by Jean Gill
His throat tightened as he remembered their meeting in Nur ad-Din’s tent, the boy’s vulnerability underneath the veneer of training, his inability to hide his feelings. Dragonetz had seen every emotion pass through those luminous round eyes, from loathing and fear to joyous fulfilment. Recalling Muganni’s beautiful voice in the Arabic dawn song, accompanying Estela, still brought shivers of appreciation. No-one who’d been in court that evening would forget the boy, or his talent. And yet he’d thanked Dragonetz daily, when thanks were due the other way round. A strip of a boy, who’d saved his master’s life with his knowledge and nursing. Who’d saved it yet again in the dream-world that led out of this one. Wherever Muganni was now, the child would be singing like an angel.
Foreboding chilled Dragonetz once more, but there was nothing he could do about that feeling at present so he shook it off again. There was something he could do about the other realisation that had come to him. Seeing the family graveyard, seeing his own grave, he had believed for the first time in his own mortality. He was no longer a young man, as his parents had told him often enough. His parents who, thank God! were still alive as far as he knew.
‘Dragonetz, there’s something important I must tell you. I’ve left it too long and it’s not getting any easier.’ Estela was watching the babies as they rolled on the grass, pulled an occasional handful, which their nursemaid patiently retrieved from their mouths. Bemused at having such a household at all, Dragonetz had not asked for an explanation of the children who’d suddenly appeared. Some by-blows of Raoulf, he assumed, observing the way his man treated Prima. They wouldn’t be the first, although usually Raoulf moved on to the next pretty serving-girl, leaving what he saw as ample compensation for a broken heart and a baby. Dragonetz wondered idly how many little Raoulfs were scattered around the Holy Land. Some soldiers were like that. Which reminded him of what he must say to Estela.
He interrupted her. ‘There’s something I have to say something to you first.’ The babies chuckled and babbled as they explored a world where every clod of earth and each leaf was a novelty. ‘I owe you my life. No amount of thanks could suffice.’ The words sounded cold and formal to his ears after all they had been through together.
She shook her head. ‘No, it was Muganni who saved your life. If he had not prepared me for what it would be like, what we must do, Malik and I would never have managed.’
Maybe that was what lay beneath his dream, Dragonetz wondered. He did owe his life to Muganni. There was no reason to worry about the boy, who would be among the Hashashin at this very minute. He tried again to tell Estela what he must. ‘You are my life. I can’t imagine a life without you in it. But...’ Her face was as stone. ‘But I also have a duty to Ruffec. I must take a wife and get heirs. I will not live forever. Estela,’ he didn’t dare touch her, ‘do you understand? It needn’t spoil what we have now.’ He cursed the plea in his voice.
‘I understand,’ she said, looking straight ahead, a statue.
‘What was it you wanted to say?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ she replied. A robin hopped near one of the babies, sending the infant into an ecstasy of gurgling as he crawled surprisingly quickly across the grass after the bobbing bird, towards the stone steps. He stretched out his hand to make the grab, the robin took flight and Dragonetz saw the danger just as Prima yelled ‘Txamusca!’ as if calling a baby’s name would prevent an accident.
In a few, quick strides, Dragonetz had scooped up the little man just before he started the inevitable head-over-heels tumble. A signet ring on a chain swung free of the baby’s clothing as he was righted. Dragonetz kept the child in his arms, not needing a closer look at the ring. A baby called Txamusca, fire born of the dragon.
‘It’s all right, Prima,’ Estela soothed the distressed nurse, who offered to take Musca from Dragonetz. He shook his head and turned to Estela, clutching his precious burden.
‘My love,’ he said, ‘why didn’t you tell me?’
‘How could I?’ she said, turning those expressive eyes full on him. ‘How could I add to your troubles before you were safe? How can I now complicate your plans for Ruffec? I will not hold you hostage. I want you to be free.’ Then he understood everything. And he knew why she had worried about her body disappointing him. Some questions had easy answers. Tucking Musca under one arm, he leaned over and kissed Estela on the mouth, not a polite kiss but a lingering promise of more, answered in kind.
