Showing posts with label the troubadours. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the troubadours. Show all posts

Tuesday, April 7, 2015

Bad hare days and medieval dogs



Everyone went hunting in medieval Europe, for fun and for food, legally and illegally, and where the hunters went, so did their hounds. But what sort of dogs were they, what jobs did they do and how were they trained? For my current novel, I needed to imagine myself into a hawking expedition in 12th century Provence and my interest in dogs led me down research rabbit-holes…

Were there dogs in the 12thC anything like Blanche, Sherlock and Luca (a friend's Australian Shepherd)? 

Photos: Claire Hamlisch




The missing favourites: no labradors, no golden retrievers, no Newfoundlands. These breeds didn't reach Europe until the 19th century so the job of retrieving medieval game lay in different teeth. Neither were there any collies so Luca is out of the picture (although she always manages to be in any we take). Dogs were often referred to by their jobs rather than by breed names. The majority of a kennel consisted of running-hounds, in a pack that gave scent and chased game, looking and behaving like modern foxhounds. In addition to the running-hounds were the specialists:- 

The greyhound was the medieval knight’s all-round dog of choice: a noble dog, swift enough to take down game and sweet enough to curl up indoors with the family. Commemorated in poetry,on tombstones and in tapestries, greyhounds were prized. Training focused on the chase, with rewards (bloody meat) for catching prey. Medieval training by fewterers (houndmasters) did not scruple to use crippled birds as easy prey to encourage dogs to try for more difficult targets such as hares. Deerhounds and wolfounds were included in the category of 'greyhound'.

Nowadays, greyhounds are still prized for speed (track racing in the UK) and for hunting but have gone downmarket in social class and they are less likely to enjoy old age by the fire than in the 12thC. Traditional hunting with 'galgos' is still popular in Spain, where each summer the failures are abandoned, tortured and killed - or rescued by greyhound associations across the border in France, whose members wonder whether they are merely supporting this annual clear-out. Also by Spanish tradition, a hunting-dog's performance reflects on his master's prowess, and only a slow death to the dog can restore the human's reputation: hence the torture and death administered as punishment.




The lymer was the scenting-hound. In a kennel of 60 running-hounds there might be 5 lymers. Typically very long-eared, working on leash, either with nose to the ground or in the air, a lymer would track the quarry in silence. Training would include punishment for barking and rewards for nose-work, finding objects by smell. As with the greyhounds, the handlers would build up from easy activities (find the chopped-up liver a yard away) to more difficult ones (same liver hidden behind a tree or still inside a moving creature).

A nose with four feet, the lymer also gathered in smells via his long ears as they trailed on the ground. He didn't need to be fast as he could pick up a trail when the prey was long out of sight. 

Bloodhounds and basset hounds would have been in this category and you've figured out who my lymer is... Sherlock, my bleu de Gascogne, a Gascony Griffon, who was abandoned in summer 2013 by his hunter owner and has adapted just fine to home life. 



The spaniels - perfect bird-dogs then as now - flushed out and retrieved small game. They also had a reputation for being 'quarrelsome, noisy and easily distracted', just as likely to go off and chase  a villager's chickens as hunt the rabbits in the forest. The name came from the word for 'Spanish', their country of origin, and medieval English writers didn't hold back on racist comments comparing the spaniels' failings to those of their human countrymen.

Nevertheless these small, plucky and playful dogs were essential to the chase, and their most common liver-and-white colour stands out in images of a hunt.

The setters had a fine reputations as quiet stalkers, water-dogs who retrieved game. In medieval England, hunting-dogs of Sherlock's colour were called 'French blues', and speckled blue was seen in spaniels and setters, as today in the English Setter.



The mastiffs were the heavyweights. Wearing spiked collars, they were capable of taking down wolf, boar and bear after the greyhounds had chased the prey to the ground. Often portrayed with large testicles, mastiffs represented raw, male animality, which was allegedly aroused in the humans hunting too. 

