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llowed。 If she thought too much about the potential implications of what seemed about to happen she would probably make herself sick。
Fortunately； the next face she focused on was Marotte's； and the delighted encouragement she read in the innkeeper's visage was exactly what she needed。 Someone brought her a harp； someone else placed a low stool and a floor cushion in the usual place near the booths on the left…hand wall； and somehow Lisseut found herself sitting there； holding and tuning the harp； even as she adjusted the cushion for fort。
She was still wet； if not actually dripping any more； and she'd had no time at all to prepare。 Glancing up； she saw Duke Bertran walking over； a thin smile playing about his lips。 It didn't reach his eyes； though。 With Urté de Miraval in the room； Lisseut doubted if En Bertran could actually be amused by anything。 The duke removed his lightweight summer cloak and draped it loosely over her shoulders。
〃You'll catch a chill otherwise；〃 he said mildly。 〃If you leave it draped so； it won't get in the way of your hands。〃 The first words he'd ever spoken to her。 He turned and walked away； to sink gracefully into one of the three cushioned chairs Marotte had hastily provided near the performing area。 Lisseut had a moment to absorb the fact that she was now wearing the midnight…blue cloak of the duke of Talair before Alain of Rousset； two spots of excitement showing on his cheeks； came over and said； softly； for her ears alone； 〃The 'Garden Song；' I think。 Sing it； don't shout it； Lisseut。〃
The troubadours' ancient； standard injunction to their joglars rang almost unheard in Lisseut's ears。 What registered was that in his choice of song Alain was offering her another gift。 She smiled up at him； confidently she hoped。 He hesitated a moment； as if about to say more； but then he too withdrew； leaving her alone in the space where music was made。
Lisseut thought of her father； as she always did when she needed to find serenity and sureness； then she looked out over the slowly quieting crowd and said； pitching her voice carefully； 〃Here is a liensenne of the troubadour Alain of Rousset。 I sing it tonight in honour of the goddess and of the Lady Ariane de Carenzu； who has graced us with her presence here。〃 Better that； she thought； than trying to sort out some kind of precedence。 She was conscious though； very conscious； that she was wearing En Bertran's cloak。 It was scented with an elusive fragrance。 She didn't have time to decipher what it was。 What she did realize； as she always did before she sang…a fleeting awareness but real as the stones of a wall…was that moments like this； with music about to follow； were why she lived； what made her feel most truly alive。
She began with the harp alone； as Gaetan； her father's brother； had taught her years ago； letting the audience settle； and then； when the stillness was deep enough； she sang。
When you came into my garden；
When you came to tell me of your love；
The one moon in the sky
Seemed brighter than the sun
And a white light was shining in my heart。
When you took me in your arms；
To whisper words of a long desire；
The scents of the garden
Were my garments in the dark
And day a distant rumour of despair
It was a well…made song； if not a brilliant one。 Alain knew his craft and he was young enough to be maturing still。 The special thing though…the gift this song offered Lisseut…was that it was written for a woman's voice。 There weren't many； which was why the female joglars of Arbonne spent much of their time transposing tunes written for male voices and ignoring as best they could the obvious inappropriateness of most of the themes。
In this piece Alain had changed a great many elements of the traditional liensenne； shifting the narrative to the woman's point of view； while keeping enough of the familiar motifs to leave the audience in no doubt as to what they were hearing and appraising。 Lisseut； keeping her instrumental ornamentation to a minimum； took them through it； serving the song as best she could； in simplicity。 It was a long tune…most of the formal liensennes were； for audiences would balk and plain at the absence of elements they were expecting。 The troubadour's challenge in this kind of song lay in using all of the familiar motifs while making them vivid and new； in whatever ways his art allowed。 Lisseut sang the rising of the second moon； the customary menace of jealous； prying eyes； a formulaic； if rather clever stanza on the three flowers that traditionally sheltered lovers； another on the trusted friend watching out from beyond the wall with his mood…shattering warning of sunrise； and the lovers' parting words。
It was honest； professional work； and she knew she had the listeners with her。 Even here； with an audience as profoundly versed as this one was； Lisseut knew； the way she sometimes did in the midst of performing； that she was doing justice to Alain's words and music。 She was holding something in reserve； though； for the ending； for the place where Alain of Rousset had surprised even himself by reaching for something more than the usual closing platitudes of love triumphant and enduring and had found instead the rather more painful integrity of art。
Lisseut allowed herself the briefest pause； no more； for more would be to point the change； the new thing； too greatly and mar the effect； then she pitched her voice upwards towards sorrow and sang the last verse of the song。
When you e to say goodbye；
When you e to say that you will wed；
Do one thing for me
In memory of love；
Bring balm for the breaking of my heart。
She looked at Bertran de Talair for a moment as she began； then at the bearded coran behind him； but she ended gazing out over the heads of her listeners at the doorway beside the bar through which Remy and Aurelian had gone。 A reprise of the opening notes； as an echo of what had passed； a chord for the watchman； a chord for the garden nights that were gone； and she was done。
In Bertran's blue cloak the brown…haired girl looked delicate and fragile； not exalted； Blaise thought。 She was more clever…looking than formally beautiful； but there was no missing…even for him…the purity of her voice； and the unexpected sadness at the very end of the song caught him for a moment。 He didn't know the new thing that note of sorrow represented； but he could hear the sound of it； and the meaning of the words took his mind down unusual channels。 Not for long of course： he wasn't inclined to that sort of thing； by background or experience…but for just a moment Blaise of Gorhaut； looking at the slender woman sitting on the low stool with Bertran de Talair's cloak around her； held； in his mind's eye； a clear image of a woman in a garden； weeping for the loss of love。
〃Oh； wonderful；〃 Ariane de Carenzu said in an oddly wistful voice； far removed from her imperious tones of before。 The words carried clearly in the stillness that followed the last notes of the harp； and with them came the release of a tautness like the tension of a drawn bow in the room。 Blaise drew a long breath and noted； with some surpri