The Troubadour
by
Darby York
A Sapphire Nights Short & Sensual Novella
Turquoise Morning Press
www.turquoisemorningpress.com
The Troubadour
Copyright © 2012, Darby York
ISBN: 978-1-937389-76-5
Cover Art Design by KJ Jacobs
Electronic release, January 2012
A Sapphire Nights Short & Sensual Novella
Published by Turquoise Morning Press for Smashwords
Turquoise Morning, LLC
Turquoise Morning, LLC
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This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author's imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.
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The Troubadour
Courtly love, as sung by troubadours, is often a refuge for medieval wives. Yet its basis is fantasy, a far cry from the harsh realities of everyday life. Will a reluctant bride find courtly love, or her one true love, and satisfy the longs of her romantic heart?
The Troubadour
Darby York
Barbrooke Castle
The Great Hall
I will not marry Robert Fitz Geoffrey, minister of the king’s council—he with the beak-like nose, the beady eyes and breath like a farmer’s pig sty. I will not marry him. No matter the sharp looks my father gives. No matter the sighs from my mother. I will not marry such a man, when my heart belongs to another.
Robert, my betrothed, sits beside me at the head table during our midday meal, and we share a trencher. He takes my hand in his clammy one, leans over, and pinches my cheek with the other. I stiffen at the affront and grit my teeth. Be nice to the servant of the king, my mother has warned, for we need his influence at court. We need the connection and power he can bring to our family. But they think nothing of me. What I want. What I need.
Men prefer younger women, my mother says. At eighteen they think me too old to make a better match. This is the best they can do for me, even though I have begged for another, lesser knight. They turned down John, Baron of Dunstan, when he asked for my hand. Not wealthy enough. Not powerful enough. They mock my folly. Yet I love him.
What does love matter in the game of matrimony? Marriage decisions are too important to entrust to the participants alone.
I understand the way of the world. That does not mean I like it.
When the midday meal ends, the after-dinner delights continue—servants bringing plates filled with rich pastries topped by white sugar, marzipan frosted cakes with almonds, plus a variety of costly figs, pomegranates and dates from foreign lands. Robert plucks a sugar-coated date from the plate and offers it to me. If I decline I will insult him. Yet the intimate act of eating from his fingertips nauseates me. I do it anyway. What choice do I have? The date is sweet and chewy. I eat it slowly so not to gag.
“Bring out the troubadour!” My father barks the order. Sated by drink, his belly full, my father is ready for entertainment. He casts a lewd glance at a serving wench, and I can read his mind for it is not far from the expression of lust on his face.
Adultery is not accepted in a wife, but expected of high-ranking men. I glance at my betrothed and see that his shameless eyes wander as well. So much for his devotion to me. All fake. All phony. I glance at my long-suffering mother. She sits with stony face and clasped hands. My heart sighs for I know what my destiny portends.
Unless I change it.
The troubadour is a young man, clean shaven and lean. His eyes twinkle with merriment. He winks at me. I feel he understands what is happening.
Plucking the strings of his gittern, the young man sings in Norman French: “When I glimpsed her breasts / I wanted to cup them in my hands / Play with each nipple in turn. / Thus I fantasized our lovemaking / My cheeks flushed red with shame. / Desire urged me to kiss her mouth, / To kiss her, kiss her, to kiss her / Delighting to mark her as my own.”
I cannot shift my gaze from the eyes of the singing youth. In his clear voice, he expresses the desire I feel for my beloved. Although pent up—hidden—that desire burns brightly in my heart.
My nipples harden and my face sizzles. I long for John, Baron of Dunstan.
Robert leans against my shoulder, goblet in hand, and drinks again. He and my father laugh at the troubadour’s bawdy words. Robert places his cup on the table and kisses me full on my mouth, wine dribbling down his chin. I hate the taste of him. The smell of him. I hate his sharp fingers as they clutch at the bodice of my gown. To think, in a week I must legally accept this man’s hands upon my breasts, his fingers touching the most intimate parts of my body. It kills my soul. I cringe, not knowing how I am expected to suffer it.
Drawing away, Robert takes another drink. I sit back and try to wipe the grimace from my mouth. Chin high, I twist the gold ring set with a cut sapphire that I wear on the little finger of my left hand. John, Baron of Dunstan, gave it to me as pledge of his love. I hide the stone on the inside of my hand. No one knows of our pledge.
The troubadour winks again at me as a plan forms in my mind. I will escape Barbrooke Castle and my certain destiny. Yon troubadour will be my way out.
****
“My lady, I cannot help you,” the troubadour says, alarm darkening his pretty blue eyes.
Under the guise of learning to play a new lay, I sit beside the youth in front of the central hearth. The day wanes. Our heads bow together as we use plectrums to pluck the strings of our curved-back gitterns. He has shown me how to better tune my instrument with the wooden pegs.
Turning away, he sings softly so I will catch the words, his voice high and sweet. “Beloved, your absence / Makes me feel the pains / Of secret love, / For my heart is yours / Entirely.”
The troubadour’s song expresses the agony of my love for John. Laying the gittern on my lap, I press my fingernails into my palms. I cannot abide my fortune. I cannot marry the royal boor my parents have picked.
“Take me. ‘Twill work,” I say quietly, endeavoring to hide my desperation. “Dressed as a boy, no one will suspect me. I play well enough to be your jongleur, your assistant.”
He shakes his head, looking up from the gittern. “I cannot take you from your home.”
“I will give you silver coins enough to buy your passage to France where you can ply your trade with other great traveling trouvères.”
His eyes glint at the offer, but again he shakes his head and sets his jaw stubbornly.
