For a Song

by Kathleen Scarth

  Afterward she waited by the door for Gregor. He came looking for her, and seeing her, put out both hands in greeting. “I am touched that you came. I didn’t realize that you knew about this early Mass for the fighting men.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know, but couldn’t sleep and needed to pray.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re here. We will be leaving after we break fast. Would you keep me company until then?”

  She smiled and nodded, and they made their way to the banquet hall, where the servants were already placing baskets of bread and mugs of ale on the tables. Gregor led her to the head table, where they sat down with the other captains. Looking out over the vast hall, she saw all those young and vulnerable faces, so very different from the men who had laughed and sung and shouted the night before.

  “Just before going off to battle, they are quiet,” Gregor began. “They’re wondering who will come home again and who will be buried on the field of battle.”

  She looked at him as if she’d never seen him before. How different their worlds. And how necessary the life he led to the security and comfort of hers. She took in Gregor’s clothing—quilted breeches and aketon with a chain mail mail hauberk and the surcoat embroidered with the family crest—and felt apprehensive. “You do wear plate armor, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but not until we reach the battlefield. As you may imagine, it’s quite awkward and uncomfortable.”

  “I am beginning to understand that this war is real and not just a fanciful tale for storytellers and minstrels,” she said, feeling an unaccustomed pang of fear.

  Gregor covered her hand with his. Again, she noticed the scars marring the bronzed skin. Fearing for him, she clung to his hand all the way to the gathering place on the grounds outside the hall.

  At this hour of the morning, it was still cold, and she shivered in the predawn chill. Gregor put his arm around her and drew her close while a squire brought out his war horse, prancing and neighing, the stallion’s breath pluming in the frosty air. The great beast stamped his feet as if eager to be off.

  When it was time to mount up, Gregor hugged Margarethe close. “God be with you,” he whispered.

  “And with you, Gregor. I shall be praying for you, for all of you. Do not allow yourself to be injured, or you will have to answer to me.”

  He gazed down at her for a moment longer, then bent to kiss her. She returned his kiss willingly. She had promised, after all.

  Gregor swung into his saddle and, with one last little salute, rode to the front of his battalion. Lord Otto and Uncle Einhard were already mounted, waving their swords to signal the call to move out.

  She watched, with a sinking heart, as the men trotted their horses through the gate. They would be gathering more troops from allies along the way.

  With no trace of dawn tinting the sky, Margarethe felt smothered by the oppressive darkness. She would never love Gregor with her whole heart—as she did Willem—but she could not bear to see him marching into certain peril.

  twelve

  Willem was surprised to find Margarethe in the hall when he came from Mass. When she explained that she had stumbled onto the soldiers’ worship service by accident, he nodded. “It is the custom here, I’ve learned.”

  “Willem, we should not be seen together in front of Lord Otto’s people. I do want to talk with you, though. Would you have time to visit with me later today?”

  How could he resist her? “It seems I’m giving voice lessons to nearly everyone in the castle these days, but I will always have time for you, Greta.”

  The familiar nickname came without thinking, and he noted her pleased smile. “I am not overly busy with my patient, so if you need help with some of your lessons, I’m available.”

  “An excellent idea, my lady. I may take advantage of your kind offer.”

  She left him with a nod and made her way to the head table to join Lady Edeltraud. Willem could not take his eyes off her. He wondered at her choice of clothing today. He had never seen anyone wearing a green surcoat over a blue tunic. The effect was startling.

  His thoughts were diverted by a group of his students who joined him at the table, broke bread with him, and made conversation. He assigned lesson times for each of them, and then asked if anyone would like to receive instruction from Margarethe. Two of the women were enthusiastic about the idea.

  The afternoon passed pleasantly enough. Willem worked on Hilda’s story, changing it so that she was rescued just before the assault, and making it vague enough that there could be no disgrace to her. He used no names, of course, but the people close to her would recognize the story.

  The music lessons went well, and Willem introduced the two women to Margarethe, who put them through a series of exercises. After the women had left, Willem and Margarethe sat together in the chamber—much like her study chamber at home. They were alone, but only until the next student arrived, which should be any time now.

  Apparently Margarethe was feeling more and more uncertain about her betrothal, and voiced as much to Willem. He listened to her fears and misgivings, trying to ignore his own pain. “Truly you are in a worse position than I, for I need not pretend to love anyone else.”

  Margarethe’s eyes filled with tears. “I am pretending nothing, Willem. How can you say that?”

  “I have seen you with Gregor. Either you really do care for him, or I have taught you more of acting than I meant to.”

  “Of course I care for him,” she said a bit defensively. “Gregor is a decent man, and I will treat him decently.”

  “Does that include kissing?”

  “I believe it is expected of betrothed couples.”

  He could see the pain in her eyes, but pressed on. “So. I see. And do you enjoy kissing him?”

  To his surprise, Margarethe grinned. “Indeed, I do. Kissing Gregor is much like kissing my aunt!”

  Willem laughed with her for a moment, then grew serious again. “Forgive me, Liebchen, for suggesting that you would be dishonest with Gregor. But I wonder what you would say if he asked you about me.”

