way he would replace it or die。 He had ordered a bottle of Cauvas gold wine by way of reply。 They had been joking then； laughing about Midsummer； celebrating。
She looked back at Ramir。 He was still tuning the lute； loosening his fingers as he did。 Lisseut's uncle had taught her about that； one of the first lessons he had given her： whatever else you do； never rush the beginning。 Start when you are ready to start； they will not leave as long as they see you preparing。
〃We have a challenge here；〃 Ramir said； almost conversationally； one ear tilted down towards the lute； fingers busy on the strings。 His voice was pitched so they all had to lean forward to hear。 The silence abruptly became plete。 Another old joglar's trick； Lisseut knew。 She saw； out of the corner of her eye； that Remy was now smiling as well。
〃A curious challenge； really。〃 For the first time Ramir looked briefly at the table of Gotzlanders。 〃How is one to fairly choose among the music of different countries； different heritages？ Surely there is fine music made in Aulensburg and in Arimonda at the court of King Vericenna； as has just been urged upon us so 。。。 soberly 。。。 by our friend over there。〃 There was a titter of amusement。 Gradually； almost imperceptibly； Ramir's voice had begun to chime and weave with the apparently random chords he was playing upon the lute。 Aurelian's face as he listened； Lisseut saw； was entranced； rigorously attentive。
〃We are asked； in the light of this truth； why Arbonne should be pre…eminent。〃 Ramir paused； looked around the room； not hurrying。 〃We are also asked； in nearly as many words； what there will be to mourn if Arbonne is lost。〃
He left a silence after that； save for the gentle； almost casual notes drawn from the instrument as if unconsciously。
Lisseut swallowed abruptly； with difficulty。 Ramir said； 〃I am only a singer； and such questions are difficult to answer。 Let me offer a song instead； with apologies if it should be found inadequate and fail to please。〃 The ancient phrasing； that； no one used it any more。 〃I will sing a song of the first of the troubadours。〃
〃Ah；〃 said Remy under his breath。 〃Ah； well。〃 Ramir's fingers were busier now； the music beginning to take shape； the notes gathering as if from scattered places in the world at the joglar's bidding。 〃Anselme of Cauvas was of modest birth；〃 Ramir said； and this too was of the old fashion； the vidan； the tale of the poser。 No one in the newer generation did this any longer when beginning a song。 〃Anselme was clever and gifted； though； and was brought into the chapel of the god at Cauvas； and then Duke Raimbaut de Vaux took him into his household； and finally he came to the attention of the count himself； Folquet； and the count honoured Anselme for his wisdom and discretion and employed him in many affairs of state in all of the six countries for many years。 And Anselme had several great loves among the noble ladies of his day； but always he was chaste and honourable； and never did he speak the name of any of these women； but in his passion and desire he began posing songs for them； and this was the beginning of the troubadours of Arbonne。〃
The music beneath the spoken words was beautiful； delicate as lace or the gems of a master jeweller； precise； many…faceted。 Ramir said； 〃I could sing a song of love of Anselme of Cauvas tonight； I could sing his love songs all night long until the dawn came to draw us out the doors； but we have been given a different kind of challenge here； and so I will sing a different kind of song。 With the permission and by the grace of all those gathered here； I will sing a song Anselme wrote once when he was far from home。〃
The music changed and was alone then； creating room for beauty by candle and lantern light in a thronged tavern； with the first cold breezes of autumn beginning to blow outside。 Lisseut knew the tune immediately。 Everyone at their table knew this tune。 She waited； feeling close to tears； wanting to close her eyes but wanting also to watch Ramir； every movement he made； and a moment later she heard the jongleur sing：
When the wind that es from Arbonne
Sweeps north across the mountains；
Then my heart is full again； even in far Gorhaut；
Because I know that spring has e to Tavernel and Lussan；
To the olive groves above Vezét
And the vineyards of Miraval；
And nightingales are singing in the south。
Ramir's rich voice paused again； as he let the simple； sweet notes of the music take them away with it。 There was an old； plain roughness to the song； words and music both。 It was worlds removed from Jourdain's intricate melodies or the subtle interplay of thought and image and changing form in Remy's best work or Alain's new songs。 This； though； was the authentic voice of something at its very beginning。 Lisseut knew her own origins were here； those of all the joglars and troubadours； and； yes； of that table of Gotzland trovaritz； and all the Arimondan singers and Portezzan； and of those men in Gorhaut and Valensa who might actually venture to shape music of a different sort from the interminably thunderous battle hymns of those northern lands。
As if in answer to the flow of her thoughts； Ramir's voice was lifted again； not so vibrant perhaps as it once had been； but purified by years and the wisdom of those years into an instrument rare and fine as his lute：
Here in Gorhaut； so distant from my home；
Among men who care nothing for music；
And ladies who utter little of courtesy to poets
And even less of love； the memory of songbirds
In the branches of trees； of gardens watered
By the sweetness of the Arbonne itself；
Flowing from the mountains to the sea…
Such a vision…a blessing of Rian！…guides
Me to my rest at night with the promise of return。
The singing ended。 Ramir continued the music for only a little longer； after the old fashion again； and then his fingers on the lute； too； were still。 It was silent in the tavern。 Lisseut looked slowly around at her friends。 They had all heard this song before； they had all sung it themselves； but not like this。 Not ever like this。 She saw that of all those sitting there it was Remy who had tears in his eyes。 Her own heart was full； there was an ache in it。
His head lowered； Ramir was carefully slipping his lute back into its case。 It took him a long moment to deal with the thong again。 No one yet had made a sound。 He finished putting away his instrument。 With a grimace； he awkwardly shifted his bad leg and rose from the low stool。 He bowed gravely towards the table of Gotzlanders。 Of course； Lisseut realized： they were the ones who had； after a fashion； called for his song。 He turned to leave； but then； as if a new thought had just e to him； he looked back at the Gotzlanders。
〃I am sorry；〃 he said。 〃Will you permit me to correct something I said before？〃 His voice was soft again； they had to lean forward to hear。 And Lisseut heard him say then； would ever after remember hearing Ramir of Talair say； with his gentle； muted sadness； 〃I told you I would not sing one of Anselme's songs of love。 That is not true； on reflection。 I did sing a love song after all。〃
It was Ariane de Carenzu； a moment later； from her place on the upper level of the inn； who was first on her feet to begin the applause。 Everyone at the troubadours' table stood as the noise in The Senhal began to grow and grow。 And then Lisseut saw the Gotzlanders rise； as one man； and begin pounding their fists and pewter mugs upon the dark oak wood of their table； shouting a fierce approval。 She began to cry。 Through the blurring rainfall of her sorrow and her pride she saw Ramir； clutching his lute in its case with both hands to his chest； walk slowly away。 He didn't go back to his corner after all。 He left the lights and the thunderous noise of the tavern and walked out into the autumn night under the stars。
There were some among the taverns and inns within and around Lussan that did their own highly successful business in the month of the fair by not remaining open during this lucrative season。 The proprietor of The Silver Tree； a well…regarded country inn among fig