I puff out a sigh of disgust. “You sing of courtly love, l'amour courtois, of damsels in distress rescued by knights in white armor. I am such a lady. Be my white knight. Take me from this death in life that awaits me.”
He looks at me with new consideration. I see calculation in his eyes. “You have enough coin for the voyage?”
I nod. I know where my father keeps his money.
“You must be sure this is what you want,” he whispers. “You cannot return.”
A knife-like pain thrusts in my heart. I know full well the consequences of my actions. If I leave my home with the troubadour, I will be dishonored. No man will touch me. My virginity will be questioned, and I will be labeled a whore.
Will John take me then? Will he be true to his word?
I touch the gold ring. It is tangible evidence of his love for me. I must chance it. What kind of life will I have without him?
“I understand the cost,” I say, looking into the troubadour’s shrewd eyes.
The youth nods. “Go then. Meet me in the bailey tonight when all is dark and quiet. We must walk, for I have no horse to carry us.”
“I can walk,” I tell him. “I am strong and healthy. Resolve will hasten my steps.”
I leave him then and rush to my chamber high in a turret wall. Sending my maid to fetch a basin of water, I make preparations. Thankfully, I have saved my brother’s castoff clothing. We played together in the woods as children when I first dressed as a boy. He called me his “tomboy,” proud his sister could run and climb and use a knife like he.
But my brother is gone to Gascony in the service of the king. He cannot help me now. I must help myself.
At the bottom of the chest, I discover what I seek: men’s undergarments—a simple linen shirt, above-knee braies, and a pair of linen chausses in a dark shade of brown. I find a faded blue undertunic of linen, an overtunic of darker wool, and the soft leather buskins bought by my dear brother from the village shoemaker. Finally, I uncover a close-fitted, pointed hood with a short shoulder cape perfect for hiding my long chestnut hair, as I did so many times long ago.
My maid returns. I shut the chest and stand facing her, afraid she will question me. She sets down the basin of water and turns to gaze at me with a yearning look.
“Your father and Sir Robert have gone to the May Day festival,” she says and then dips her head in deference.
My heart jumps. How perfect! Castle folk and villagers will be drinking and making merry, choosing a Queen of the May and dancing around the village maypole.
The merrymakers will be doing other things too, for tonight is a rite of fertility. Apparently my father and my husband-to-be will take part in the celebration, but, for once, I care not.
Hiding my delight, I nod to my maid. “Go and take Sarah with you. I will attend to my mother.”
My maid bobs once and flees the room, her haste bespeaking her loyalty to me, or lack thereof. I turn away from the door and hurry to wash my face and hands. With Sarah my mother’s maid gone, my task will be easy. This is a good omen.
I find my mother in the oratory, a small room used for private prayer by the family. It is richly decorated with beautiful altar clothes and silk and satin religious tapestries. I go down on my knees and touch my mother’s clasped hands. They are cold like the room.
“Pater noster,” she prays in Latin, “qui es en caelis sanctificetur nomen tuum adveniat regnum tuum fiat voluntas tua sicut in caelo et in terra panem nostrun quotidianem da nobis hodie et dimmitte nobis debita nostra sicut et nos dimmitimus debitoribus nostris et ne nos inducas in tentationem sed libera nos a malo. Amen.”
“Amen,” I mouth, sending a silent prayer for my success.
Rising, I extend my hand. My mother grasps it and stands. She inclines her head, her veil obscuring half her face. She refuses to meet my eyes.
“You must not gainsay your husband,” she tells me in gentle words. “I know you wish for another, but this is how it must be.”
Forcing the sudden anger away from my mouth so that I will not give voice to it, I lift my chin. “You are right. I do not like what you and Father have planned for me. However, it is my duty,” I say as an obedient daughter.
With my mother’s hand still in mine, I escort her from the oratory determined to get on with the business of changing my fate.
In the solar, we eat a simple supper of cheese and bread that has been left for us. I secretly wrap the remainder in cloth and set it aside. Then I help my mother undress—first her wimple and veil, and then the crespine that covers her chestnut hair. We have the same fine hair in common, if not our manner, for she is a timid woman and dutiful, while I have always had more spunk. Ah, that I had been born a boy.
After she removes all but her shift, I loosen her single plait and brush her hair, letting it fall down her back in long and heavy waves. Will this be the last time? I choke the cold knot of regret that rises in my throat.
My mother examines her face in a small, circular mirror of polished steel that is encased in wood. She is comely at age thirty-six, hardly past childbearing age, and not unattractive. Yet my father has moved on and does not spend much time in her bed. I feel the deep sadness that I see in my mother’s eyes. She plucks a hair from her eyebrow and lowers the mirror.
“You pity me?”
Taken aback, I shake my head in denial, but we both know I lie.
She sighs and stands, looking at me longingly before leaving to go to the garderobe, a tiny room at the end of a short passage that is cut into the stone wall. It has an open window and two heavy wooden doors to block out noxious odors.
Now is the time!
I rush to my father’s chest, open it and lift out another, smaller box where he keeps his coin. I count out a thousand marks, the price my father plans to give Robert Fitz Geoffrey as part of my dowry. ‘Tis fitting that I take it.
Pulse racing, I slip the coins into the leather purse at my belt. My father has more. He will not miss these right away. I shut the top of the chest as my mother reenters the solar.
After I help her remove her shift, my mother walks naked and erect with dignity to the lord’s bed. Does she hope my father comes to her tonight? After hours of drinking and whoring, will he want her?
Does she still want him?
I cannot think on it. Drawing down the tapestries to seclude the bed from the night’s chill draft, I lean over and kiss my mother’s cheek.