THE LUTE AND THE PEN - Press Release

Historical fiction - 10th century Spain!

960AD. Al-Andalus.

Spirited and learned, Qamira has discarded the strictures of her life in Baghdad to travel with her grandfather to Cordoba. Here she embraces the undreamed-of freedoms accorded women. She befriends her neighbours, attractive young men and women of Jewish, Christian and Arabic faiths, all living in harmony. One of these is Zayd, a swordsman, poet and teacher from the Maghreb; they form a strong emotional attachment. Sadly, that harmony will be shattered…

Amazon UK: https://tinyurl.com/yaz96c77

Amazon US: https://tinyurl.com/545ctprh

Excerpts:

She had gone through twelve months of deep depression after her parents died horribly and swiftly of the plague that had wiped out hundreds of pilgrims on the way to Mecca. The vultures had made light work of the bodies.

When fellow travellers brought the devastating news, although a younger maiden aunt said she was happy enough to care for Qamira, Talha insisted she come to live with him. 

Since that day she had barely spoken, just sitting swaying, silent – an elective mute. She ate because she must; she said her prayers because God was watching her; she kissed her grandfather good morning and good night because it was expected; but all joy had fled her short life.

***

Talha and Qamira entered the splendid garden with the three-tiered fountain Qamira had glimpsed from above. They made their way along cobbled pathways, past myrtle hedges and a pool covered with water lilies. Jasmine clambered up the walls to reach the balconies of the upper floors and niches, pots and urns brimmed with scented roses.

They followed the colonnade that snaked round the house, passing tables and chairs, glass-fronted cabinets filled with ornaments and books.

Voices and laughter summoned them to the feast. Comfortable leather divans surrounded a convivial table in whose centre were bowls of water containing sweet-scented rose-petals and lemon peel. Soft cloths were provided to dry hands and faces. Each place had a drinking glass and ceramic plate. Ornate metal teapots and trays of food stood at the ready. Three young people sat in one corner, heads together, whispering, oblivious of the presence of strangers.

***

The gate swung open on well-oiled hinges and Yuhana and Qamira exited into glorious countryside. Qamira gasped at the view, deeply inhaling the cool morning air, scented with herbs and pine. Carobs and oaks lined the narrow winding path leading to the lake and in the distance the Dark Mountains were bathed in a ghostly white mist.

They ambled along the shady path then Qamira halted, suddenly anxious.

Yuhana grabbed her arm and lengthened her stride, pulling her past the high wall of the munyat cemetery. ‘Qamira, hurry, the lake is this way. Or have you lost your nerve, no longer daring to defy Urvan’s ban?’

‘Not at all.’ She slowed her pace. ‘Why do you let him dictate to you? Does your father also disapprove?’

Yuhana fell into step beside her. ‘Yes, he also fears for our safety and because he is my father I must obey him! Surely you obey your grandfather?’

Qamira gave her a devilish grin. ‘Most of the time. But he is always open to discussion. It is often the only way forward. Besides, he approves of swimming. This is an ideal time of day to bathe and,’ she indicated the cemetery, ‘the dead won’t talk, or harm us.’

They reached a clearing, uncultivated except for clumps of herbs. At a glance Qamira recognised borage and rosemary, comfrey and lavender. She stooped and squeezed a handful of rosemary, cupped her hand around her nose and inhaled the sweet smell. Rising, she observed a small copse of hazel and almond trees. A cluster of six beehives to her left crouched like slatted creatures from another world. ‘Whose are those hives?’ she asked.

‘Ours but no-one tends them. I stay away. I was stung once. Mother used marigold flowers to ease the pain.’

‘She was right to do so,’ Qamira said. ‘Perhaps I can take the beeswax for my creams and I must gather those herbs before the sun wilts them.’

Yuhana plucked a stem of lavender and breathed deeply. ‘Tell me about them.’

‘There are many types. Here we have thyme, parsley, sage and rosemary for cooking.’ She spun round. ‘And there are comfrey and witch-hazel for sprains and bruises, borage for fevers, lavender to aid restful sleep. There are poisonous plants too – arum, nightshade and wormwood – but they can be used safely…’ She ran ahead down the path, calling back, ‘if you know how.’

They arrived at the lake. Herons skimmed the calm surface seeking fish, a bunting hidden in the reeds called plaintively to its mate, frogs croaked unharmoniously and the reeds themselves whispered in the breeze. Along the shore-line, a row of willows stood sentry-like, a natural barrier from prying eyes. Qamira noted the trees. She must tell Grandfather.

She ran forward to the edge, removed her sandals and dipped in her toe. Glancing around, she stripped off her robe and undergarment then plunged into the rippling wavelets, naked and free. She disappeared below the surface, swam some way off then reappeared.