An après-hunt party might start with the traditional innards feast for the dogs, to which the lymer had first entitlement. Then, it was quite likely to continue with a large quantity of alcohol and anecdote. If ladies were present, as they usually were in hawking expeditions, then other kinds of sport might follow. Double-entendres regarding 'losing one's hart' and 'the beauty of hare' were the language of foreplay.

Among the mastiffs were the special breeds, still wearing their spiked collars, who did not hunt but guarded flocks and herds from wolf and bear. The Tibetan Mastiff, the Anatolian Shepherd and the Great Pyrenees were all among these ancient guardians. They were guardians, not herding dogs, among whom you would still recognise the ancestors of my Blanche.

According to one book on the troubadours, there was 'a rumour that a female troubadour toured the south of France with a large white dog' and this statement sparked Song at Dawn. I couldn't shake off that image of the girl and a Great Pyrenees, who became Estela and Nici. The large white dog plays a key part in the story and he even has his own fan club.

Underlying my Troubadours Quartet is this sort of research, on every aspect of 12thC life and politics but only a tiny part will show in the books. If it's not relevant to the people and the story, it doesn't belong in my novels. That doesn't stop me lingering along the way, finding out about alaunts, brachets, and harriers, and sometimes sharing those findings here with you. Did you know that black dogs were shunned in Christendom as evil?

Winner of the Global Ebooks Award for Best Historical Fiction, Song at Dawn will be on promotion from 7th-12th April at 99c/99p so now is a good time to discover the 12thC ready for the 3rd book Plaint for Provence on November 1st. The book trailer starts with the image of a 12thC citadel right beside where I now live. Inspiration out the window!




amazon link
Do you love dogs too? If you review any of my books you can add your dog to my Readers' Dogs Hall of Fame. Just drop me a line with a link to your review, a photo and a brief description of your dog.  

Further Reading
Thanks to Robyn Young (writer of outstanding historical fiction) for recommending The Art of Medieval Hunting - John Cummings. 

Another good source is Medieval Hunting - Richard Almond 


Monday, January 28, 2013

Bladesong - party time!

Available now!



Available in print from amazon in March

The Story

1151 – the Holy Land during a fragile peace

Estela, the troubadour, following the destiny of
her beautiful voice, and Dragonetz, her passionate knight;
divided by the times they love in and fighting to be together.

Dragonetz is imprisoned in Damascus, his military prowess
as valuable and dangerous to the balance of power
as the priceless Torah he has to deliver to Jerusalem.

Can Estela get him out alive, despite Nur-ad-Din,
the Muslim Atabeg; Melisende, the Queen of Jerusalem;
and an avenger from the past?

Will she still want to,
when she knows what they’ve done to him?


Valentine Day Giveaways

Free Draw Giveaway of 3 signed print copies of 'Bladesong' from goodreads, 

open to entry February 13th - March 23rd


'Song at Dawn', Bk 1 of the Troubadours' on free DL as kindle from February 13th (US Pacific time) until February 17th







Extract from 'Bladesong', Chapter 6:-
Back in the Holy Land, Dragonetz re-lives events of the Second Crusade, trying to work out which of his enemies from the past is holding him captive now. In 1148, Dragonetz was a young knight, sworn vassal to Aliénor (Eleanor) of Aquitaine, trekking overland from Byzantium towards the Crusader State of Antioch. Aliénor, with her Commander Geoffroi de Rançon, is leading the vanguard of Frankish troops, with the baggage train in the middle and her husband Louis VII, King of France, bringing up the rear. Aliénor's party reaches one of the Crusade's infamous places, Mount Cadmus...


Although they were well into Seljuq territory, the day’s journey had gone without incident so far, and, at barely mid-day, they were already approaching the crest of Mount Cadmus, chosen for the night’s halt.
‘We pitch camp here for the night, my Lady.’ De Rançon steadied his grey beside her, snorts of steam showing the horses’ efforts on the climb.
Two sullen frown lines wrinkled Aliénor’s forehead. ‘That would be a waste of the time we’ve gained. Our scouts have reported a plateau but a few hours ahead, flat and fair, perfect for our camp. We should profit from our speed and continue. The heathens will never expect us to be upon them so soon and the element of surprise is worth ten thousand men.’

