For a Song

by Kathleen Scarth

  “I have only to seal it.” How thoughtful Albert was, she thought, always anticipating her needs before she asked.

  “And since it is two hours until dinnertime and my armor is cleaned and polished, I have nothing further to do. I was hoping to find a chess partner.”

  “Music is better than chess,” Hilda suggested, looking at Willem and Jolan in turn.

  Willem frowned. “I have a composition to write.”

  “It’s the Lord’s Day, Willem. Write it tomorrow,” Jolan said with a saucy toss of her head.

  “Very well. Let us have music then.”

  Jolan was pleased. “I’ll go fetch Margarethe.”

  Hilda thought she saw another wave of pain cross Willem’s face at these words. Was Margarethe the cause of his tears earlier? She decided to pray the more earnestly for both of her new friends.

  ❧

  Where the time flew Hilda could not say. But after Margarethe joined them and they took their instruments to the hall to play, the moments took flight with the wings of a dove. It was all so delightful—choosing and carrying the melody without stopping between songs, until all the music blended in one harmonious whole. At a nod of the head, someone new picked up the lead and started another tune. With the beautiful sounds enhanced by the high and vaulted ceilings, the hall began to fill with eager listeners.

  By dinnertime, Hilda was quite tired, but happy. Still, seeing her begin to sag, Albert appeared concerned, and she wasn’t surprised to hear him say, “You three continue without us. I’ll take Hilda upstairs.”

  She did not protest when Albert picked her up at the bottom of the stairs. “Thank you, my lord. I will be strong again soon, I hope, and will no longer be a burden to you.”

  “You are no burden at all, Hilda.”

  Was this how it was with these people? Always tender and compassionate toward others? Or was there some special bond that linked her with this man—the man who had rescued her on the most terrible day of her life?

  eleven

  After dinner Margarethe rode with Gregor as she had promised. She wore her favorite riding habit to help ease her nervousness and concentrated on enjoying the sun on her face and the spring breeze scented with the perfume of hyacinths and lily of the valley.

  The shadow of a cloud slid across the fields as they cantered down the hill; it moved slowly, but could not be halted. Margarethe was reminded of May Day’s inevitable approach and that she was doing something today to smooth its way.

  She and Gregor spoke of many things. Family traditions. Favorite pastimes. The war. Now, better informed, Margarethe found herself in complete sympathy with Lord Otto. “I thought his war was only about land. I never realized how much more was involved. I’m ashamed that I have never prayed for victory for you.”

  “It isn’t too late to begin,” he teased her.

  “And so I have, good sir.”

  “Good. I hope you also pray for my safety.”

  Margarethe thought about that. “Are you ever in real danger?” she asked. “As a captain in full armor, I would think you are much safer than one of the foot soldiers or archers.”

  “True,” he conceded. “But war is still a bloody business, and anything can happen. I covet your prayers, my lady.”

  Margarethe glanced over at him. He looked so strong, as if nothing could ever harm him. “I will pray,” she promised. His smile was quick and contagious, and she found herself smiling back.

  They followed the main road for a furlong, then Gregor suggested that they take the forest path. It was cooler here, and Margarethe was glad for her warm cloak. They stopped in a glade ringed with daffodils.

  She looked around, delighted. “How lovely,” she breathed.

  “I thought you would like it.” His eyes were for her alone, she noticed, not for the flowers nor the lush forest foliage. She had always been comfortable with Gregor. If she felt awkward now, it was only because of the serious subject they must explore together.

  “Gregor, you know you can speak the truth with me, don’t you?”

  “I would hope so. It’s not as if we haven’t known each other since we were children.”

  “This morning you said I would make you a good sister-in-law. . .” She stopped, her courage wafting away as on a sudden breeze.

  “You would, indeed,” he said, nudging his horse next to hers.

  She sighed. “Gregor, must you put me through this humiliation?”

  “I think you are doing very well. Do go on.” He appeared to be enjoying this little game.

  She shook her head. “I must know the truth about the proposal you sent my uncle two years ago.”

  “Three.”

  “Very well, then, three years ago. I know it would not be honorable for you to withdraw it if you changed your mind—”

  “Not to mention expensive,” he interrupted. “When Ludwig withdrew his proposal, he had to give gifts to both your father and your uncle.”

  “Neither of them shared those gifts with me,” she pouted, and Gregor laughed at her comical expression. “Three years is a very long time, and I want to know if you still wish to marry me—if you ever did. Perhaps it was your father who made you send the proposal.”

  Gregor nodded. “I must admit it was originally my father’s idea. But that was back when I was a lad and before you were all grown up. Now, it’s very much my idea.” He took the reins from her hand and began leading them deeper into the forest.

  “Father began talking about one of us marrying you when he first met you as a child of seven. Through the years, other young ladies were considered, of course, but you were the only one I ever wanted to be my wife.”

  She smiled at him through a veil of tears and took a deep breath. “Well, since you would probably make a poor brother-in-law, and I do have to marry one of you, I was wondering if you still wanted—”

  In the shadows, she could not read Gregor’s face as he dismounted and strode over to her. But she could see that he was quite intent as he lifted his arms for her. She slid off her horse and he held her, searching her eyes.

