The Tapestry of Time

Chapter 3-1

The barge drifted smoothly, under a sole jib sail, through the entrance and into the deep basin of the port of Marseilles. On the left rose the Tour Saint-Jean, supporting its commanding lighthouse; on the right, the squat fortress of Saint-Nicolas guarded the east side of the dock.

King Louis XlV justified his construction of these two bastions, proclaiming: “We noticed that the inhabitants of Marseilles were extremely fond of nice fortresses, hence these two at the approach of this great port.” But, in response to local uprisings against the governor, their cannons pointed inwards towards the town. What the Sun King said, during his long reign, was not always borne out by his actions, nor did they have to be; he was king by divine right. He sensed that conflicts were the ideal way to enhance his glory so, in peacetime, he concentrated on preparing for the next war.

“We noticed that the inhabitants of Marseilles were extremely fond of nice fortresses, hence these two at the approach of this great port.”Both Saint-Jean and Saint-Nicolas had garrisons of soldiers, as ordered by the city governor, ready to repel invaders or subdue insurgents within. However, at that particular moment, King Louis, his glorious courtiers and troops were the last thing on Baudet’s mind.

As the vessel passed the forts, the rippling Mediterranean gave way to the stillness of the sheltered harbour. A Vespers bell sounded and daylight was fading as the boat glided up to a vacant mooring for two hands to jump ashore and tie up the fore and aft lines around sturdy bollards.

“Thank you for your help,” Baudet said with a smile, shaking the captain’s hand.

“My pleasure, young man,” came the reply, “and I wish you good luck.”

He cut a lonely figure on the quay, his pack over his shoulder and his father’s spear held upright, like a soldier standing on guard. As far as he could see, boat after boat, many three or four abreast, bobbed up and down, grating hull against hull and testimony to the thriving trade in and out of the city. At intervals, matching the length of a boat, tall wooden treadwheel cranes and hoists pointed towards the heavens, their day’s work done and, next to each derrick, iron braziers glowed with burning coals, casting dancing shadows over men sitting on benches in groups of four or five, hands held open to warm by the fire. Even in winter, the temperature was temperate during the day but fell markedly with nightfall.

Plucking up courage, Baudet started walking, slowly, into a new world and adventure but unsure of what lay ahead. A little way back from the water’s edge, one warehouse after another, some with their tall doors open, lights showing and activity audible from within, others securely locked, lined the quayside. All nature of carts and barrows by now unloaded were ready for the following day’s cargo. Baudet assumed any horses were stabled elsewhere, behind the stores. “Maybe I could find work in the stables – I’d enjoy that,” he thought. But, as yet, plans for his future employment were vague in his mind and he realised a place of this size would offer a thousand different avenues for workers, or so he hoped.

“Maybe I could find work in the stables – I’d enjoy that,” Nearing the first brazier he paused, at a discrete distance, to watch and listen to men waving their arms about wildly – shouting insults for all he knew – at each other. They were dressed in long, flowing robes that reached their feet – similar to those worn by a priest – but with a striped pattern woven into the fabric. His attention focused most acutely on their heads bound with strips of cloth he thought were bandages. “Poor men! They must be all returned from the battlefield to sustain such injuries.” The men in question wore turban-like head coverings that distinguished their tribe in northern African countries whence they originated.

Poor men! They must be all returned from the battlefield to sustain such injuries.”

He observed them, motionless, afraid of revealing his presence, when an even stranger characteristic of these nomadic sailors caught his notice. He did not recognise the words they uttered. Words they were, but none that he made sense of. “I’m not well travelled, I rarely left Vordan, but I’d not expected to meet with languages that must be spoken in lands far beyond my world.” He moved on, keeping in shadow, to the next brazier and was relieved to see this next assemblage dressed in tunics and boots like his own. By now his curiosity was intense. “How would these folk speak?” He strained his ears but, once more, their tongue did not resonate with him.

I’m not well travelled, I rarely left Vordan, but I’d not expected to meet with languages that must be spoken in lands far beyond my world.” How would these folk speak?” “I’m too far away to hear.” Taking a deep breath, he marched up them.

“I’m too far away to hear.” “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

As one, they fell silent. One man turned around and asked, with suspicion: “Who be you, boy?”

“My name is Baudet Desmarais. I’ve just arrived here, so I know nobody. Could you direct me to an inn where I can find a bed?”

The man gave his companion a shove, sending him reeling off his bench, yelling,

“Hey! This ’ere master may be a visitor but I’ll wager he’s got more in the way of brains and manners than you!” The other men roared with laughter, rocking to and fro.

“Pay him no heed, we are proud to welcome strangers even if we ourselves are not natives. So, from whence do you hail?”

