Where is the time going? This erratic blog will have to tolerate the long hiatus until I can get myself settled in the Val d'Orcia and experiment with fiction and historical research at my leisure.

I'm not a human doing; I'm a human being.
 

I'm reading Noah Gordon's The Physician and am blown away by the scholarship that goes into a good historical novel, even when the period of history is sparsely documented and the author has to make a lot of stuff up. It'll take me five to ten years of study to feel that I can do a novel about a medieval herbalist who successfully negotiates the narrow path between, on one side, forced thralldom under the boot of a representative of patriarchy (father, husband, priest, brother, son), and on the other side, death, the social and/or physical death meted out to lone women during the consolidation of one of the several vast patriarchal (no other gods allowed nevermind goddesses) power grabs of which we now see the harvest as we slog into the 21st century.
MONOTHEISM KILLS!!!

"...the little borgo of Castiglione, in that lively storm centre, the Val d'Orcia, looked with unconcealed hatred upon the monastery of Vivo because of a dispute about the use of certain meadows. In 1328 the Castiglionesi to the number of two hundred suddenly fell on the monastery, raised their banner over its campanile, pricked with their swords and lances, evidently in the spirit of rude horse-play, Frate Ranieri, who was celebrating the Mass, robbed the furniture and cattle, devastated the fields, in short, conducted themselves in a manner entirely worthy of their aristocratic exemplars."

F. Schevill
Siena The History of a Medieval Commune


1328 is the date given for Simone Martini's fresco of the condottiere (mercenary soldier) Guido Riccio da Fogliano at Siena's Palazzo Publico. Sometime between 1320 and 25, the artist painted a Madonna and Child in Castiglione d'Orcia.

Daria let her limbs float loosely in the warm pool of the hot springs’ final natural terrace above the river. She let her mind drift as her gaze wandered from the first evening stars to the torchlight all around the Rocca, the terrible fortress high above the far side of the river below. When dark came completely, she would reclaim her tunic, cloak, pack and stave. She would descend to the forest-shrouded ford below. The colors of the painted caravan in the woods would not be visible, but the travelers had brought her friend Giuditta accompanied by her venerable father Solomone. The three of them would take the trail up toward the hamlet that crouched under the high fortress. The moonless night would keep secret their arrival at Daria’s home in the village beyond. Castiglion, its stone walls and ancient cypresses encircling its crowning castle, empty tonight but for the servants, would turn a blind eye to her guests. There was little risk.

Warm from her bath and nearly invisible in her gray green hooded cloak, Daria forded the river soundlessly and followed the sound of quiet laughter to the banked camp fire’s glow. Stefano, the young leader of the troupe, tensed as she stepped into view and then he relaxed and smiled a greeting.

“Salve, Daria,” he said softly. “You are still safe from the Lombardi?”

“They pay me no heed as yet,” she answered. “Giuditta and her father are ready?”

“We are,” Giuditta piped up and arose from her place among the women by the fire, hefting a sack over her shoulder. Solomone stepped out of the shadow of the caravan and embraced Daria in silence. He had aged so, but he did not lean too heavily on his tall stave. They would be able to climb past the Rocca in good time.

Whispered good wishes and farewells saw them out of Stefano’s camp and it was soon out of sight in the woods as they wended their way up the trail. Ancient olive trees clinging to the steep rise screened them from the sight of any soldiers who might be awake and outside the ring of torch lights. Boulders above the trees became their shields as they passed. The only soul stirring was the smith at the edge of the village, but not only was Checco her friend, he was too busy sweating at his stoked forge to notice their passing. The smith had orders to fill. But Daria’s dark gray cat had waited in the warmth of the workshop’s doorway for her and bounded ahead toward the short passageway where the entrance to their shared home was the only thing between him and a long anticipated meal before curling up at the foot of her bed.

Daria could see the exhaustion on Solomone’s face and even Giuditta had been unusually quiet on the trail. Having lit the fires and offered bread, cheese, wine and water to them before leading them to her guestroom, Daria prepared a hot sage tea to stem the sweat she had worked up on the climb. She kicked off her good leather boots in favor of soft slippers and carried the tea up to her chambers where she stripped off her tunic, washed from a basin of chamomile scented water, and fell into bed after opening her shutters to the starlight. Sleep came fast on the heels of the night sounds, the owls and crickets and Argentino’s deep-throated purr.

Eavesdrop assiduously.

Una felicità selvaggia