‘Later,’ he murmured, breaking off with reluctance. ‘This thing wriggles.’ He sat down on the stone bench beside her, dandling his son on his lap, at peace in the walled garden.
‘A walled garden is the Muslim symbol for paradise,’ she informed him.
‘I believe so,’ he replied gravely, ‘but the poet did not say anything whatsoever about a wounded dog.’
‘Oh!’ she blushed. ‘Did you overhear? No... you couldn’t have.’ There was no need to say where Dragonetz had been at the time.
‘Malik told me,’ he grinned at her.
‘You mean he didn’t believe me?!’ She was indignant. ‘I thought I was very convincing!’
‘You were very convincing,’ Dragonetz assured her. ‘Malik has warned me that a nest of scorpions is less dangerous than you when you have your mind set on something.’
‘Presumably that’s a compliment?’
‘I believe so,’ he said, evoking a radiant beam from Musca by tickling the palm of his tiny hand. The robin landed again, gave its one-eyed check for danger before engaging in a tug-of-war with a doomed worm. The cobbled paths round the garden drew the eye in soothing patterns, loops and diamonds, interweaving to return always as a circle. A walled garden could be a symbol of paradise.
Epilogue
April 1152
Queen Mélisende of Jerusalem was leaving Tripoli, knowing that her sister’s temporary respite would be over once she left. Even Baudouin agreed that nothing would change Raymond of Tripoli. So Mélisende took measures to ensure that the respite would be permanent. On her sister’s behalf, she spoke the name and a password that Hodierne had whispered to her in Jerusalem. Mélisende made sure the words reached the right people, and she was a day’s ride out of Tripoli when its Comte was murdered by the Hashashin.
The Queen of Jerusalem then made extremely generous donations to her other sister’s abbey, and was promised that the prayers for her soul would be made daily, by those whose virtue must surely count with the Lord. Having sought absolution for what she had done, and for what she was about to do, Mélisende penned a missive to Raymond of Toulouse, announcing the unfortunate death of his relative, and the happy reign of the new Comte de Tripoli, Hodierne’s son, under the governance of his mother. She also mentioned that the murder of Toulouse’s father could now be traced to the hand of the dead man, Raymond of Tripoli, so all might rest assured that justice had been done.
Having neatly blamed the murder of one of her victims, on another of them, Mélisende prepared for a night with Manassés and for war with her son.
Historical Characters appearing in the series so far:-
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to:-
my editor, Lesley Geekie Dawe;
my critical friends, Babs, Fan, Jane, Karen C, Karen M, Kris, Moon, Steve, and the Impeccable Editor, for your invaluable input and support;
and to everyone in the Dieulefit Writers’ Group for the fun we’ve had with our writing.
Historical sources that were particularly useful were:-
The second crusade 1148 - David Nicolle
Ermengard of Narbonne, the World of the Troubadours - Frederic L. Cheyette
Eleanor of Aquitaine - Alison Weir
Blondel’s Song - David Boyle
Holy Warriors - Jonathan Phillips
The Crusades - Thomas Asbridge
Mélisende de Jérusalem - Elyane Gorsira
Les Croisades vues par des arabes - Amin Maalouf
L’Orient des Croisades - Georges Tate
Tr
oubadours et cours d’amour - J Lafitte-Houssat
Ecrivains anticonformistes du moyen-âge occitan - René Nelli
La Fleur Inverse - Jacques Roubaud
Voix de femmes au Moyen Age - Danielle Régnier-Bohler
Les Troubadours - Henri Davenson
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This was Book 2 of The Troubadours Quartet.