“From Vordan.”

“Vordan?”

“Ay, it’s a small village on the Petit Rhône, two days away from Arles.”

“Never heard of it – I keep to the coast. But no matter, you’re wanting a room… let me think… yes, carry on down the quay until you see the Hôtel de Ville, turn left, down two streets until you make the Place Daviel and the Auberge Fabien is in front of you. Many of my sailor friends use it – fine ale and a delightful bouillabaisse.” Baudet’s face showed ignorance, but he listened as the man explained: “It’s a fish stew, the best for miles around.” Another man butted in: “Ay, and it’s got slimy stingy jellyfish in it, the lovely man o’ war sort,” and he leaned back sharply to avoid the usual cuff round the ears.

.Following the directions, grateful he had encountered this generous man and, on a practical level, relieved that he had understood almost every word said to him, unlike the Arabs’ tongue. While living in Marseilles, he realised he would have to come to terms with the language difficulty and he decided when in Rome, do as the Romans do. “Where did I get that from?” he pondered randomly, with a sardonic smile. “It’s true, though, and I reckon I’ve made a reasonable start.”

Where did I get that from?” It’s true, though, and I reckon I’ve made a reasonable start.”The unusual speech he was encountering – apart from tongues that came from distant shores – was the Occitan dialect, spoken in Provence and much of southern France. Over the centuries, it had become the vehicle for the influential poetry of the troubadours, appreciated and celebrated throughout the region, by the illiterate and by the better-educated populace alike. The common man learned the language by word of mouth. Although the gradual imposition of royal power over the territory meant an eventual decline in its status – King Louis took a dislike for anything, such as local dialects, if he thought it might undermine his divine authority. Nevertheless, Baudet would have to struggle, at times, to master it. But he was not going to allow any obstacle to hinder his progress and establishment into the fabric of Marseilles life – a testament to the young man’s desire to be accepted as a city resident. Ultimately, the four Gospels, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, were translated into the dialect – Occitan had received the blessing of the Holy Father.

After a short while walking through the streets he doubted could take a horse and cart, they were so narrow, he entered the Place Daviel. Facing him, lights shining through tiny windows, stood the Auberge Fabien, its sign swinging, creaking, above the door. Taking a moment to gather his wits, he went in to be confronted with a world he had never before experienced – a bizarre, frightening mass of strange costumes, aromatic smells, bewildering parlance and skins ranging from pale lily-white to shiny ebony-black.

The atmosphere within, although most unusual on first impression, was, as far as he could tell, friendly and, scanning the room he saw more smiles than scowls. Reassured, he made his way gently through groups of men and women standing drinking, beakers and tankards in hand, to the counter behind which the landlord surveyed his business.

“Good evening, Monsieur, what will it be, ale, wine or something stronger?”

“I’ll take ale, thank you,” he replied and he watched the man fill to overflowing a pewter tankard from a barrel sitting on a cradle on the counter top. The innkeeper was a giant of a man – broad shoulders, shiny bald head, biceps bulging under the fabric of his tunic. “Just the sort of man to ensure the good behaviour of any drunk customer,” Baudet reflected but, as he took his first sip of ale, his gaze fixed on the giant’s right arm – the limb had no hand, simply a stump at the wrist. “My Good Lord! He has no hand!” It required a moment to reinforce in his head what his eyes were seeing. He tried hard to assimilate the chilling spectacle – maybe it would not be difficult for a battle-hardened trooper but such he was not. The host noticed Baudet’s consternation, smiled, revealing even white teeth, and enquired: “Looking at my hand, are you, M’sieur – or, rather, my lack of hand?” He gave a deep hearty roar. “You’re new here, aren’t you? My name’s Dizier, and you?”

“Just the sort of man to ensure the good behaviour of any drunk customer,” “My Good Lord! He has no hand!” lack “Baudet, Baudet Desmarais.”

“Welcome, Baudet.” His eyes moved to his stump. “Lost it fighting for the Duke of Provence, himself, when he was not getting on with his neighbours in Languedoc, if I can put it that way. We saw off hordes of bandits who… who agreed to stop their barbaric incursions into the Duke’s villages – thieves and rapists all.” Once again, he roared, throwing back his head but this time for no obvious reason, it was simply a mannerism. Baudet warmed to him from the start.

agreed “Where are you from, then?”

“Vordan, a place to the west of Arles.”

“I know Arles… got a cousin there, if my memory serves me correct…”

“Do you have a bed for the night?”

“Of course, follow me.” And, as a matter of business, he informed Baudet of the price.

Dizier led his guest into a dark hallway and up a flight of rickety stairs.

“Wait here a moment while I light a lamp.” He went into the room in front of them and emerged a couple of minutes later.