  “We are always jesting, you and I, Margarethe. But I truly believe we can bring much happiness to each other. Will you marry me?”

  She stood gazing up at him, breathless. The moment she had dreaded was upon her. There was nothing else she could do. “Yes, Gregor, I will,” she whispered.

  He pulled her into his arms and held her tight. She tried desperately to hold back the tears, but to no avail. Poor Gregor. He was kind and gallant and deserved so much more than she could offer him. But there was room in her heart for only one. Willem. Always Willem. . .

  Gregor pulled away to study her face. “What’s this? Tears? And this our betrothal day? I much prefer your laughter.”

  He held her closer, and she leaned into him, steadying herself, surprised to find that she was enjoying his warmth. She felt a stab of guilt. What kind of person was she, and how could she go through with this farce?

  He kissed her forehead and stood back to let her look at him while he spoke of serious matters. “I won’t rush you into marriage, Margarethe. But I would like your kisses in greeting and farewell. Do you think you could manage that?”

  Striving for a casual tone, she cocked her head. “So your brothers will remember whose I am?”

  “Something like that. But I am quite proud that you have chosen me, Margarethe. I admire you greatly.”

  “I admire you, too, Gregor. I always have.”

  He smiled mischievously, and Margarethe was instantly on her guard. “It occurs to me that if we will be kissing publicly, perhaps we should practice privately, don’t you agree?”

  She looked up for a moment, pretending to consider. “Very well,” she said and stood on tiptoe to brush her lips against his.

  He laughed, caught her to him, and kissed her soundly. It was pleasant enough—something like kissing Jolan or Uncle Einhard or Aunt Mechthild. Nothing like the all-too-brief kisses she had shared with Willem that had
only left her wanting more.

  Gregor seemed disappointed and a little anxious. “I can see that we will have to practice often until we get it right.”

  She smiled as he gave her a leg up to remount, hardly necessary since her horse was small and her legs were long. On the way back, they spoke of Gregor’s holdings and his castle. They talked of possible wedding dates, what to wear, whom to invite. They spoke of many things, but they did not speak of love.

  The cloud shadows moved faster and faster across the fields until, pelted by large raindrops, Margarethe and Gregor were forced to gallop for home.

  ❧

  In the hall, Willem worked on the lyric for the music he and Hilda had composed. Feeling the need to be near people rather than closeted away in the music room, he had come here where there was always a bustle of activity—pages scurrying about on some errand, kitchen maids preparing the tables for a meal, and an occasional visitor passing through on an inspection of the castle.

  His musical partners of the morning had scattered. Lord Albert had left after dinner, Hilda was abed, Jolan was nowhere to be seen and Margarethe was out riding somewhere with Gregor.

  Truly, his writing was not going well. The music was more suitable for battle than a betrothal—a betrothal, he felt sure, which was being arranged this very afternoon. Just one step nearer to the time when his love would be lost to him forever. He had to think of something cheerful, or there would be no songs of any kind this day.

  Hilda had surprised him with the wild exuberance of the chorus she had been inspired to write. Perhaps it had been born of her recent ordeal—something far worse than anything he had experienced. He studied the blank piece of parchment and thought about her rescue, her faith. The concept would make a worthy song, though the attack itself could never be set to music. It was far too terrible. Still, there might be some way to use its message.

  He was absorbed in the process when Margarethe and Gregor entered the hall. At the sound of their voices, he looked up from his writing and met her eye briefly before she glanced away. Then she and Gregor walked toward his parents’ solar.

  Willem picked up his writing materials and went back to the music room. Solitude was better than staying here to witness what would surely come next.

  In the music room, Willem prayed for Margarethe—the prayer he had covenanted with her to pray, though each day it seemed the answer was more remote than the day before. “It’s me, Lord. Willem. Father, You know my heart. You know that I desire Margarethe as my wife more than anything on earth. And You know which of us would be the better husband for her. Please help me. Teach me how to pray for her. Help me to desire Your will more than mine.

  “I could also use some help with my music—the music you gave me and Hilda. As for Hilda, Lord, I ask that she would grow strong in body, mind, and spirit. Hear her prayers and reunite her with her father. Lord, since she may have trouble finding a husband after being dishonored, I ask You to send her a good and loving man who will not hold it against her.” He continued on, praying for all those he cared about, even Gregor—the man who stood between him and the love of his life.

  ❧

  At supper, there was wine at every table, a most exceptional occurrence since the retainers usually had only ale or cider to drink. Some of the soldiers took the opportunity to drink too much and became inebriated before the final course was served. Willem was tempted, but stayed with one cup.

  Against his will, his gaze kept straying to the head table, where Margarethe and Gregor were chatting and laughing together. They seemed quite happy and content. Even Lord Einhard and Lord Otto were in an unusually jovial mood, considering the fact that they would be heading back to the battlefield on the morrow. Only Klaus looked somber and morose.

  As soon as the last course was cleared, someone in the crowd called for music, and Willem gathered the ensemble for the first set and began. People were in a festive mood tonight, which only served to heighten his despair. Attempting to rid himself of his melancholy, he chose lively tunes and called on Jolan to help him.

