Passion of the Troubadour

By Vivienne Lafay

When Yselda's father leaves for the Crusade, she is sent to a nunnery accompanied by Raimon, a troubadour. Attacked by brigands, they flee to a place of safety.

There Yselda's passion is aroused by this handsome man, who shares her deep love of music. Together they explore the poetic expression of courtly love, competing with others to sing the 'pop songs' of their day.

Until news of the dreaded plague reaches them, and Yselda fears for her father ...

A Vivienne Lafay NOVELLA, set in Provencal, France, 1202

Vivienne Lafay also writes as Vanessa Davies, Rebecca Ambrose, Rosanna Challis and Nadine Wilder

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rebecca Ambrose
• Release date: Sep 11, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466168763

Vivienne Lafay

Vivienne LaFay is a British author of hot romance and erotica, mostly with a historical theme and setting. She also writes as Rebecca Ambrose, Vanessa Davies, Rosanna Challis and Nadine Wilder.

Book preview

PASSION OF THE TROUBADOUR

by

Vivienne Lafay

Copyright 2011 Vivienne Lafay

Year 1202

Yselda was in her bedchamber, singing and accompanying herself on the harp. It was a song of summer, when the Provençal countryside was a floral tapestry and the sweet music of bees filled the air. A sudden loud rap at her door startled her.

'Come!' she called, and was surprised to see her father enter. Hastily she put her instrument aside and performed a brisk curtsey.

Hugo De Loches bade her sit. 'Daughter, I have a grave matter to discuss with you,' he began. 'A crusade is planned, led by Count Boniface in Venice, and brave men are marshalling from all over France. I intend to join them, before I grow too old.'

'But father . . . ' Yselda started to protest that he was already too old to face the infidels. But she could see his mind was made up.

'It is my pious duty,' he stated firmly. 'But I also have a duty as your father, to ensure you are safe during my absence.'

Yselda wondered what he had in mind. Her mother had died giving birth to her, and she had no siblings. Furthermore, last year her suitor had been slain in a highway robbery before they could be betrothed, so her father was her only protector.

Hugo sighed. 'I had hoped you would be married by now, but that must wait until my return. Meanwhile, you shall go to a nunnery.'

'A nunnery! But father . . . '

'It is for your own protection, Yselda. If . . . ' He drew a heavy breath. 'If I do not return, the nuns will take care of you.'

Yselda viewed the prospect with horror. If her father were killed, she would have to make her holy vows. Suddenly her chance of a happy life seemed dashed, pulled like rushes from under her feet.

After her father had left, Yselda had no enthusiasm for singing. Instead, she plucked a mournful tune on the harp, a dirge-like accompaniment to her thoughts. At eighteen she had been looking forward to marrying, and this unwelcome alternative of a cloistered life threw her into in despair. She would pray, more devoutly than ever, that her father would return unscathed from this crusade - for her own happiness depended upon it.

That evening the hall was filled with Provençal nobility for Hugo to make his farewells. Usually such a gathering would have delighted Yselda, but tonight her heart was heavy beneath her little fur-trimmed jacket and tight bodice, trimmed with pearls. She ate little of the food that was spread before her, and drank even less of the wine. Seated at the top table she tried appear cheerful, but no amount of light banter could divert her.

When all had feasted the hall grew quiet and the musicians appeared. A band of local minstrels struck up a familiar air, but everyone knew this was just a prelude to the main event: the arrival of a professional troubadour, who would sing his poetic songs in the 'high style.'

Yselda barely paid attention to the simple ditty of the minstrels. She was longing for the solitude of her chamber and the comfort of her bed. But as the first tune faded to restrained applause, she noticed a man standing in the far doorway, awaiting his entrance. He held a small harp and leaned against the stone portal with casual elegance. Despite herself, Yselda was overcome by curiosity. There was something about the man that drew her eyes.

Even from a distance she could see he was handsome: his finely-chiselled features looked as though they were graven from some other material than mere flesh. She could see the brightness of his eyes beneath the even arches of his brows; the dark hair that swept down to his shoulders in thick waves; the pleasing shape of his nose and the full lips that, nevertheless, seemed to be pursed with faint disdain as he surveyed the scene before him.

The troubadour wore a parti-coloured tunic in red and black, with black leggings and boots. Devilish colours, Yselda thought, and indeed he had a look of Mephistopheles about him. Round his neck she caught a glimpse of gold. Even in his casual pose he looked manly and proud, as if he knew exactly how to seduce his audience, how to