Before de Rançon could respond, de Maurienne pulled a face that would sour milk and abort sheep. ‘My King expressly instructed that we camp on Mount Cadmus for the night, where the goods-train and his own army will join us. Remember that the Germans were ambushed in this pass and we need to regroup as soon as we can.’
Twin points of hectic colour flared in Aliénor’s cheeks. ‘My husband,’ she emphasised the title, ‘has not seen the terrain here. Nor heard from scouts that all is clear. If he had, he would order this army to continue. The fact there was an ambush here three months ago means nothing! As the vanguard is under my orders, I command you, de Rançon, to continue with the day’s march!’


Dragonetz held his breath, in no position to intervene. The silence stretched.
‘Are you the Commander of my Guard or are you not, de Rançon?’ The ice in her tone was cutting, the threat clear.
‘At your service, my Lady,’ came the unequivocal reply. He was going to order them to march onwards.
‘No,’ shouted Dragonetz, jumping off his horse, clutching Aliénor’s bridle and stopping them all in their tracks. She glared at him.
‘You overstep yourself, my Lord Dragonetz. Be careful what you say next lest I find I have a traitor in my Guard.’
‘Dragonetz,’ warned de Rançon.

There was no going back and Dragonetz hoped wholeheartedly that there would be no going forward. ‘No,’ he repeated, more quietly, but the words still tumbled over themselves. Months of hearing bad advice leading to bad decisions welled up and poured out into this one attempt to stop lunacy. ‘My lady, if we continue, we are opening up the baggage train to attack. We cannot abandon them like this! The Seljuqs could be anywhere in these mountains. Those behind us will be slower, losing more and more distance from us, splitting up our army and making each section more vulnerable. Our horses need rest and our men must rally their strength in case they are called upon to fight. Our gains will show if we need to act in our defence.’

De Rançon leant down from the saddle and struck Dragonetz across the cheek with his glove, drawing blood. ‘You weren’t asked to speak.’

Aliénor held up her hand, stopping de Rançon from striking again. ‘He means well,’ she observed dispassionately. ‘We need men who care enough  to speak out.’ Dragonetz’ hopes rose. ‘Even when they’re wrong. There has been no sign of these Seljuqs who are supposed to be everywhere. Our scouts have reported the terrain clear. Louis will catch up to the others for a night here. And we can ride a few hours more to be better rested and in full possession of a perfect campsite. You should be thinking of attack not defence!’

Dragonetz dropped to his knees in the dust, still holding the reins of Aliénor’s mount. He unsheathed his sword and held the hilt out towards her. ‘By my oath to you, by all that’s sacred, I swear I would rather you kill me with the same sword by which you made me knight, than make this wrong choice.’

Her eyes flashed at him, impatient. ‘Enough histrionics, Dragonetz. I am not so easily swayed.’ She lashed out at him with a boot, kicking his hands off her reins and dropping his sword in the dust. ‘Leave me. I want only loyal men beside me. Give the orders, de Rançon, then ride with me. Let those who see bog-sprites and night-mares go back to Paris where they belong!’ As she spurred her horse into a canter, Dragonetz picked his sword out of the dust. His father’s men were with him in seconds, bear-like Raoulf and his golden son Arnaut, ready to kill or die for him, as he was for Aliénor.

‘You heard our orders,’ he told them curtly. ‘Tell the men.’ They’d been with him long enough to say nothing, but do exactly what they’d been told. Dragonetz ignored de Maurienne’s impotent clucking, mounted his horse and rode on along the Kazik Beli Pass, down the other side of the mountains until they reached an inviting plateau. There had been no attacks, not even one sighting of a Seljuq. The surroundings were clearly visible from the campsite and Aliénor was protected by de Rançon and her Guard, including Dragonetz’ men. Raoulf would rage at being given the slip but then if Dragonetz was to suffer Raoulf’s anger, they would both still be alive. He would take no-one with him and then he could take no-one down with him if he were wrong, for there would be a reckoning with Aliénor in either case.

Dragonetz apologised to his horse, left the army setting up camp and galloped like a raised ghost back along the route they’d just travelled, back to Mount Cadmus.