A Delicate Fire

By Nancy Henshaw

The year is 1129 and a Norman army completes its conquest of Sicily. The island's sophisticated inhabitants ask what they can expect from these northern barbarians.

For the elegant and prosperous young widow Perlina, the answer comes quickly. She and her wealth are to be presented to one of the Duke's fiercest knights, a reward for his deeds in battle. She faces marriage to a man whose crude and violent ways are in stark contrast to the husband she lost.

But when Perlina is moved by pity to a reckless act of defiance against the Duke, she places herself in mortal danger. This man to whom she has been unwillingly joined may be the only one she can turn to for help.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9780244971625

Book preview

A Delicate Fire

A Delicate Fire

Nancy Henshaw

Copyright © 2018 by Nancy Henshaw

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

Chapter 1.

Syracuse, Sicily, AD 1129

Perlina’s house in Syracuse overlooked the city’s main square. A crash from the first floor told her that the filigreed shutter had been flung open and that her stepdaughter was likely to be leaning out of the window, presenting the upper part of her lightly clad body to public view.

‘Agata,’ she called, running upstairs. ‘Come inside. The piazza is about to be filled by lusty Norman fighting men, every one of them a well proportioned six feet tall.’

‘How I wish!’ Agata who had a lower lip made for pouting turned to face her. ‘There aren’t many like that.’

‘True,’ said Perlina. ‘Mostly mongrels. But this morning’s batch is the Duke’s elite corps. Move over, Agata, I don’t want to miss this treat.’

All around the piazza, roofs and open windows were crowded; but the normally volatile citizens were subdued on this sunny morning, their voices the faintest murmur.

Perlina reached out of the window and picked a spray of scarlet hibiscus. It grew out of a trough beside the front door and rioted all the way up to the roof. Nothing to be seen or heard but the air itself seemed to sigh and rise from the ground to greet Duke Roger de Hauteville, the Norman master of Sicily.

Perlina drew a deep breath. ‘They are coming.’

Horses’ hooves struck the well kept paving of Syracuse. No shouted commands in whatever was the preferred language, probably some debased Franco-Italian after years of warfare on the Italian mainland. Not Greek, anyway, or any of the other tongues that Perlina had mastered in childhood with ease and graceful fluency.

Duke Roger, a huge imposing figure, rode with his standard bearer at the head of this select troop, his proud young sons crowding together a pace or two behind him. The Duke’s black charger was plainly caparisoned; no embroidery of scarlet and azure silk and gold thread.

His followers had a similar war worn look although their weapons, sword and dagger only, gleamed as bright as their leader’s. No mail coats, no helmets, the Duke was not expecting trouble. As the piazza filled with horseflesh and male humanity a group of city dignitaries waited to deliver their speeches of welcome.

‘Agata, if your father was alive he would have been down there with the men who matter, waiting to greet the Duke,’ said Perlina. ‘I’m a widow so I’m up here with you.’

One of the Normans had edged his mount to the side of the square so that they were almost immediately below Perlina’s window. He was erect and supple in the saddle of a horse, undoubtedly a stallion, but rather lacking in dignity with its dappled coat and curly mane and tail. The horse had a frisky look and, Perlina decided, so did its rider, whose carelessly cropped brown hair was topped by a small round leather cap.

She could never afterwards pretend it was an accident. She let the scarlet flower slip from her fingers and drop neatly on to the head five feet below.

He was quick, snatching upwards as it landed and turning his head towards her window. She had no time to draw back from a sea blue challenge of vitality in an appropriately lively face.

Agata dodged inside breathing, ‘Perlina, how could you? He might have thought he was being attacked.’

‘By a spray of flowers? I don’t believe he’s that timid.’

There was a sound that could only be the Duke answering the city’s speeches of welcome. He had a loud voice and used few words but even if she had been near enough Perlina would not have understood. A thudding heart was affecting her wits as well as her hearing. How could she have deliberately attracted the notice of that blue eyed knight, setting a bad example to Agata? Perlina, a virtuous widow, ought to have spent the morning on the flat roof, discreetly watching the arrogant parade from behind the parapet with her mother-in-law and the servants.

