In 1099, a mysterious child of noble origin was taken in by Jews who had fled the Crusaders' arrival in front of Jerusalem.
Years later, Ada, the descendant of this child, travels through Palestine with her father. He's a merchant and knows medicin...
The court of Provence is held in the palace's great hall. The place is illuminated by candles whose reflections dance on carved woodwork and scatter in gold powder on furniture or valuables.
I observe with indifference the comings and goings of the servants who ensure the smooth running of the supper. They bring first fresh fruits with "échaudées," followed by fish and various meats.
I think sadly of how much Reyn would have loved to feast with me. I worry because his position as seneschal seems to concern him much more than me. It's like the young and imperious lord of Chasseney is coming back, the one who threatened me with a whip if I tried to upset him.
I'm sitting among a throng of courtiers anxious to show devotion to their powerful hosts, apparently at least. Some of them stare at me with curiosity and sometimes animosity. Fortunately, Beatrice offers me some friendly smiles at the other end of the great hall. And by chance, the count seems to ignore me.
Let's hope it lasts.
I have neither the temper nor the abilities of a lady-in-waiting, so I intend to decline Beatrice's proposal and leave Aix soon.
I suppose that the seneschal of Marseille has a nice home for him and his wife.
I can't wait for Reyn and me to return to the cozy comfort of a place all our own.
I didn't make any particular effort to dress. Instead, I chose a random gown and adorned my braided hair with a simple silk ribbon.
Both troubadours took out their instruments. Cheers burst out, and the courtiers chant a name: Sordello of Mantoue.
It's undoubtedly that of the oldest musician because he greets with gratitude. His deep voice intones a song a little sad, where a beautiful lady would have captured his heart. His vibrato moves the damsels when he gives them tearful glances. He has talent, but his manners always displease me, so much they're marked by servility and boastfulness at the same time.
Beatrice withdrew with a tired look, and the count soon did too.
The image of Reyn doesn't leave me when I'm about to wander through the long hallways of the palace to my room. I would like to know Reyn's thoughts, to know if he regrets having left so quickly.
Suddenly, I feel a presence behind me.
"The count asked me to take you to him! Please follow me!"
I recognized the voice of this Sordello of Mantua, and he didn't use any standard formula for a lord's wife.
But who does this man think he is?
With my heart pounding and mind in turmoil, I answer coldly, "My husband is absent, and I don't go anywhere without him!"
The rascal seized my arm firmly to force me to accompany him.
"The Count orders, so I obey! I suggest you do the same," he advises in a harsh tone.
Alas, I'm obliged to go with him. He leads me at a run in front of an imposing carved wooden door. He knocks lightly, and the door opens with a thud. I resist, but I soon find myself on the other side while the troubadour has sunk into the depths of the palace.
I swallow with difficulty when I see the count of Provence's silhouette. He wears a richly embroidered cloak on his bare chest and doesn't take his eyes off me. Anger and fear clash violently in my head, and I can't utter a word.
"At last, here you are," he whispers hoarsely.
I retreat as he moves in my direction.
"You've become so shy," he sneers, "you weren't so when my gold offered you freedom. And I was kind enough to give you back to your husband."
If my eyes were swords, the count would be pierced through and through. So my rage overcomes fear for a few seconds. "After making me drink a suspicious wine, then probably raped!"
He has, at first, a cruel smile as an answer. He's no longer this grieving father who had held in his arms for a long time his almost stillborn child, the unfortunate little Louis.
"But I took what the Mohammedans largely had from you," he says at last in an insulting manner.
I can't stand it any longer, and I make a U-turn to escape from this hell. In a few strides, he puts an end to my attempt by pressing me against him. "You know I almost died," he whispers. "On my return from Palestine, I joined the Flanders war and was badly wounded. Marguerite of Constantinople had promised me the territories of John, her son. I just needed to defeat him. So my army crushed that coward. But my brother was in tears when he found out about my mother's death. When he returned to France, he decreed that I would only get a tribute from John."
I try to free myself from his embrace, but he's too strong. "I remember the cold freezing my bones as I lay dying in a tent, eaten up by pain and bitterness. I kept seeing your beautiful face, your beautiful body nestled in my arms. I waited patiently for your return, and my spies informed me of your doings. I know everything Ada," he whispers again.
He holds me close to him, and I feel deep disgust. "No need to defend yourself, my dear," he advises. "You and your husband weren't very careful when you went to Lombardy. What a bad idea to stay in Mozzanica Castle, that horrible den of heretics!"
He loses his embrace and observes me with a grin of satisfaction.
I don't try to run away anymore, stunned, appalled by his words. "What are you talking about? Reyn and I have nothing to do with these people! We were only there for a few days."
"It's more than enough, my beautiful," he retorts coldly.
***
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In the Middle Ages, desserts (fruits and pastries) were served at the beginning of the meal, and "échaudé" was a famous pastry.
