“Sing on, girl. Your voice does wonders for that song.”
“I can’t. I’ve ne’er heard that tune before, and I can only memorize a dozen or so verses at a time. But at the end I’ll remember it all.”
“Truly? You can learn an entire ballad with one hearing?”
“There are no books or signposts in my country. Memory is everything. Sister Adela said Homer was blind, yet he sang ballads of ten thousand verses.”
“Homer?”
“A poet, a Greek I think.”
“I know who Homer was. I was bodyguard to the young Duke of York during his schooldays at London. I’m just surprised that nuns study Homer.”
“I’m not a nun. I was a ward of the convent, a lodger. I had my own quarters and Sister Adela to teach me and help me get about.”
“How long were you there?”
“Always,” she said simply. “My whole life.”
“But no bairns are born in convents. Where are your parents? Your home?”
“The convent was my home,” she said, with a flash of anger. “They had other guests, an idiot girl and a boy so deformed he had to be wheeled about in a barrow. If I had parents, I know nothing of them, nor care to. In the country of the blind all men are handsome, all ladies lovely.”
“But all is in darkness?”
“Not all, I can see the changes ‘tween day and night readily enough and some colors and shapes, though not clearly. I wear this ribbon to spare confusion and let my other senses compensate. That’s how I knew the cedar was near. And that someone is coming now.”
“What? Where?”
“Behind us, on the track we left.”
“I hear nothing.”
“Sight is no help in the dark. He’s on horseback, moving slowly.”
“I hadn’t counted on horses,” I said, rising, seizing my cudgel. “The louts from the inn—”
“No,” Noelle said positively. “There were no horses at that place. And I hear only one animal now.”
And then I heard it as well, the soft tlot, tlot of hooves on the muddy trail. Then they stopped.
Silence. Only the drip of the rain.
“Hellooo, the fire,” a voice called. “I’m a traveler, wet and in need of direction. I have food to share. May I approach?”
“Come ahead, and welcome,” I replied, moving into the shadows.
He walked in warily, leading his animal, a plowhorse from the look of it. Our visitor had much the same look. Heavily built, stooped from farm work, his face was obscured by the cowl of his rough woolen cloak. He appeared to be unarmed, though with his cloak pulled tight I couldn’t be sure. I stepped out to face him, quarterstaff in hand.
“God bless all here,” he said, glancing about. “I’m John of Menteith, a reeve for Lord Duart. No need for that stick, friend. I mean no man harm.”
“You’re far from Menteith,” I said.
“Aye,” he nodded, warming his hands at the fire, “I’m bound for the fair at Grahmsby. Hope to trade this sorry nag for a bullock and a few cups of ale. Who might you folk be?”
“Tallifer of York,” I said. “Traveling to Strathclyde with my daughter.”
“A blind girl, by chance?”
Sweeping off his cloak, he revealed a sword, a crude blade, standard issue at any barracks.
His bush of a beard split in a gap-toothed grin. “Drop the stick, fellow, or I’ll cleave you in two.”
If he expected me to wet myself or scamper off, he was disappointed. I’ve seen blades before,- I’ve even faced one or two with nought in my hand but sweat. I had a stout cudgel and Menteith had the look of a farmer, big but clumsy. I waited.
So did he. His eyes flicked from me to Noelle and back again. He licked his lips, unnerved by our stillness, gathering himself. Then with a roar, he lunged at me, swinging his blade like a field sickle.
He’d have done better with a sickle. Jabbing the cudgel butt between his shins, I sent him sprawling into the fire. He moved quickly for a big man, though. Rolling with the fall, he scrambled clear of the flames, crouching on the far side, panting.
Unable to tell what was amiss, Noelle stood frozen as Menteith began sidling around the fire toward her. I thought he meant to seize her as a shield. I was wrong. Eyes wild, he charged again, this time at Noelle!
He was almost on her, blade raised high to hack her down, when I rammed the pole hard into his gut, doubling him over. Gasping, he staggered back, slashing at me. A mistake. Blocking a blow with one end of my staff, I swept the other around full force, catching him squarely on his bull neck just below the ear.
He stared at me a moment, surprised. Then his eyes rolled up like a hog on a hook, and he toppled backward into the fire. I stood over him, taut as a drawn bow, ready to finish him if he moved. But even the flames couldn’t rouse him.
Kicking the blade out of his fist, I prodded him out of the fire with my staff.
“Tallifer? What’s happened?”
“Our guest had no manners, and it worked out poorly for him. Do you have any idea who he might be?”
“I’ve ne’er heard his voice before. Why?”
“He seems an unlikely thief. He was armed with a yeoman’s blade, but he was no soldier.”
“He said he was a reeve, perhaps he spoke true. He smells of cattle.”