He was using her flowers to drive flies away from his horse’s head as Duke Roger’s men followed him from the square with military precision.

She gave her stepdaughter a hug. ‘That’s all the excitement we’re going to get!’

Agata was thoughtful. ‘That knight looked as if he might be…would like enjoying himself. I wish I’d thought of that with the hibiscus.’

‘Don’t make such wild wishes,’ said Perlina, leading the way to the back of the house and the steps down into the courtyard. ‘A man like that probably can’t read or write, only speaks some bastard Italian-French, knows and cares nothing for the wonders of the past or the beauty created by master builders like your father. A man like that is no better than a beast, living solely to gratify his appetites.’

Agata hadn’t been discouraged by this catalogue of faults. Her black-cherry eyes were rounded in fascination.

In the secluded courtyard Perlina and Agata sat cross-legged on cushions filled with goose down. Above them trailing vines filtered out the afternoon heat.

The servants brought a low table, arranging the wine and snow-cooled spring water, crumbly goat’s cheese and hot bread with the faint scent of the orange branches that fuelled the baker’s ovens; with a main dish of filleted swordfish, stuffed with shrimps and mussels and baked in a meltingly succulent pastry case.

Perlina, helping herself to black olives and radishes, had begun, ‘I want to visit Arethusa’s...’ when there was an excited voice and a clomping footfall. ‘Good, that’s Khalid. He’s sure to know more about the Duke and his men. I’ll ask him to eat with us – no, not the Duke. Any objection, young madam?’

‘That man pays more attention to mathematical calculations than to women,’ said Agata.

‘Just as well when he’s designing a building. Welcome, Khalid.’

He had been Sergius’s most valued assistant; a rather wild eyed young Arab who often seemed to be looking into the far distance at some long ago desert homeland.

He brought news, or at least gossip, from his workplace. The Duke had established himself in the Saracen Emir’s abandoned palace to take his ease before turning his formidable mind on to a multitude of political problems. After years of fighting the prize had fallen to Roger de Hauteville: the incomparably rich, desirable and strategically vital island of Sicily.

‘But that’s only the beginning,’ said Khalid, eyes kindling in their outsize bony sockets. ‘They say he won’t be content until he is crowned King of Sicily.  He’s going to recreate Palermo given the chance.’

‘As long as he’s not assassinated,’ suggested Agata who could be distressingly cynical

‘Not at the hands of the grateful citizens of Syracuse if they’re wise,’ said Perlina. ‘But a man like that is likely to have a traitor or two amongst his own followers.’

‘Not amongst the contingent with him today,’ said Khalid. ‘They’ll all be in line for rich pickings.’

That young man with the comical war horse was going to be well rewarded; perhaps becoming one of the great vassals, keeping the peace from a castle overlooking lands where he would be absolute master under the Duke. That stranger knight with his wide, straight back might one day take his place in the Palace at Palermo where Duke Roger, so it was said, aimed at keeping regal state: to become King.

But today meant new beginnings for others besides the master of Sicily and his favourites and Perlina watched in fond amusement as a hopeful Khalid, charcoal in hand, began sketching a revolutionary design to be displayed to the amazed and gratified Duke if he ever had the chance.

When her mother-in-law Irene joined them for a cup of wine Perlina was able to assure her that she hadn’t missed anything by being on the roof. ‘An exhibition of male bombast, dear madam,’ she said airily, and received a quizzical look from the shrewd old lady.

That night in bed she started thinking of her husband who had been an acknowledged master of building, as designer and creator who could still wield adze, chisel and saw as well as any of his workmen. If he had been alive, as a leading citizen, Sergius would have been one of the men to greet the Duke that morning. Although Perlina didn’t have the skills of Sergius, Khalid who was now her temporary director of works often consulted her; sometimes he even took her advice. She was a leading citizen of Syracuse. She was a woman who wanted to confide her thoughts to the ancient spirit of the Well of Arethusa.

