For a Song

by Kathleen Scarth

  “Then come ride with me,” she begged. “We could not get into any mischief on horseback.”

  A reluctant smile curved his lips, and she felt hope rising. “I suppose not. But I must notify your uncle, lest he think we’re plotting to run away together.”

  “Now there’s an idea—” She bit her lip, realizing the folly of it. “I’ll get my riding wrap,” she said quickly before he changed his mind.

  She donned her favorite cloak, the purple one, lined in blue and trimmed with ermine, then ran down the stairs and out of the donjon. Willem was at the stable door ahead of her, saddling his horse, just as a groom led her mare up to be mounted.

  They rode without speaking, past the castle walls and down the hill. Then they took the path off the road and into the forest. It was quiet here, lush with undergrowth, with only the sound of woodland creatures to disturb their thoughts. Here, too, the path widened between the massive conifers, allowing them to ride abreast.

  The day was warmer than Margarethe had realized, a light breeze carrying the scent of evergreen and occasional whiffs of daffodil and narcissus growing at random in the moist earth. She scooped off her hood and turned to assess Willem’s mood.

  He was looking at her longingly, as if trying to memorize her features, and the awful truth overwhelmed her with its finality. Willem was going away!

  Her heart swelled with an ache too great to be borne, and she began to cry, gulping in great breaths of air.

  Willem nudged his horse nearer hers. “I feel it, too, little one. Is there some way I can ease your grief?”

  She glanced up through her tears and seized at the first thought that occurred to her. “You could run away with me. We could be traveling minstrels.”

  But he was shaking his head. “We wouldn’t get far, Liebchen. You’re this castle’s greatest treasure, and you’ll be needed now more than ever. Besides, we must be strong—do what is right, not what our hearts dictate.”

  His hand, holding the reins, was a white-knuckled fist. “What I would really like to do right now is to take you in my arms, but I promised your uncle—”

  “I made no such promise!”

  “Then come here, my lady.” He scooted back on his steed and gathered her into the saddle in front of him, nestling her close. “This is madness, you know. If someone were to oversee us—”

  “But no one is about. The battlefield is far away, and the farmers are all at their farming. And it isn’t the hunting season, so we’re quite safe here—and alone.” She turned to gaze up into his eyes. “Are you still praying—about our condition, I mean?”

  “Yes, sweet lady. I gave you my word, didn’t I?”

  Margarethe’s horse moved off in search of a grassy sot beneath the trees, and Willem allowed his gelding to follow for a few paces. Then he released the reins and pulled Margarethe back against him.

  “I do not want you to go, you know,” she whispered.

  “No. But you see how dangerous it is for us to be together. Only this morning, I held you for the first time, and now here we are again—” He broke off on a ragged breath. “I don’t know how I will live without you.”

  “Beroburg is only an hour away. Perhaps we could meet—”

  “No, Greta. After today, we must not allow ourselves to be alone again. You will be another man’s wife, and I will not shame you or wrong him by taking such liberties.”

  Margarethe felt a surge of despair. “But we are both praying and maybe. . .”

  “If our miracle happens, we will not be any the worse for staying apart, little one. But if God has other plans for us, then we will have nothing to repent of.”

  “Yes, Willem.” She knew he spoke the truth. “I will not tempt you again. But when I visit Beroburg Castle in the future—and I shall—I hope you will speak to me there.”

  He chuckled—that deep, throaty sound she loved so much. “We will always be friends, sweet Margarethe, although after tomorrow, we will live in separate households.”

  “Tomorrow! It is too soon. I cannot let you go tomorrow.” The tears that had been so near the surface, spilled over once more,and Willem held her until she quieted and dried her eyes, then kissed them.

  “Greta, Liebchen, do not stop praying. And ask God to give me an extra measure of strength and wisdom.”

  She nodded miserably and tucked one of his light brown curls under his hood, a liripipe she had made for him. Though her needlework was poor at best, she had worked each stitch with loving care.