“He fought like one, all bull, no skill. He was definitely seeking us, though. He knew you were blind though he could see neither of us clearly.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Nor do I, yet. I’ll persuade him to explain when he wakes.”
But he didn’t wake. As I stripped off his belt to tie his hands, his head flopped unnaturally. I checked his pupils. Dead as a goose on Saint Margaret’s Day.
“God’s bodkin,” I said softly.
“What is it?”
“The bastard’s dead. Damn me, I didn’t think I hit him that hard. And damn him for an inconsiderate lout. Not only does he keep his secrets, I’ll have to haul his useless carcass into the wood. We don’t want him found near our camp.”
After dragging his dead weight for what seemed like a mile, I used his sword to dig a shallow grave, rolled the reeve in it, and threw his blade in after him. Weapons are outlawed for common folk in Scotland and the sword surely hadn’t done the reeve much good. His purse held a few shillings, fair payment for a burial.
I slept poorly, restless from the fight and the death of the reeve. As a soldier I was no hero. I fought for my life and my friends, killed when I had to but took no satisfaction in it. In battle I was always afraid. And afterward, though I survived, I knew how easily it could have been me bleeding out while my enemies divided my gear and had a drink on my luck.
The reeves death was doubly troubling, though. He was no vagrant bandit. Only a fool travels this country at night, yet he’d arrived at our camp well after dark. He must have been hunting us though I couldn’t imagine why.
Had the cutthroats from the inn set him on us? Unlikely. Why hire out work they could easily do themselves?
Odder still, in the midst of the fight, he’d lunged at Noelle when she was clearly no threat. It made no sense. Unless she was the one he came for, and I was just in his way. But who would kill a blind nun?
“Tallifer? Are you awake?”
“Yes.”
The fire had burned to embers, and her face was only a vague shape in the shadows. As all faces were in her world.
“I’ve been thinking. You can’t leave me at an abbey.”
“Why not?”
“Without money to pay for my lodging, they won’t accept me.
“How were your expenses paid before?”
“I don’t know, by a kinsman, I suppose. It was a private arrangement with the abbess and she was lost in the fire. I have an idea, though.”
“Such as?”
“Take me with you,” she said in a rush. “I can earn my way. I sing fairly well and you can teach me to—”
“It’s out of the question
. Life on the road is too hard,- it’s nothing for a girl.”
“All roads are hard in the country of the blind. I heard you breathing heavily this afternoon, when I could have walked another day without tiring. I can carry burdens, wash clothes. I’ll be your woman if you want.”
“My what? Good lord, Noelle, what do you know of being a woman?”
“The novitiates seldom talked of anything else, and I know a few songs of love.”
“I know songs about dragons, girl, but I can’t breathe fire. And I’m much too old for you anyway.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Yes, you would. Trust me on that.”
“You don’t want me? Am I too plain, then? Or does my blindness offend you?”
“Neither, but—”
“Then what is it? You’ve saved my life twice. Why did you bother if you mean to cast me off?”
“Noelle—”
“A minstrel came to the abbey once. He had a little dog who danced when he played the fife. I can’t dance, but I can sing a bit. And I promise to be no more trouble than a little dog. Please, Tallifer.”
“Enough!” I said, throwing up my hands. “The sun is rising and we’d best be away from here. We’ll talk more of this later.”
But we didn’t talk. We sang instead. We took turns riding the reeve’s mount, entertaining each other, with Noelle memorizing each ballad I sang, then vastly improving it with her marvelous voice.
I skirted the next few hamlets, afraid the reeve’s horse might be recognized. But in the first town of any size, I found a tailor and squandered our inheritance to buy Noelle a decent traveling garment.
After the measurements, Noelle and the tailor’s wife disappeared into the family quarters for a final fitting. I waited with the tailor, exchanging news of the road and the town. And then Noelle stepped out.
The dress wasn’t fancy. It had no need to be. In pale blue woolsey, and with her face scrubbed and shining, my grimy foundling was transformed. And I was lost.
The tailor’s wife had replaced her blindfold with a blue ribbon that matched the dress. She was a vision as lovely as the damsels of a thousand ballads. But no mirror could ever tell her so.
My throat swelled and I could not speak. Mistaking my silence for displeasure, the tailor’s wife frowned.
“If the color is too dark—”
“No,” I managed. “It’s perfect. Wonderful. No man ever had a more lovely—daughter.”
And so it seemed. Born restless, I’ve never had a family of my own nor much felt the lack. Yet after a few weeks with Noelle I could scarce remember life without her.
As summer faded into autumn, we worked our way southwest toward the border, singing for our supper. And prospering.
My performances have always been well received, but Noelle brought freshness and sparkle to songs I’d sung half my life, her youth and zest a sprightly contrast to my darker presence.