‘You are bold!’ Yuhana called. ‘And such a strong swimmer.’

‘It is heavenly. Come in.’

Yuhana began to wade in but Qamira called out peremptorily, ‘Your clothes? Remove them. Or walk home soaking.’

Yuhana blenched. ‘Someone may see.’

‘There is no-one. Anyway, the trees will hide us. You must, or your robe will drag you down.’

Yuhana removed her robe, threw it ashore then ducked down into the water.

***

Zayd sat beside her and eyed the poem. ‘Is that a muwashshah?’

‘I don’t know. It’s an ode.’

‘A qasidah, then, a classical ode. To…?’ the handsome Berber inquired gently.

‘Dido.’

‘Ah, the tragic Queen of Carthage.’

‘When Grandfather and I disembarked there, he recounted the sad tale of Dido and the Greek Aeneas: their love affair, his treachery, his abandonment. Her despair, her death,’ she finished with barely a whisper.

‘Please read me your ode.’

‘It’s not ready.’

‘No matter. It’s not the end-product that matters but the journey we make to achieve it. The road we pursue can enrich all things. So, may I hear it?’

She obliged, reading the poetry in a clear voice.

‘Your words are poignant. How they remind me…’

Qamira’s brow furrowed. ‘Remind you of what?’

‘Of my own land, Qamira, of El-Maghreb.’

His look was wistful, longing for something lost forever. Maybe, like her, he was a wandering soul, far from his native land, still on his own journey, accepted but apart, not quite at peace. Was this to be their common bond, then? Should she feel sorry for him, or a kindred spirit? Should she by silence demonstrate her understanding of his situation and his destiny or by questioning seek to discover more?

‘Do you miss your home?’

‘Sometimes.’ He ran his hand through his thick hair. ‘Tell me about Baghdad.’

‘It is a city of wondrous architecture: minarets, mosques. Much activity: learning, invention. Like here but bigger.’

‘And the people?’

‘Dark and mysterious.’

Zayd pursed his lips. ‘And life?’

‘Unbearably lonely. I had my dreams and I was afraid I would never achieve them, always bound by tradition and rules. A foolish desire.’

His eyes bored into hers. ‘No, Qamira. No ambition is foolish. The only rules that should bind your life are those that you yourself make. Nothing should constrain you.’

‘Easy to say.’ She turned slightly to contemplate the garden. ‘Are we not all constrained – even Nature? Do not the trees grow to their expected height, flowers bloom with their due colours, all things in their season? Dogs bark and cats mew? Unchanging? Never branching out?’

‘We are humans, not flowers. We may do as we please. You have branched out. You’re here with your grandfather, embracing a new life.’

Qamira contemplated this a while. ‘As did you,’ she agreed finally. ‘Do you have any family left in El-Maghreb?’

He gazed at the ground. ‘My parents are both dead.’

‘Mine died too – before their time. We’re both orphans, then.’

He looked up at her through long thick lashes. ‘Indeed we are.’

***

‘Do not run from me!’ His voice rasped unkindly in her ear. ‘I want you! I have made myself clear on countless occasions. I will wait no longer. You will submit to me.’

‘If Grandfather were here, you wouldn’t dare make so bold.’

‘But he is not here, and I am. Here, to fulfil your destiny.’

Then his mood changed, his voice pleading. ‘It is I who beg you, my sweet nightingale. You cannot comprehend how much I love and desire you. Not just your music–’

She turned her face away as he kissed her again, his beard scratching her soft cheek.

Remember Zayd! She sobbed, her will almost broken. Why was he suddenly so difficult to resist? Then from somewhere in her inner core she mustered the strength of mind to withstand him. ‘I cannot do this. I cannot love you as you would have me do. I do not want you!’

But to no avail. He was panting now, whether from passion or exertion, she could not tell. She tried to push him away, the heels of her hands against his shoulders, but his grip tightened and he slid down to his knees, kissing her stomach, her abdomen, moving lower until his hands were raising the hem of her nightgown. His desperation revolted her yet her whole being ached with a treacherous sensation of pleasure and betrayal – and she the betrayer.

Remember Zayd! Now his fingers probed, seeking her secret warmth.

The sudden unexpected stab of bliss surprised her. She gritted her teeth, shuddered. She must not succumb.

Remember Zayd! The dim light and his lustful eagerness made him awkward, fumbling, and in that instant she came to her senses, all thoughts of pleasure fled. Her fingernails dug into the soft flesh between his shoulders and neck. She hoped she’d drawn blood. He roared in pain and stumbled away, releasing her to massage the spot.

She slid sideways and staggered towards the door.

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