  “It is time, my lady. Call your horse. We should be getting back to the castle.”

  “One kiss?” There was a pleading note in her voice.

  Willem hesitated only a moment, succumbing to her plea. “Perhaps one small, very proper good-bye kiss. Can we manage that?”

  Her answer was swift—both arms thrown about his neck, her lips pressed to his in a gesture he thoroughly returned. Margarethe let her fingers linger on his face as she gazed at him, her wonder tinged with regret. “Now I know why you would never kiss me,” she said. “It is true that no other lips will ever taste as sweet.”

  “Call your horse,” he groaned in mock urgency. “We must get back.”

  Settled into her own saddle, Margarethe urged her horse to keep pace with Willem’s, retracing their path through the forest as the shadows lengthened. By mutual and silent consent, they spoke only of pleasant things, sharing their memories of the day they had met.

  “I don’t recall what I was expecting when your aunt and uncle told me of the gifted child at Adlerschloss,” Willem mused.

  “And just what did they say?”

  “That it was impossible for you to receive the musical training you deserved at home in the Schwarzwald, and so your parents fostered you to them in order for you to have the advantage of your aunt’s talents.”

  “But she could not instruct me in the viel—”

  “Yes—and so I was employed to fill that gap in your musical education.” His eyes twinkled with the memory. “Now, of course, I understand why they called in another teacher. All your questions were exhausting them!”

  Margarethe’s laughter echoed across the forest floor, startling a squirrel, who darted into a tree. “I do not really ask so many questions, do I?”

  A sudden sharp crack brought them to a halt along the trail. Willem inclined his head, listening. But there was no further sound and he continued.

  “It must have been some forest animal. To get back to my story, I was not prepared for you. I had no notion what a gifted child looked like. And then you came in with mud-spattered clothing, your braids dragging the ground, and your hands behind your back. You curtsied politely when introduced, then told your aunt that you had found a new singer for the hall. ‘He will fit right in,’ you announced, then proceeded to plop a big, wet frog in her lap!”

  “I really shouldn’t have done that. Poor Aunt Mechthild. How she jumped!” Margarethe put her fingers to her lips to suppress a giggle. “But you never let me get away with such tricks, did you, Willem?”

  “I learned to be wary when you hid your hands behind your back. Besides, your rascally grin usually gave you away.” His expression grew sober. “If only you had grinned like that the first time you climbed into my lap, it might have forestalled all manner of trouble.”

  “Pah! There is nothing wrong with a child sitting on her teacher’s lap.”

  “True. But the child has become a woman,” he reminded her.

  They rode in silence for the remainder of the way. And when the castle came into view, they kept their mounts at a discreet distance.

  ❧

  Lord Einhard called on the jugglers instead of the musicians that evening at dinner, and Willem was grateful for the reprieve. With his departure so near at hand, singing with Margarethe again would have been sheer torture. The jugglers, too, were happy with the decision, since they normally worked in the kitchen and were eager to escape their chores.

  Willem had fared well in this house, never h
aving had any duty but that of singer and musical tutor, teaching Margarethe and a few others from time to time. He was highly esteemed and had been given his own chamber, like a member of the family. Therefore, his guilt was all the heavier this night, knowing that he had dishonored his lord and his lady by falling in love with their niece.

  Worse still, he had done little to rebuff Margarethe’s adoration. With her tender, young heart, he should have taken sterner measures to keep their relationship purely platonic. But in spite of all that, Lord Einhard had not dismissed him in disgrace, and had even allowed him to accept another position. Surely the love of God was manifest here. Willem must thank the good Lord for His favor and repent of bringing trouble to this household.

  ❧

  Early in the morning, before dawn, Willem arose, packed his few personal belongings, and prepared to attend morning Mass in the chapel. Later he would load a borrowed pack horse, being careful of his instruments, and set out for Beroburg. But first, there was a pressing matter to attend to.