  When Margarethe beckoned, he strolled over, strumming his lute as he went. “Yes, my lady?”

  “You can count on me for my share of the music, Willem,” she said. “I would be happy to play or sing.”

  “As would I,” Gregor put in. “I know the baritone parts to all the old songs.”

  Willem was struck with a sudden inspiration. “I will call on you soon. Your lady, also.”

  He noticed Margarethe’s grimace at hearing the term. Gregor, on the other hand, beamed with pride.

  As it turned out, when the time came for some new songs, it was the four of them singing in a quartet that drew the heartiest applause. Following that performance, Willem wisely changed the mix, using Jolan on small drums and Margarethe on lute. She and Gregor sang an old comic duet that featured an argument between a husband and wife. The sketch was always hilarious even when done poorly. But tonight, with the talent and personality of the actors, it was a great success.

  After a short instrumental interlude, someone called for Margarethe’s love song. There was no way around it. To decline would be to invite rumor and speculation. And so Willem called Margarethe over and whispered, “Can we do this?”

  “Have you stopped believing that God answers prayer?” she retorted.

  His doubts fell away as he read the determination in her eyes. “Lead on, my lady.” They sang as well or better than ever, and he was cheered by the reception the song received.

  When the time seemed right for some silliness, Willem made a great show of selecting a special group of singers—Lord Gregor, Lord Einhard, Lord Klaus, Lord Gottfried—Gottfried rolled his eyes, knowing that it had to be a joke—Lord Ludwig, and Lord Otto. “And I, of course, shall be a part of this carefully chosen chorus.” There was a ripple of approval and a few cheers.

  With great deliberation, Willem went to each man and whispered the name of a song in his ear. At his cue, each one began to sing a different song. The crowd realized what had happened a second before the men did, and roared with laughter. Willem knew it was a trick that would work only once, but it had been worth it to see the reaction all around. As the laughter began to subside, Willem closed with a worshipful number that ended the evening on a high and holy note.

  It was quite late, and many had already drifted off to bed, when Willem found Hilda sitting in the back of the hall. “Have you enjoyed the evening, Maid Hilda?”

  “Yes, Willem, thank you. You are not only a master musician, but excellent with people.”

  He was impressed again with her cultured speech, recalling that this was not some simple village maid, but of of noble birth through her mother. In addition, he was pleased with her compliment. “I do enjoy making merry, and I try not to offend while doing it. Are you getting tired?”

  She nodded. “I think I shall retire now, but I can walk on my own.”

  “That won’t be necessary when I’m around.” He scooped her up, carried her up the stairs, and set her down in Jolan’s chamber.

  “Thank you, good sir.” She stood, gazing up at him expectantly.

  “You are most welcome, my lady,” he said. He studied her for a moment longer, then, “Earlier today you said you would pray that my prayers would be answered.”

  “Yes, Willem.”

  “I hope you intend to keep your pledge.”

  “Of course I will, for I know you must have something important on your mind.”

  “Very important. The Scriptures tell us to pray in faith, but some days my faith is weak, and I have need of a strong friend.”

  She smiled. “I prayed today for you.”

  “And just in time, too,” Willem said. “Of a truth, my lot has been bleak of late, but your words give me courage, even though the situation still looks impossible.”

  “God is good with impossible things. Remember the man born blind? No one had ever healed someone who was blind from birth, but Jesus did.”

  �
��I will remember. Good night, Maid Hilda, and thank you for your counsel.”

  He left the room and as he descended the stairs, he murmured to himself, “I have much to be thankful for indeed. I was not born blind. My only problem is that I was born second—to a man with little land.”

  ❧

  Remembering all that had happened, Margarethe had difficulty falling asleep. Even her dreams were fragments of the day’s events. Gregor’s proposal, his kiss. Lord Otto and Lady Edeltraud’s joy when they heard the news—a joy that would be for naught if, by some miracle, her continual prayer were answered.

  Nor could she forget the look on Willem’s face when they came into the hall. His pain was so visible, so raw. It was all she could do not to tell Gregor it was all a mistake and run to Willem on the spot. No matter the consequences, no matter what she had promised her uncle.

  She recalled the clever staging Willem had contrived with the evening’s music, especially the bit with the singing lords. How was it that he was able to make people laugh even when his own heart was breaking? Margarethe cried herself to sleep.

  She woke, frightened, from a dream she could not remember. Her face was wet with tears. Afraid to sleep lest the dream return, she lay still for some time. Then she rose and dressed herself in a woolen tunic and surcoat. It was too dark to tell what colors she had chosen. And her hair was likely a mess, so she put on a cap and tucked her braids underneath.

  She left her chamber quietly and walked toward the chapel. She would surely be the only one there at this hour, so long before dawn. But when she arrived, she was surprised to find the chapel packed with fighting men. She would have withdrawn except for a man near the door who saw her and made room for her. As Mass had just begun, she stayed.

  Margarethe looked around the chapel until she spotted Gregor, then gave her attention to the ritual and prayed along with the priest.