Although she knew it was a weakness in a Christian woman Perlina slipped out of the house next morning at daybreak and walked through the quiet streets where energetic tradesmen and women were already opening their shops, stealing a march on slugabed neighbours.

The day would soon be hot but for the moment a chill in the air raised goose pimples on her arms’ smooth skin and her skirts were whisked round her ankles by a little dawn breeze. Like most fashionable Syracusans, she wore Arab dress adapted for everyday coolness and this morning her loose cotton robe was the colour of red amber, like her soft, low-heeled leather shoes.

The Well of Arethusa was a large, deep pool of the sweetest water in the whole of Sicily. There was even a small island where wildfowl nested in peace. Perlina walked through a grove of acanthus, and giant aloe as tall as trees and emerged into early daylight.

She became as still as a startled doe. Somebody was in the pool, diving and reappearing with the boisterous energy of a dolphin. Perlina caught repeated glimpses of a male back view back streaming water and vanishing. All the ducks had gathered, quacking and flapping on the islet. It must be one of the Duke’s men; even the most loutish of the town boys respected the Well and left it inviolate. As the sun rose, so did the bather’s head and the spark of yesterday’s memory blazed into certainty.

She strode to the water’s edge, her words an uncompromising command. ‘Come out of there. The customs of Syracuse are protected by the word of Duke Roger and our simple townsfolk venerate this place.’ Water was streaming from his flattened hair and she spoke directly to his laughing face.

‘It’s the hibiscus girl! Venerate - lady, you’re talking about pagan superstition that ought to be abolished.’ He was treading water, his hands cupped as he idly shifted the surface. His French was plain enough, if heavily accented.

Perlina who was capable of making herself clear in four languages enunciated, ‘I and my fellow citizens are better servants of Our Lord than you, marauding savage. I want to see you out of there; otherwise I complain directly to the Duke.’

‘Yes, lady,’ he said meekly. ‘Do you want to see me clothed or unclothed. My leggings, shirt and boots are at your feet.’ He held out his arms: ‘my shirt at least…’

She began picking up his well worn garments as she enlightened him. ‘Here in Syracuse we are sophisticated people living in a benign climate. Male or female nakedness means nothing.’ She wrapped his clothes round his boots into one neat package which she dropped into the pool, leaving him like an enticing but disconsolate merman with muscular arms outstretched.

She left the Well with a rapid dancing step. The track narrowed, giant, spiny plants catching at the fine weave of her robe and she slowed her pace, still smiling with satisfaction.

‘Perlina!’ The voice calling her from ahead was unmistakably Khalid’s.

She had just time to answer, ‘I’m here,’ when she heard thudding following footsteps, shockingly close and gaining on her. There wasn’t even space to turn and face her pursuer. She fled through the thicket, ignoring the grazes and slicing of fabric

Khalid appeared through the undergrowth demanding, ‘Are you all right? I hope so because the Duke has commanded your presence at the Emir’s palace.’

It was the only thing that could possibly have driven that disgracefully exciting encounter from Perlina’s thoughts, although her heartbeat was still saying, danger.

‘See me? It’s a joke. Who says so? Why?’

‘The ducal messenger would hardly tell me or your mother-in-law,’ said Khalid, a brotherly arm round her as the track widened. You’ve torn your dress. What have you been up to – don’t tell me. Be at the palace at noon. Plenty of time for a bath, cosmetics and one of those dazzling robes from Constantinople.’

‘Certainly not,’ said Perlina. ‘I shall be clean, but to overdress would make a mockery of my widowhood besides embarrassing the Duke and everyone with a parade of my wealth.’