  In the chapel, Willem prayed fervently, unmindful of anyone around him, so eager was he to set his heart right with God. When at last he looked about him, he was surprised to find Margarethe there. But she kept her hood over her face, as if she did not want to be recognized, and slipped out before any of the others.

  After Mass, Father Bernard approached him and spoke warmly, offering a benediction: “Dominus vultum suum ad vos et det vobis pacem,” he said. “May the Lord show His face to you and give you peace.”

  Willem thanked the priest and added that blessing to the prayers he prayed for Margarethe.

  She was breaking her fast in the great hall alone at a trestle table when he arrived. He slid in beside her and tore off a chunk of bread from the loaf in front of them.

  “Did you speak with Father Bernard?” she asked.

  “Briefly. He had a blessing for me.”

  “Good. God will go with you. But I wanted to help, too, so I brought you some cheese.” There was a goatskin of wine and a brick of hard cheese, along with another loaf of the flaky bread. “Oh, do be careful! The road is dangerous this time of year. I’ve heard there are robbers and—”

  “Shh.” He covered her lips with his fingers. “Where is your faith, little one? I must hurry now before the family comes in. It wouldn’t do for them to think I was making things difficult for you by delaying.”

  “Oh, Willem, there is so little time. And to think that, as a fosterling, I could have dined with you everyday for the past five years instead of at the lord’s table. And now it is too late,” she moaned. “Tonight you will sit at meat in Lord Otto’s house.”

  He nodded. “We may well think of other things we could have done differently over the next few days.” And months and years, he added mentally. “But let us remember the good things only. I pray you will be diligent with your music—remember the things I have taught you. Will you sing from your belly instead of your throat? And will you keep your youngest finger handy at all times when you are playing viel, instead of curling it up out of the way?”

  “Yes, teacher.” She laughed—a tinkling sound that echoed like the smallest handbell. “Some things I will never forget.”

  “Nor will I, sweet lady. Nor will I.”

  four

  Margarethe was grateful for Father Bernard’s patience at morning studies. A fortunate thing, since she found herself calling upon it over and over again during her Latin and geometry lessons. When she immersed herself in history, asking many questions, the hour flew. But when it was over, she remembered that it was time for music, and that she had no teacher.

  “You will miss Willem, will you not, my child?” Father Bernard asked gently.

  “You have read my heart, Father.”

  He chuckled. “It is your face I have read.”

  “I am used to having him around, and—”

  “And you love him.”

  Margarethe cast the old priest a sharp glance. “Did he speak with you. . .about me?”

  “There was no need. I knew. I cannot take his place, of course, but perhaps you and I could share some music from time to time.”

  She nodded, the idea holding much appeal. “I would like that.” Father’s singing voice was as rusty as an old coat of mail, but he handled wind instruments admirably.

  He looked a little shy just now, a novel thing. “I’m free at the moment, as a matter of fact, having no more duties until after dinner.”

  Margarethe jumped up. “Which instrument do you prefer? I’ll fetch it.”

  “A doucaine, please. I should think sackbut and lute would make an interesting duet.”

  Despite her longings for Willem, Margarethe was intrigued. “Then you must have a song in mind.” She handed him his instrument and took up her lute.

  “ ‘The Lady in Blue.’ I will lead out, then. . .well, we’ll see.”

  “I know that song. It’s one of Aunt Mechthild’s favorites.” Margarethe tuned her lute, then nodded for Father to begin.

  They were well into the chorus when she heard her aunt’s rich mezzo-soprano behind her. Father Bernard switched to a harmony part immediately, evidence that he had seen his lady coming.

  At the end of the song, Margarethe put down her lute and hugged her aunt. “I’m so glad you joined our ensemble. What shall we play now?”

  “How about ‘The Wood Clothed in Daffodils’?”

