[7/10]
It was largely invented, that long poem. Poets do that, tellers of tales do. But the foundation was real.
Guy Gavriel Kay is one of the few authors on my shelves in the ‘must buy on publication’ category. I checked, and I have read everything he wrote, with the exception of his early book of poetry. Even when he’s not in top form, as I found his latest effort, he maintains the power to weave enchanted tapestries of words that transport me to times of wonder and strife, evoke the people who rise to the occasion when history demands it.
My opening quote stresses the two main attractions in his books: the use of language and the historical inspiration. Kay may be prone to flights of fancy that take him down different and stranger paths, away from his original sources, but he always starts with certain civilizations and with certain inflexion points of their journey through time. One name proposed for this choice of historical nexus offered by Kay is interlude , a pause for reflection between two ages, two conflicts, two heartbeats:
She’d learned that word from Thierry. It meant, he’d said, a time in between. In a life, or in a poem. After one thing, before the next. Sometimes a bridge, sometimes a break, he’d said. A pause. Interludes could operate differently in life, in writing.
The poet is attracted to this moment of change, to the elegy for the loss of a certain cultural glory and the rise of something new, not necessarily something better than the past. Al Andalus under attack from the Catholic kings, China invaded by barbarians from the steppes, the Provence of the troubadours being persecuted as heretics, Constantinople under siege, the city-states of Italy at war with each other... and now France about to start a civil war while being invaded by England at the start of the XV century.
As often as not, the narrator is a poet or an artist caught in these ‘interesting times’ or a leader who laments the passing of an age.
Lines in the dark. He was a man who shaped lines in the dark. He’d rise and light a candle at the embers of a fire to scribble by. That defined him, he thought. It would do as well as anything else to define him.
Thierry Villar of Orane is transparently, obviously a fictional portrait of Francois Villon, at least to me, who was already familiar with his image and his verses. A student of law who prefers the company of thieves, drunkards and women of easy virtue, Thierry mocks the powerful figures of his city in sharp and bawdy satire and sings the joy of living in the gutter.
At the start of the novel, Thierry is caught in the act of planning to rob a church and forced to help the Provost investigate a gruesome murder. The victim is the king’s brother, and the mastermind behind the plot is quickly identified as the most powerful duke in Ferrieres, a man who believes himself to be above the law.
After giving evidence in court against this duke, Thierry is forced to flee to the countryside and hide. Meanwhile, the king of England invades.
All of the events described in the book took place more or less as described, but the timelines are jumbled in order to condense the hundred years wars into a more compact frame that would allow Kay to also bring in the Maiden, Jeanette de Broche, a teenage virgin who rallies the peasants against the invaders and saves the day for the king. She is also much too easily identified as Joan of Arc.
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The real focus of the story is not so much on these historical figures (Charles VI, John the Fearless, Henry V, the battle of Agincourt), but they form the background against which the real actors play their own personal dramas.
Thierry Villar mourns his exile from his beloved streets of Orane / Paris, but finds new inspiration for his verse in the chateau of his new friend, the court poetess Marina di Seressa. The Provost Robbin de Vaux, a former soldier forced now to navigate the treacherous waters of court politics, is probably the most compelling figure in the book:
What was his proper task, though? Where did he owe allegiance in this moment? Country? King? City? Holy Jad of the Sun? Some idea of justice? His own family?
And what if these pointed in different directions? To different decisions?
I thought Marina di Seressa was too good to be true, but I was thrilled to find out that her real source of inspiration was as formidable as herself: Christine de Pizan is today recognized as an early feminist icon and a champion of fair governance.
I have written to assert the freedoms women should have and that includes a privilege not to be empty headed.
Silvy, part-owner of an Orane tavern, is another liberated woman well ahead of her time in independence and emotional intelligence. Her own path is entangled with the journey of Thierry Villar and may lead from friendship to passion, but not before their resolve and their integrity are tested to the limits of endurance.
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Instead of talking about historical events, I would like to focus instead on the use of magic in the shared world where all the historical novels of Guy Gavriel Kay take place. This is not a world where wizards cast spells in battle or superheroes save the day when the going gets tough. This is a world where the supernatural is just a suggestion, a hidden path at the bottom of a garden, a shadow moving through a misty glade, a song once heard that cannot be forgotten, a question instead of an answer.
Was she a creature out of faerie? Where terrifying beasts roared in the night, unseen?
I very much prefer this elusive allusive approach to the mechanical magic systems of classic epic fantasy. It infuses the world with a sense of wonder, of uncertainty and even, in the end, of hope. Kay names it the half-world, accessible to few of the inhabitants of Ferrieres, mostly in dreams and in half-remembered memories of the future.
Gauvard Colle is such a character in Orane, an astrologer consulted by the court and by those seeking love in strange or forbidden places. He is more of an observer than a participant in the events, but he shares a poetic sensibility with Thierry, Marina and Silvy.
An even more compelling figure is a fierce lady named Alaina d’Arceval, a huntress and a muse for feverish poems of passion and longing. I will not unveil her mystery in this review.
It is not only people that are conduits for magic. In Guy Gavriel’s world there are also places of power, places where maybe gods touched ground in ancient times and where their presence can still be felt after centuries. I would love to make a list of these places and follow them from novel to novel, from age to age, but my memory is too feeble already to make certain. I am sure though that the same place appears in ‘Sailing to Sarantium’, in ‘A Song for Arbonne’ and now. This almost recognition adds to the whole mystery of the setting.
The bridge has seen much, the river even more, of course. This became another moment among many. Time can stretch back a long way in some places, and much is lost, forgotten.
Wait long enough, most things are.
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Instead of historical truth, the author offers an artist’s rendering of the past, distilled in a poet’s vision and cast against a dark background – a brightness long ago as he called it in a previous novel. We make sense of our lives through stories, not through statistics and memorized dates. Poems and mosaics and songs are as relevant for me as dry academic studies:
We regard our own memories as truths, when they are often just the stories we have told ourselves over time. They become the truth we live by, or with. They become our lives.
Sometimes we retain the quiet moments that come in the midst of chaos, or after it. The city, my city in the night. Our lives, written on the dark.
Little is actually known about the private life of Francois Villon or Jean of Arc, but their poetry and their deeds have become the stuff of legends and still have the power to move our imagination and to comment on present events, on integrity, civil disobedience, the rule of law, the role of art.
For all my admiration about the presentation and about the choice of historical period, I must confess that I actually struggled to finish the novel. I understand the need for artistic licence in the treatment of historical sources, but my own familiarity with the period and with Villon or Abelard kept pulling me out of the intended mood of the piece and had me diving to fact-check the accuracy of the events. I oscillated between enchantment and annoyance, and this is reflected in a lower rating than the book deserves.
Maybe a re-read at some point in the future will help me reconsider the whole project.