‘I don’t think wealth embarrasses this Duke,’ reflected Khalid as they made their way through the now thronged and noisy streets towards the piazza. ‘And I think he already knows about yours. Why else would he want to see you? His messenger is calling back to escort you. What do you think, little pearl, he was one of the Emir’s trusted advisers and this Duke treats him like a messenger boy.’

Perlina absorbed his words with only half her mind. The man in the Well, surely only a junior knight, was unlikely to be quartered in the former Emir’s palace so there would be nothing to distract her from her forthcoming interview with the mighty Duke Roger de Hauteville.

Chapter 2.

Khalid had been right. She was far too plainly dressed. Perlina, modestly attired in cream coloured muslin over a thick silk shift, knew it as soon as she entered the Duke’s temporary headquarters in the displaced Emir’s palace. She was conducted  by John, the Duke’s ‘messenger boy,’ a large and pleasant eunuch in early middle age, whose quiet presence at her side had given her the confidence she was going to need in her forthcoming meeting with the master of Sicily.

They went along corridors and through antechambers, between walls bearing the words of the Koran, brilliantly tiled blue and green and along mosaic paving, formally patterned according to Islamic law. Sunlight filtered through glass domes breaking up the soaring whirls of fountain water into rainbow colours.

Palermo was to be Roger’s capital city but he had wasted no time in setting up an improvised court in Syracuse fit to receive ambassadors from the Pope, the Holy Roman Emperor, from Byzantium, Baghdad and all of Europe’s monarchs and rulers. The dark bearded Duke himself had set the fashion in a long formal mantle of crimson damask. The men who would be his great vassals, the new lords of Sicily, were nearly as fine, multi-hued and glossy as African parrots. Nevertheless they were offensive to Perlina’s sensitive nose, their thick odours, male and female, heavy and sickening. The court ladies – if that was what they were – had applied cosmetics as blatantly as whores of the Ortega.

The major-domo called out Perlina’s name as she approached the great man and sank into a deep curtsy, eyes downcast.

As she rose, he had begun speaking, his deep voice friendly and humorous. ‘Welcome, lady to our makeshift court. Are you curious to know why I’ve commanded your presence today?’

‘Naturally, sir.’ Focussed on the dark face before her, from the side of her eye she was distracted by a movement towards the Duke’s dais.

A tall man in an ill-fitting short tunic that had been dyed a disastrously bright blue and displayed the powerful legs of a horse master: his roughly cut brown hair was, as she knew, perfectly clean but inclined to stand up in tufts…

She was possessed by a reckless energy seizing a splendid opportunity.

‘My Lord Duke, I am gratified to be singled out for your notice. Indeed, you have forestalled my own plea for justice.’

Roger did not hesitate or even seem surprised. ‘How may I serve you, madam?’

She was committed now. ‘I found one of your officers desecrating the Well of Arethusa this morning. I remonstrated with him and was compelled to flee from his pursuit.’

There was a threatening rumble in the Duke’s deep voice. ‘Do you see the man in this room?’

She pointed an accusing finger: That one.’

Murmured exclamations were cut off as the Duke raised his hand. ‘Garin, do you plead guilty to this gross offence?’

The man’s response bordered on insolence. ‘My lord Duke, it was nothing. I was in the water – some sort of sacred pool; not even heresy but sheer paganism. I did not pursue this lady, in spite of her discourtesy: she threw my clothes into the pool.’

This time there was an outburst of laughter led by the Duke.

‘So,’ said Roger de Hauteville. ‘Madam, you have met informally and I am happy to see from your charming looks that you have suffered no harm from your adventure.’

This was the Duke’s notion of justice: a few words of shallow flattery for the victim that were worse than insult. Garin’s four square presence was on the edge of Perlina’s vision as she sourly recited to herself the Koran’s wise instruction on  submission and awaited Roger’s next pronouncement.

‘I found this young rogue guarding my back in many a skirmish and pitched battle as we fought our way through the Italian mainland, besieging and taking recalcitrant towns as we went. Now it’s a time for conciliation.’