  The bittersweet song was not so pleasing since it reminded Margarethe that time was marching relentlessly toward May Day. At the song’s conclusion, and without consulting the others, she struck the beginning chords of “Dominus Vobiscum.” Lady Mechthild followed on her recorder.

  Once the tune was underway, Margarethe slipped out of the chamber and into the music room, where she picked up a viel, checked the tuning, then reentered the room, playing in harmony with the other instruments.

  The combination with this modal piece was haunting, and as the final notes trailed away, the three of them sat in silence, sensing the sacredness of the moment. Remembering that these were the last words she had uttered to Willem before he took his leave, Margarethe felt the sting of tears behind her eyes. “Dominus vobiscum—God go with you.”

  Inspired, she took up her viel again and began to play, her fingers flowing with the mood of the moment. The others listened and when she repeated the melody, Lady Mechthild joined in.

  Father Bernard laid aside his doucaine and reached for some parchment and a quill pen. “This one deserves marking down for the future,” he observed. “We must play it again.”

  He left them then to prepare for the midday meal, and Margarethe laughed in delight. “What a pleasant morning, after all, Aunt. I had forgotten how well we make music together.”

  “Then we shall do it often. But now you are the teacher, and I, the student. I must learn how to make a viel sing as you do. The naughty instrument does not behave as well for me.”

  Margarethe smiled, recalling Willem’s admonition. She had followed his advice, curling her smallest finger just so, and it had helped. Perhaps she could teach her aunt a thing or two. The notion buoyed her spirits considerably. But it did not remove the ache from her heart when she thought of her lost love.

  ❧

  A thousand little memories plagued Margarethe during the long afternoon. Willem—dining with the other retainers at his trestle table at the noon hour. Willem—astride a stallion, looking as proud as any lord. Willem—tears sparking his blue eyes at their parting. . .

  Feeling restless, she could not keep her mind on her dreaded needlework. She left the tapestry frame and went to the window overlooking the bailey. There was the little kitchen maid, throwing out a pail of water. The smithy was shoeing a horse. And from here, she could see peasants in the fields—pruning the grapevines. Everyone, it seemed, was busy, doing some useful work. Only she was left with nothing to do.

  Leaving the room, she found Lady Mechthild teaching her youngest child, Friedrich, in the solar. He was seven now a
nd would soon be fostered to another household to further his education. He would begin as a page, like other boys his age, then go on to be trained as a knight, as befitted his station in life.

  Her thoughts, apparently with a mind of their own, strayed again to Willem. But only for an instant as she willed her heart to obey. “Would Uncle Einhard be needing some help with the accounts?”

  “Why not ask, my dear? He’s in the next chamber.” The woman turned again to answer some childish question about the story she was reading to her little son.

  At the door of her uncle’s office chamber, Margarethe waited until he glanced up from his papers. “Oh, so there you are,” he said at last. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, Uncle. Nothing. I was bored and thought I might be of some help to you. I have been practicing my letters with Father Bernard and—”

  Her uncle’s grave expression halted her words. “Come here, Greta.” She approached and took a seat cushioned in velvet. “I was just reading some of the proposals offered by your many suitors.”

  “Then I’m sorry I intruded. I’d rather not think of such things today.” She rose and was about to leave when her uncle gestured for her to remain.

  “I realize the timing is poor. But you are of age now, and we can no longer put off your betrothal, or your suitors shall all grow tired of waiting. One of them has long since given up and withdrawn his offer.”

  She was curious in spite of herself. “Which one?”

  “Ludwig von Beroburg—the eldest son.”

  “Oh. He would have been a valuable ally for you. But he is Aunt’s nephew, so you will still be joined.”

  “True. Still, these propositions have been coming since you were twelve. And now that you are a woman of substantial grace and beauty—” he regarded her once again— “not to mention your exceptional talents, it seems the list has only grown longer.”

  She had to smile. “And will you truly allow me to choose my husband, Uncle?”