Sample Book 3 Plaint for Provence
'By far the best historical fiction I have read this year! - Rabia Tanveer, December 2015, for Readers' Favorite
For news of Book 4 and a FREE ebook of One Sixth of a Gill, please visit www.jeangill.com and sign up for my newsletter. This collection of shorts was a finalist in the Wishing Shelf and SpASpa Awards
A book with ‘Wow’ factor - Geoff Nelder, Aria
A fantastic array of wonderful prose, from bee-keeping to Top Tips on Dogs! A FINALIST and highly recommended - The Wishing Shelf Awards
A rare treat - J.G. Harlond, The Empress Emerald'
An eclectic mix - quite unputdownable - B.A. Morton, 'Mrs Jones'
Five-minute reads. Meet people you will never forget: the night photographer, the gynaecologist's wife, the rescue dog. Dip into whatever suits your mood, from comedy to murders; from fantastic stories to blog posts, by way of love poetry.
Fully illustrated by the author; Jean Gill's original photographs are as thought-provoking as her writing. An out of body experience for adventurous readers. Or, of course, you can 'Live Safe'.
Not for you
the blind alley on a dark night,
wolf-lope pacing you step for step
as shadows flare on the walls.
About the Author
I’m a Welsh writer and photographer living in the south of France with a big white dog, a scruffy black dog, a Nikon D700 and a man. I taught English in Wales for many years and my claim to fame is that I was the first woman to be a secondary headteacher in Carmarthenshire. I’m mother or stepmother to five children so life has been pretty hectic.
I’ve published all kinds of books, both with conventional publishers and self-published. You’ll find everything under my name from prize-winning poetry and novels, military history, translated books on dog training, to a cookery book on goat cheese. My work with top dog-trainer Michel Hasbrouck has taken me deep into the world of dogs with problems, and inspired one of my novels.
With Scottish parents, an English birthplace and French residence, I can usually support the winning team on most sporting occasions.
The Troubadours Book 3: Plaint for Provence
Wonderful (historical romance). If you love historical romance and adventure, you must pick up this series! - Autumn Birt, Born of Water
1151: the Holy Land during a fragile peace.
FINALIST in The Wishing Shelf Awards
1152: Les-Baux-de-Provence
Summoned to the court of Les Baux, Estela and her lover, Dragonetz, are embroiled in two rival claims for power as their feuding liege lords gather in Provence. Although Estela is reluctant to leave her idyll with her young child Musca, and her pursuit of Arabic medicine, she welcomes the chance to show her musical skills and to support Dragonetz, who must use his swordsmanship to play peacemaker.
The visit of the Comte de Barcelone to Les Baux sparks bitter memories of the recent civil war and Lady Etiennette des Baux has no intention of ceding to her overlord. Nor does she plan to remain a widow. With good friends on both sides, Dragonetz weaves a precarious path through the rival factions at court where an uneasy truce prevails behind the chivalry of hunt and tournament.
Meanwhile, Estela faces her own demons. Confronted with her childhood abusers, threatened and attacked, she confides in her friends. Unfortunately, one of those friends is Dragonetz' worst enemy and Estela has no idea of what he is capable.
'Rich in historical detail, this novel brings alive all aspects of mediaeval life from the political undertones of the high-born pursuits of hunting and jousting tournaments, to the simpler occupations of the peasants, like bee-keeping' - Karen Charlton, The Inspector Lavender Mysteries
'I like a book that makes my heart race and 'Bladesong' did exactly that. It's a great story' - Molly Gambiza, A Woman's Weakness
Watch the trailer
Plaint for Provence
Chapter 1
If someone drinks a great quantity of wine in order to quench his thirst, he induces senseless behavior (as happened with Lot). Thus it is more healthful and sane for a thirsty person to drink water, rather than wine, to quench his thirst.
Physica, Plants
‘Him.’ The boy’s head swivelled towards the drinkers at the far table.
‘Dolt!’ Geral hissed. ‘What have I told you? God’s body! Don’t look at him. Make it natural. Just follow me - and follow my lead. Best you say as little as possible.’ He sighed again, stuck with the youngster as his partner, all limbs and credulity but tall enough to breathe down the back of Geral’s neck as they threaded a route across the crowded inn to squeeze a place beside their target on his bench.