  He could see that she was studying on the matter before replying. “I will not lie to him, but neither will I tell him anything he does not ask.”

  She hung her head and looked so sad and small, Willem wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her. He satisfied himself with holding her hand instead. “I know you for an honorable woman, Greta. This must be very hard for you.”

  She did not answer but sat very still. After a time she said softly, “Willem, should not people who are betrothed speak of love? I have said nothing of love to Gregor, and he has said nothing of love to me.”

  ❧

  On Friday Hilda persuaded Jolan and Margarethe to wash her hair. It was a delicate operation since they had to remove the bandage beneath her cap and take pains not to disturb the injured area on the back of her head.

  While Hilda’s long golden blond hair was drying, Mar-garethe asked the others to pray with her for the men on the field of battle. “The three of us can accomplish so much more than one,” she said. “Remember Christ’s words? Father Bernard has told me that our Lord said, ‘If two of you shall agree on earth as touching any thing that they shall ask, it shall be done for them of my Father which is in heaven’?”

  The others readily agreed, each one having someone dear to her who was facing danger. Each in turn prayed for all that was on her heart. When it was Margarethe’s turn, she gave thanks for these women who were sharing their lives so willingly.

  But something Hilda had said stirred her curiosity. The maiden had asked God to bless Willem and to answer his prayer. What prayer? Could it be that he had confided in Hilda? Surely he would not betray their love!

  ❧

  On Saturday night the men came home, loud and boisterous once more. Margarethe dutifully sought out Gregor out and kissed him. “You might do well to have a bath, my lord,” she suggested, pinching her nostrils shut with one hand

  “I can see that you wi
ll be one of those wives who is always giving orders,” he teased.

  “And I can see that you will be one of those husbands who needs much instruction,” she countered, smiling. “There is plenty of hot water, and singing as well. Your mother tells me that’s a combination you can’t resist.”

  “My mother is right, as always.” With a jaunty wave, he headed off for the bathing area. “When you see me next, you won’t recognize me,” he called over his shoulder.

  Margarethe listened to the rowdy singing coming from behind the curtains in the portion of the hall assigned to the bathers. Willem’s voice was unmistakable, and soon she could hear Gregor joining in. Then Willem dropped out, and a moment later she could hear him say, “You’re wounded!”

  Gregor’s answer was muted, but she caught the mention of her name, followed by a round of laughter and a voice Margarethe did not recognize. “Ewald’s captains he does not fear, but Lady Margarethe is another matter.”

  She was relieved. It must not be a serious injury. She went to the page who was guarding the entrance to the bathing area and announced, more loudly than necessary, “Please ask Lord Gregor to meet me in the infirmary when he is finished.”

  “Yes, my lady,” said the page, and the laughter behind the curtains resumed.

  Margarethe found the infirmary quite busy when she arrived. The place was filled with soldiers—none of them seriously injured—with Jolan and some other women mixing herbs and making poultices.

  “While you’re waiting, you could roll that linen material into bandages,” her cousin suggested.

  Margarethe finished one roll and set about straining some fresh infusions. Then, feeling someone watching her from the doorway, she looked up. “So there you are, Gregor. Are you badly hurt?”

  He shrugged. “It’s only a scratch. I had your prayers protecting me, didn’t I?”

  She nodded, but gathered up an armful of ointments and bandages anyway. “Come. There’s no room here to treat you. We’ll have to find another chamber.”

  She led the way to the solar. “Where is your wound?” she asked when they were behind closed doors.

  He removed his tunic and showed her a nasty-looking scrape, surrounded by a purpling bruise on his side. Bringing a candle closer, she inspected the injury.

  “Judging from these marks, I’d say this was made by chain mail.” She looked Gregor in the eye. “How did you get this?”

  “From a lance belonging to one of Ewald’s captains.”

  “Were you wearing your breastplate?”

  He ducked his head sheepishly. “Not at the time. You see, that plate was made for me three or four years ago, and I’ve outgrown it. So I left it off just this once.”

  Margarethe found herself trembling. “A lance goes through chain mail like a flame through paper. Had that captain a better aim—”

  “His aim was true, but his horse slipped,” Gregor explained. “The fellow was most disappointed. As for me—well, I was lucky.”

  Margarethe drew in a sudden breath. “When did this happen?”

  “Yesterday, about midmorning.”

  She felt the sting of sudden tears. “It was not luck, Gregor. It was the hand of God. Some angel tripped that horse. Jolan and Hilda and I were praying for you at that very moment.” She began to cry, and Gregor gathered her into his arms.

  “Then keep on praying, my lady,” he whispered as he held her. “Your prayers are more powerful than the enemy’s weapons.”

  Eventually she moved out of his arms and got to work, using soothing ointments and wrapping his ribs with strips of linen. “No broken bones, at least,” she said. “We can thank God for that.”

  “And I must thank the other ladies who prayed for me. Jolan, did you say, and Hilda? Is she the woman Albert brought in from the village?”

  “Yes. She seems like one of the family already.” Margarethe tied off the bandage and gave Gregor a final pat.