In other words a division of the spoils amongst the victors. As for Sir Garin, did he relish being referred to as a young rogue in the presence of his peers? Most men in their twenties would have found it damned insulting, however wonderful the commander who said it.

The Duke announced to the room at large, ‘Thus it has pleased me to ennoble Sir Garin, creating him Lord of Trapani, and to unite him in marriage with Lady Perlina.’

Chapter 3.

Perlina’s wits, never sluggish, sharpened in alarm. ‘Sir, why are you honouring me in this way? I am a gentlewoman, don’t aspire to the nobility, many worthier ladies…’ The words were pouring out much too fast and she checked herself. ‘This man, is he capable of speaking for himself?’

Garin said modestly, ‘My Lord Duke, may I take it on myself to answer? You have only to command me in marriage as in any other matter. What a prize: the widow of Sergius! But Sir, are there any wealthier ladies in Syracuse?’

Perlina assumed the immobility of a holy image, waiting for the Duke’s wrath to fall on Garin like molten volcanic rock before having the insolent upstart dragged away to lifelong imprisonment for greed and vulgarity. She ought to have known better.

Roger was nodding amiably. Perhaps he kept Garin by him as a sort of privileged jester. ‘That’s enough, you young rogue. Leave us now.’ He gestured to a stool close to his high backed chair. ‘Sit beside me, lady. Are you a woman who can listen without interrupting the speaker?’

‘If you are to be the speaker, Sir,’ said Perlina in astonishment. ‘I would not dare.’ And she found herself sharing a smile with the Duke.

‘So, Perlina of Syracuse,’ said Roger de Hauteville: ‘You are not of the nobility but I have made enquiries. From infancy you received an unusual and liberal education in the hands of the late esteemed Sergius and his mother the gracious Lady Irene. Not every female would have benefited – had the wit to take advantage of their instruction but I judge that with your innate qualities thus enhanced you will grace the rank and title of Lady of Trapani. As for your future husband,’ The Duke lowered his voice. ‘I have not made this decision lightly but yours could be an enviable union. There is much I could tell you about the young man but I am not going to do so. My dear, I reckon that you enjoy using those sharp wits. Come to me a year hence and tell me whether or not you have a good marriage.

‘Now here is my youngest boy eager to be presented to you. William, escort this lady to Sir Garin and make her known to some of my other guests. Lady Morgana tells me she will be happy to meet the future Lady of Trapani.’

She was being dismissed. The Duke’s youngest son William, she decided, was a hot-eyed, precociously black bearded fourteen-year-old little beast. Perlina could have screamed with chagrin; she ought to have had the support of a high-ranking noblewoman on this occasion who could have advised her how to array herself – her hair, her face, her clothes – she looked so ordinary. And that’s what she was to all these slab faced Normans, except of course for the money. William had gone off, glass in hand, without offering her a drink and was speaking to a young woman who was listening with animation. Was this Lady Morgana? If so she showed no sign of wanting to greet the promised lady of Trapani.

Perlina was weary and full of anxieties with a useless pang of longing for Sergius who had always taken care of her. Irene, his mother was an independent, clear minded lady but she was nearly seventy and sometimes at the mercy of her frail body. Perlina’s stepdaughter, Agata, was the most vulnerable of young women: an heiress and a virgin.

‘Lady, take this.’ The voice of John couldn’t have been more welcome.

He was holding out a glass of red wine but was pushed aside by the hand of a man wearing an extraordinary dark green velvet cloak embroidered with large silver stars that must be far too hot and made him look like an unusually well fed and successful fortune teller as he swept past to join William and the lady.

John had expertly balanced the wine without spilling and gave Perlina the glass. ‘There’s no need to remain now that the Duke has dismissed you. Shall I take you home?’ Had he been watching her all afternoon?

‘There’s nothing I’d like more,’ she said. ‘But I must take leave of Sir Garin, and the Duke