Their task was made easier by the fact that the man in the corner was not only alone; he reeked of misery and isolation so that all those nearest had instinctively turned their backs on him and shifted to make space. The man also stood out because he was in uniform, a red tabard, grubby from travel but nevertheless a slap in the face for the ordinary working men around him. If he’d had the presence to carry the rank his tabard declared, or bought a flagon for the table, he might have found himself singing ‘Marie’s a-courting’ in good company. Instead, he was nursing a mug, a pitcher and a black look.
‘Dolt,’ muttered Geral, not about the boy this time. Briefly, he wondered if the man was indeed some Lord’s Fool, indulging in some off-duty misery, but if so, he would have either been out of livery or wearing the other signs of his trade. No, this was a messenger, like himself, but naïve or vain enough to adopt the new trend of wearing uniform, advertising his provenance and mission to anyone who cared to look. And it was Geral’s job to look, to ensure his own message reached the right ears, unhampered by others. He knew that livery from somewhere, somewhen, and his little finger told him it meant trouble. The little finger he’d broken, when he was six and fell from the apple tree, was never wrong.
‘Greetings, master,’ he interrupted misery incarnate. ‘Bertran here,’ he waved his tankard vaguely towards the boy looming awkwardly beside him, ‘was much taken with your costume and wondered how a man of your standing came to be in our drinking haunt. It being my task to educate the boy, and to take every chance of letting him hear from his betters, why, I thought we could benefit from an exchange of news while you are here and, it seems, lacking company.’ Geral gave his most winning smile, a little dented by the lack of teeth on one side but usually a successful accompaniment to flattery and the messenger’s magic word, ‘news’.
The man straightened a little and contemplated his fellow-drinkers with bleary eyes. As he sat up, the silk of his tabard rippled a golden lion into view, its tongue and claws tipped blue against the red background.
‘Aquitaine!’ exclaimed Geral. ‘God’s bones but you’re a long way from home, man. On the Queen’s business, I should think, and a weary one to judge from your face.’
The other man’s face set into even deeper lines, grime etching the hollows of his cheeks. ‘Sit,’ he gestured.
Geral introduced himself as he obeyed and clambered opposite the other man onto the bench, spreading enough to make another place. ‘And the boy’s Bertran. We’re in the same business, you and me.’
‘You wear no colours.’
‘My Liege is
local, not worthy of your attention.’ Geral shrugged, grateful that his minor Liege wasn’t there to hear him and consign him to the highest dungeon in Provence, where men learned quickly that ‘deepest’ wasn’t always the most terrifying where dungeons were concerned. ‘But I know Marselha and can perhaps save you time and trouble in your errand. All in good time, all in good time. I’ve a thirst on me would drain the harbour. You!’ He grabbed a server, commandeered a pitcher of wine and two goblets, pouring a small amount for Bertran, and a generous amount for himself and the man from Aquitaine.
‘Simon.’ The man offered his name like a miser giving alms but it was a start.
‘I’ve seen a few tough assignments in my time,’ Geral confided, ‘and here I am to tell the tale.’ He checked that Bertran was giving proper attention and was reassured by the round-eyed curiosity. ‘If this lad pins his ears back and learns what I teach him, he can take my place and welcome, when it’s my turn to sit by the fire.’ He spoke to Bertran with a glance now and then at Simon, to include him as a fellow-expert.
‘You start by carrying the women’s messages; fetch the midwife, fetch the priest, tell a man there’s a boy born...’
‘Aye,’ nodded Bertran, interrupting enthusiastically. ‘One time I took a hunting dog as a present from our Lady, a long way down the coast. Rex his name was, black tip to his tail.’ He finally noticed Geral’s glare and blushed his way into silence. Thank God the boy was more interested in giving the dog’s name than his Lady’s. Giving that information away was not part of Geral’s plan, not until he knew whether it would be to his advantage or not. He suspected not.
He continued, warming to his theme, and having kicked Bertran hard under the table. ‘Bad news is what gets you killed. If you’re not crafty. Suppose you bring message of a death?’ He watched Simon out of the corner of his eye but there was no reaction. So it wasn’t a death that was worrying the messenger from Aquitaine. ‘How do you break the news without a bit of your body being broken in return?’ he paused, a good teacher.