  “God is so good. In my prayers I have been thanking Him for you,” he said shyly.

  She was stricken with guilt. “Oh, Gregor, I don’t deserve your praise,” she said, thinking of her deception.

  “Whose idea was it to pray yesterday?” he interrupted.

  “Mine,” she whispered.

  He gazed at her steadily. “God used you to save my life. Even if something happens and we never wed—” she felt an icy premonition—”I will be grateful that you were in my life long enough to save it.”

  ❧

  It was good to be at morning Mass on this Lord’s Day, Hilda thought with satisfaction. She thanked God for her continuing recovery. She rejoiced that the life of Margarethe’s betrothed had been spared. It proved to her that God had been listening when they prayed, which gave her hope that her own personal petitions would be answered as well.

  Lord Albert, who had also attended Mass, met her on the way out. “Are you planning to break fast in the hall today?”

  She nodded, feeling her cheeks heat beneath his curious gaze.

  “Then let’s go over together.”

  They walked in companionable silence to the hall and Albert seated her, then surprised her by sitting across from her at the trestle table. “I go home after dinner today, Maid Hilda. Will you have another letter for your father?”

  “I’ve started one to tell him of our answered prayer on behalf of Lord Gregor.”

  “Gregor told me about that last night. He also said that he had an appointment with the armorer today, Lord’s Day or no, to have his breastplate altered. On Margarethe’s orders.”

  Hilda laughed. “Margarethe will see to that. And you were right to believe that she would choose Gregor over the rest of you.”

  Albert speared a chunk of bread with his knife. “We’re all relieved that she has finally made her choice. She and Gregor are suited to one another, and it frees the rest of us to look for other life companions.”

  Hilda’s puzzlement must have been plain to see, for Albert went on to explain. “Each of us proposed to Margarethe, and none of us could seek other wives until she decided. Ludwig got out of it by gifting Lord Einhard and Margarethe’s father handsomely.”

  “Did she know you were waiting to hear from her?”

  He shrugged. “Most men would disregard any proposal that is not answered within six months. But we were truly hoping she would consent to join our family. So, other than Ludwig, we chose to do the honorable thing.”

  They spoke of lighter matters as they ate, then Albert escorted Hilda to the music room, where he left her to finish her letter to her father.

  Later on, Hilda climbed the stairs—somewhat slowly and painfully—and went to Jolan’s chamber where she played a rebec until Albert came. She stood to greet him.

  “Your father will be glad to hear from you. He misses you, but wanted me to assure you that you have his blessing to remain here until you have completely recovered.”

  She was comforted. “I do feel at home here at Beroburg. Everyone has been so kind to me.”

  He stood gazing down at her for a long moment. “Would you pray for me? I feel the need before I take my leave.”

  Gladly she stepped up to him, took both his hands in hers, and prayed, asking for his safety first of all, then for wisdom and victory and for his future happiness. When she was finished, Albert added his own prayer for her, including a request for her future husband—that God would prepare him for her.

  He concluded his prayer, then smiled down at her. “I do hope you don’t mind my imploring the Almighty for your future husband. But for all I know, you might be planning to join the sisters at the monastery.”

  “That isn’t my calling,” she assured him.

  Suddenly, however, the awful incident of a few days past, rushed over her like a tidal wave, threatening to engulf her, and she felt Albert’s arms catching her before she slipped, unconscious, to the rush-strewn floor.

  ❧

  In Margarethe’s chamber at Adlerschloss, Lady Mechthild waited by the window commandin
g the best view of the road. She was hoping Einhard would be home today. And when she saw a lone rider in their colors approaching, she left the chamber and went to her own to check her appearance in the mirror. She was wearing her husband’s favorite ensemble—a scarlet surcoat over a slate tunic. Her braids were coiled over her ears, and it was warm enough to do without a head covering. Still, just in case, she got out her scarlet cloak and carried it with her.

  In the hall outside her door, she found Sir Johan polishing his armor yet again and greeted him. “I think Lord Einhard is on the way. I spied him from the window.”

  “That’s good news indeed, my lady. I shall look forward to hearing about the battle and joining the rest of the troops soon.”

  “You must be anxious to do just that. Is your ankle well?”

  “As well as can be—thanks to the skill of your healer, my lady.”

  Mechthild smiled. This young knight had as yet seen no battle as a knight, only as a squire. And like all the gallant young men, he was eager to be a part of a cause greater than himself.

  She started out of the hall, donning her cloak as she went, then walked briskly to the stable, knowing it would be Einhard’s first stop. She was not disappointed.

  He had already dismounted by the time she arrived and greeted her with a hug.

  “Oh, Einhard, I’m so glad to have you back safe and sound,” she said, offering a silent prayer of thanks. “What news do you bring?”

  Summoning a page to take his things to the donjon, he walked with one arm around his wife. “For one thing, our niece has chosen her husband at last.”

  “Gregor?”

  He nodded. “Just as we predicted.”

  “Does Margarethe seem happy with her decision?”

  “Well—” he faltered. “She is trying. She rose very early this morning to attend the fighting men’s Mass, then came out to the field to see him off. She seems to care about his welfare.”