Audiences responded to her and she to them, basking in the applause like a blossom in the sun. The waif from the convent was fast becoming an assured young beauty. And though she never raised the subject of being more than a daughter to me again, neither was she interested in the young bloods who lingered after our performances to chat her up.
She was always courteous but never a whit more than polite as she dismissed them. When I asked why she showed no curiosity about boys, she replied that they were exactly that. Boys. For now, the music and freedom of her new life were more than enough. She’d never been happier.
Nor had I. The last large town we worked was Strathclyde, a performance in the laird’s manor house for his family and kinsmen that was well received. Afterward, his steward offered us a year’s position in his household as resident artists.
A month earlier I’d have leapt at the chance, but no more.
I’ve always felt comfortable amongst Scots. Their rough humor and love of battle songs suits both my art and my temperament, but Noelle was changing that.
As her talent and skills improved, I noted the magical effect her singing had on village folk and was certain she could charm larger, more worldly audiences south of the Roman walls just as easily. Newcastle, York, perhaps even in London itself.
For the first time in years I allowed myself to consider the future. We could become master minstrels, winning acclaim and moving in finer circles than either of us had known before.
But to reach that future, we’d have to survive the present. There are always rumors of war in the Scottish hills, but I was seeing more combatants than usual, not only Scots and their Irish cousins, but also hard-bitten mercenaries from France and Flanders.
In earlier years I would have been pleased at the chance to entertain soldiers far from home with fat purses and dim futures. Lonely troops are an amiable audience, easily pleased and generous with applause and coins.
But I had a daughter to worry about now. So after politely declining the steward’s offer, we began working our way south toward the border and England. Perhaps we could even journey to my family home at Shrewsbury after long years.
Traveling was a pure pleasure now, singing through the lowlands, describing the folk and the scenery to a girl who savored every phrase like fine wine. My sole regret was that Noelle remained in her country of the blind and I could do nothing to light her way out.
But there is little difference between a lass born sightless and a fool befuddled by dreams. Though I recall those days as the happiest I’ve ever known, in some ways I was more blind than my newfound daughter.
THE FIRST FROSTS OF autumn found us moving steadily south and into trouble. We were entering the country of the true border lords now, nobles with holdings and kinsmen on both sides of the river Tweed and loyalties as changeable as the lowland winds. Arnim once described the Scottish border as a smudged line drawn in blood that never dries.
Perhaps someone was preparing to alter the mark once again.
As we neared the Liddesdale, traveling from one small hamlet to another, we often took to the wood to avoid troops, well mounted and heavily armed. Skirmishes between Norman knights on the Tyne or the Rede and restive Scots along the Liddel Water are common in a land where cattle raids are lauded in song. Still, with war in the air, crossing the border would be dangerous. We might be hanged as spies by one side or another.
But our luck held. As we approached Redheugh, I spotted a familiar wagon in a camp outside the town wall, a bright crimson cart with a Welsh dragon painted boldly on its sides.
After changing from our traveling garments into performing clothes, I led Noelle on our mount into a world unfamiliar to most folk, a traveling circus.
Most minstrels, especially in the north, ply their trade alone or in small family groups. But a few singers earn enough renown to gather a larger assemblage, a troupe of musicians, jugglers, and acrobats whose appearance at a town is reason enough to declare a feast day.
One such is Owyn Phyffe, Bard of Wales and the Western World as he calls himself. A small, compactly built dandy, blond-bearded and handsome as the devil’s cousin, Owyn is a famed performer on both sides of the border and on the continent as well. A son and grandson of Welsh minstrels, he’s a master of the craft. And well aware of it.
His camp was a hive of activity, cookfires being doused and horses hitched for travel. I found Owyn strolling about, noting every detail of the preparation without actually soiling his hands. He dressed more like a young lord than a singer, in a claret velvet doublet and breeches of fine doeskin. His muslin shirt had loose Italian sleeves. And not just for fashion.
Owyn carries a dirk up one sleeve or the other, perhaps both, and I once saw him slit a man’s throat so deftly that the rogue’s soul was in hell before his heart knew it was dead. Owyn dresses like a popinjay, but he’s not a man to take lightly.
Our paths had crossed a number of times over the years, usually on friendly terms. Or so I hoped, because I needed him now.
He scowled theatrically as I approached leading t
he mount.
“God’s eyes, I believe I spy Tallifer, the croaking frog of York. I can’t tell which is uglier, you or that broken-down horse. Here to beg a crust of bread, I suppose.”
“Not at all. In the last town, folk told me of a perky little Welsh girl who dresses like a fop and calls herself Owyn Phyffe the poet. Is she about?”
“Aye, she’s about, about to thrash you for your loud mouth,” Owyn said, grinning, seizing my arm in a grip of surprising strength for a small man. “How are you, Tallifer?”
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